Life as an Extreme Sport

After 36 hours of chaos, a spot of calm in Boston

Self-care, with yes, a dose of privilege, demanded stepping away from the Internet on Sunday, and the continued infuriating and illegal actions of our temper-tantrum-tossing tangerine toddler. It was an exhausting 48 hours, and we just needed to spend time together – privilege, yes, because we can do that, but don’t mistake it, either, for the root fear driving it: the anger ifrit has shown that with a stroke of a pen, everything my husband and I know about our life could be overturned, and neither of us take that lightly. Neither of us take the hatred and threats to immigrants lightly, even while most people forget Nick is an immigrant – or try to excuse it with “oh but he’s Australian” when they mean “oh he’s white.” That meant catching up some on the news this morning – while fighting off whatever the latest cold going around is, because

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