When you’re Black in America, racism is a constant. And as a queer Black woman working in restaurants, I’ve experienced it all firsthand. Sometimes it’s action and sometimes it’s words, but it all comes from the same place.
On my better days I find happiness in the simple acts of cooking: methodically chopping vegetables; pan-frying chicken in cast iron like my grandmother taught me; following the handwritten chocolate chip cookie recipe my mom left behind after she died. In the kitchen I can sometimes forget there are people out there who see my skin color as a threat.
Then I get that wake-up call—maybe it’s small, like a put-down from a white chef who feels threatened by Black talent, or maybe it’s big, like a Black man murdered on camera for using a counterfeit bill—and sudden...Read More