There’s a woman who runs a bookshop in De Bijlmer. She has kind eyes that make you want to curl up with a book and a cup of tea. Often when I’m there, she offers just that: tea, and a place to quiet down and dive into an interesting title. She’s running a fine business over there, Cole Verhoeven is.

Aside from bookshop owner she’s also a writer. I love the work she does at One World, where she articulates strong perspectives on antiracism and equity. A few weeks ago, she sold me this book:

This morning I got acquainted with the immigrant anxiety felt by Chinese-American journalist Jiayang Fan about her desire to speak accentless English. In an episode of one of my favorite podcasts, This American Life, Jiayang participated in a game show designed around a talent she claims to possess: the unique ability, inspired by her anxiety, to tell at what age a Chinese-American person came to the United States. The show gave her recordings of three people to prove herself. (She got 0 out of 3.)

More than any other time in my online life am I aware of the value of alt text. I make a point to write image descriptions whenever I can. Kind strangers with a variety of accessibility needs have been helping me understand how to best capture my interpretation of an image. I’ve come to regard alt text as the secret side bar I get to have with blind people and others who need it.

In one of the many jubilant reviews garnered by Darren Aronofsky’s latest film The Whale, one writer concluded that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. This was in reference to the morbidly obese main character who eventually dies, but not before we find out he developed an eating disorder out of grief. Here was a fat man who evidently had feelings despite his exterior. Ironically, I find myself doing just what the writer suggested I don’t: judge the film before I’ve seen it.

Proudly nasty, I joined Anja, my mother-in-law Sauci, and millions of others around the world last Saturday to attend the Women’s March. Museum Square in Amsterdam was full of pussy hats, face paint, smiling faces, and righteous indignation.

I don’t often attend protests, not in the last place because I’m cautious about negative media outlets that often ridicule protesters, but I loved being a part of this day. I have no idea what’s in store with this American presidency, but I imagine it can’t be very positive. I feel fortunate to live in a place that lends itself well to such protests. It makes me feel less scared and less alone.