I see an acquaintance in the street, a person I’ve met once before. They and Anja have known each other in passing for decades. “Here’s Zinzy”, they say to their partner, “I met her at the thing.” The thing was a premiere for a documentary about a Dutch 70s solidarity movement of Jews who helped Soviet Jews escape a life of exclusion and discrimination. I had been at the thing with Anja and my delightful mother-in-law, who likes to recount the time she went to Russia to save the Jews from the Soviets. (Continue)

What made American Fiction (2023) such a delight to watch isn’t so much the stellar acting or the clever writing, but Cord Jefferson’s stunning ability to weave together irony and sincerity. It’s not often that I see the nuance in smart, unstereotypical Black characters who are hilarious, and who at the same time fill my heart with tenderness.

They open their roti takeout, unfold their pancake, and start eating. Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it. I ask them if it’s okay that I watch them eat before I start, so I can see how in the world I’m supposed to eat sauce without cutlery. (Continue)

My pastors have a way with words. Bible study on Thursday, and we use every pronoun but he reading Mark 6:1-13. She’s just a carpenter — Mary’s girl. Who does she think she is? Give me a second, let me hear that again. (Continue)

This week marked the week I got back into the swing of things at work. I tend to find the holiday season quite boring because things slow down quite a bit. Now that people are returning from their winter break, my to do list is filling up again with exciting projects, opportunities for collaboration, and research endeavors. As usual, a conversation with my manager reminded me how much I love my job. (Continue)

I edit my biography in a community app for Black professionals. Other people use the flags of their heritage, and I decide to do the same. Which one goes first, 🇳🇱 or 🇸🇹? I was born in the Netherlands, and consider myself not Dutch per se but definitely an Amsterdammer. Truth be told, I’ve never been to São Tomé and Principe, and the parent who hails from there left when he was ten. I wonder, brushing my teeth before bedtime, whether it’s appropriation for me to use the flag. And then I think of all the brown and Black faces I know, doing just the same, and entirely dignified and correct in doing what they do. It’s one of the prices of growing up Black in a white environment: I wonder when I’ll stop feeling like I’m the racist.

I love a good media drama. Like a moth to a flame, or perhaps more accurately like a fly to dog poo, I am drawn to it. I check the news multiple times a day. I scoff at outlets that don’t deem it worthy of the front page. I also scoff at outlets that do. A media drama can antagonize me the way Adele disappoints me with her popularity. The fact that I’m part of a Titanic-obsessed gaggle of netizens somehow has me convinced I’m not just procrastinating. (Continue)