Thanks, Doc

Dear Dr. King,

Thank you for living your life in a totally radical manner, radically peaceful, radically ardent. Your goals of equality were so rad then, and still so rad, now, when the precarious state of immigration in this country forces suspicion and pushes notions of entitlement to toxic levels.

It's an interesting time to be alive in Boston, where you met your wife and where you studied, and a difficult one in which to bring children, and I suspect you knew something about urbane child-rearing in less favorable neighborhoods. I'm daunted by it all myself, and I try so hard to think about my role as a Christian neighbor, and how that should be radically different from the territorial one that my other neighbors seem to carve out for themselves. But then I think about the legacy you left your children, a legacy of strength, one that overcame fears, one that tried to overcome violence, one that lives on today because of the eloquence of your words and the power of your example. And I'm inspired again to think and act radically. And to pray without ceasing.

Thank you also for being such a radical writer, for writing always, even when you were imprisoned. You wrote on the scraps of newspapers. You used what you had, and I think that is the sign of a great writer: someone who might otherwise literally explode if not for the outlet of writing. I'm hoping that someday my words might amount to something and that by writing myself out of my own mental entrapment (which befalls me from time to time), my words might be liberating to someone else as your words are to me.

I don't have off work today, Dr. King, but I want to be a part of the celebration of your life and your legacy.

Yours in the radical pursuit of equality,
Kendra

***

Martin Luther King Jr.,'s apartment in Boston
397 Massachusetts Ave.

Tours with MYTOWN.

Cupcake

Behold, a cupcake for my little cupcake. Herein Lovey Loverpants showcases the labor of love, stitched by Auntie Haddy, inspired by Droolicious.

I cannot wait for that soft vernix-covered head to emerge so that I may don it with this crocheted cap, inspired by my favorite treat with a shelf life of forty-seven years.

Constellation of Stars

The friends I've amassed in this life are spread out like a galaxy of stars, sometimes shining so brightly in my life they could guide me to Bethlehem. Other times, they twinkle prettily at what seems the very edge of the skyscape, or fade to a dim glint against an otherwise dark backdrop. But they are still there. Most of the friends I have made in Boston are part of a loose constellation. I know people who know people who are aligned with other people I know, all along a continuum like Orion's belt. Living quite far from any family, I depend mightily upon this network. I depend on the local stars to remind me how to make it through this urbane construction zone. I depend on the stars that orbit a bit further from my own little planetoid to remind me who it is again that I am.

This last year I learned a lot about friendship. One of the chief learnings was that my friends are as sensitive as I am. It seems like such a fundamental thing, a real wooden rolling pin whack to the head sort of learning. Durrr. Treat others as sensitively as little over-ripe fruitypants you would like to be treated. But due to an extra atomic dose of hormones, I've not been as patient-eared nor slow-tongued in the past year. I have been clumsy with my words and sentiments and pressed forward at times when I should clearly have retreated. In all of these times, though, my friends have doled out forgiveness, an extra portion of mercy. I can never repay them for this nor begin to thank them enough for befriending the hor-motionally volatile. I can only try to pay forward their love and their hand-knit booties -- to boot.

The Constellation

Thanks to Saemeeee, who gchats me up about Korean in-laws, and Euni unni who organized Wee Lee's churchie baby shower, complete with games involving diapers and chocolates.

Thanks to my sister, TP, who always cares, who always loves, even though she knows intimately how much I can really suck.

Thanks to my mother-in-law, Omoni, who gives me spiritual lessons that should be cross-stitched and framed.

Thanks to Marissa, who welcomed me as a girlfriend even after my husband had been her girlfriend for eleventy years.

Thanks to Joe and Shanno, who have a way of making me feel like their little sister, they just care so much.

Thanks to Ellie, who has never said NO when it came to charity to friends.

Thanks to Bicknell, who doesn't remember anything from high school and therefore indulges all of my stories.

Thanks to Richbomb, who hosted us for a weekend in the Dirty South, and who slathered us with her kindness and slayed us with her humor for 48 straight hours.

Thanks to Spas, who took us to the beach in NC, and who always takes the time to examine each side, each dimension, each fault line of the crystal of friendship.

Thanks to Schaff, who's quick to share so much about pregnancy, but never quick to judge.

Thanks to Michelle, who visited us this past summer and who entertains with Kung Fu.

Thanks to Shannon and Stephen, our only friends in The Dot and the first we shared our preg news in person with this past May.

Thanks to Pop and Jake, whose reactions to pending grandparenthood will always be unmatched.

Thanks to Samoo, who is always more excited than we are about our own lives.

Thanks to Mikie, whose phonecalls and voicemails color our world.

Thanks to MamaRed, who gets better in time like a good bottled vintage.

Thanks to Erin, who is the living definition of Life Line.

Thanks to Haddy, another Life Line and hand-knitter of hyperventilation-inducing wares.

Thanks to Lovey Loverpants, who's been a real prince.