california fine (bridges and bookends, part 2)
We passed the California Hotel on several trips to and from the city, and I couldn’t help snapping this photo.
Arriving someplace in the dark makes awakening spectacular: the senses reset and you rise to a new world without context or expectation. I landed at Oakland airport well after midnight, and drove into California under the cover of night. I got an informal tour and lay of the land from co-author Hadley Dynak, who I badgered with questions about terrain, context, and history of place. She ferried me over the imaginary borders of Oakland and Berkeley, offered a few options on possible points of artistic interest, and told me about her family. We made our way to co-author Lauren Schiller’s place in the dark, and I let myself in to regroup. This was my first real time encounter with either of the authors, and my first time visiting California.
The first magnolia bloom of the season.
I woke up to a city in full bloom. The first things I noticed emerging were two magnolia trees, buds bursting at the seams with possibility. I would have the pleasure of seeing one of these blooms as my first magnolia flower of the season, and would count it as a sign of true spring. This was the first spring, and I was in shock how living and green the earth was.
Meeting Lauren took place in her kitchen the morning after arrival. We chatted and caffienated while celebrating our love of the three C’s: cheese, carnivale (the HBO series) and Corita Kent. After coffee, I oriented myself to the terrain of the west coast by meandering through residential Berkeley. Quirky bungalows and cottages, greenery of all kinds (agave, palm trees, baby redwoods, climbing vines) spilled over fences and around pedestrian corners. Ten thousand Priuses lined the verdant streets as far as the eye can see. There was never enough time for anything, and yet, I opened my eyes and looked for the first time on this mythical place.
The first day was a bit disorienting. We did an interview with Meg McConahey from The Press Democrat in the morning, had a brief final meeting and drove to Menlo park for our first appearance. We were referred to as “the talent” and I adopted the phrase to humble myself for the remainder of the journey. I was in the audience watching as Lauren and Hadley kicked of the tour, taking notes on points of interest and suggestions for improvement.
A photo of our tour stop at Mrs. Dalloway’s Literary and Garden Arts. One of the highlights of the entire tour. Left to right: Lauren Schiller, Hadley Dynak, Joan Blades, and me.
On day two, I walked from The Grand Lake Theatre in Oakland back to Berkeley in my Dr. Marten’s boot and paid the price with dime sized blisters on the soles of both feet. I paused for a rest at Hadley’s and met her husband Kent. He was preparing to take their daughter Simone for her driver’s test, they would join us later that evening for our second bookstore event.
The stop at Mrs. Dalloway’s was a special treat: Joan Blades joined us for the talk and shared some strategies for effective domestic peacebuilding. After the talk was over, we were invited to choose any book in the shop to take home. I selected one on Faith Ringgold to add to the research collection of my library. (Faith reemerges in a later part of this story.)
Day three was my first trip into San Francisco proper. Hadley and I visited ICA SF to take in “Resting Our Eyes.” I was not anticipating such a dense representation of Black artist powerhouses, and was a bit awe struck to find myself face to face with works of contemporary masters. I left the space feeling inspired, and wondered what it might mean for someone like me to stumble into a room like this. To be in a show like this someday.
Images of a couple works from the show. The close ups of the black tambourines by Lava Thomas read “I sing because I’m happy” and “I sing because I am free.” Ja’Tovia Gary’s neon installation reads', “Care is the Antidote to Violence.” These two pieces made me the most emotional, and felt like clues for this adventure of remembrance.
We had a celebration at the Donkey and Goat Winery, and the natural Pinot Noir was unforgettable.
We ended the day with a celebration party at Donkey and Goat winery in Berkeley. Here, I drank fantastic natural Pinot Noir and had the pleasure of meeting several of the women I illustrated for the book. One women I was most excited to meet was Rozie Kennedy. Everywhere I have been, Black women have opened doors, offered wisdom, and made space for me at the table. I promised myself that I will continue to carry on this tradition to the best of my ability. Rozie heard my artist talk for the bell hooks Center, and made the referral for this illustration gig while in the process of writing her own book (more later).
The party was a smashing success, folks had a wonderful time, and I was gifted one of the most delicious burritos I have ever eaten. I think I believe that California may, in fact reign supreme in burrito territory. My darling Georgina showed up just before we gave our big celebration speeches, and it was so good to see a familiar face in the sea of newness. I last saw her just before the pandemic, her initial sojourn to California was meant to be a visit. She’s been there ever since.
After the party, Georgina took me to a little whiskey bar with her friend KJ. A service industry worker and metalhead from Kathmandu, KJ introduced me to Amaro (an Italian digestif liquor) while a stranger positioned across the bar from me began interjecting with his thoughts. Having been in transit for the past 5 days and in a moment of celebration with an old friend and a new one, I looked the interruptor in his drunken eyes and asked plainly, “Why are you talking to me?” He babbled on incoherently, embarrassing a colleague next to him so deeply that the man apologized on his behalf.
The colleague and I started talking about where we were both from, and horse racing became the topic of discussion. Naturally, the interruptor struck again, prompting me to cease our conversation and offer him the chance to get whatever it was that he needed to off his chest. At this moment, the bartender gracefully stepped in and informed him that he would be finishing his drink and leaving the establishment. We went on with KJ’s introductory remarks, and with great fanfare, I had my first sip of Amaro. It tasted as good as not being harassed by strange men in a bar.
Amaro. I’d never seen it before goin on tour, but it made repeat appearances throughout the California leg.
Somewhere in all of this, the man vanished, leaving his colleague behind to continue apologizing on his behalf. It turns out, the gentleman was visiting from out of the country and was out with the interruptor as a representative of the company. The gentleman would be his direct supervisor should he take the job, but the interruptor abandoned him at a bar in a foreign country with no cell phone service and no way to get back to his hotel. Georgina called him a car, and we all headed home with swimming heads. Just before bed, I got an email rom the gentleman offering to buy us breakfast and coffee. I politely declined and chuckled before surrendering to the pillow.
On day four, we took our hangovers on a small culinary tour of Oakland. Georgina gave me the red carpet treatment, and fed me a rainbow of flavors. She scooped me up in the morning and we started with chicken and waffles. I ordered a black coffee, she requested an emotional support diet coke. From there, we went to the Lumpia Co. where people were hanging out in their cars listening to music while old ironing boards positioned as makeshift tables served as gathering spaces to eat and connect. We made friends with a solo diner who happened to be a food blogger, and took in all the beauty of the people.
A lifetime of growing up Black in a place that hates Black people had an effect on my self esteem that I hadn’t realized: I really thought I wasn’t good looking. Scanning the streets full of beautiful Black and brown folks, I had a necessary revelation: I was one of those beautiful people. I am, in fact, California fine. Bless.
Oakland-based artist Favianna Rodriguez’s work has been part of my life for a long time. Her imagery has become synonymous with human rights movements, including migrants marches here in Milwaukee.
Chin up, we headed to see multidisciplinary artist Favianna Rodriguez’s studio. Favianna’s portrait was the first I had completed for the book project, and something of the energy in it made it clear that I needed to meet her. She was in the throes of all kinds of things, but graciously invited us for a quick visit. We talked shop and exchanged ideas, and realized our processes are nearly identical excepting preferred media (Favianna’s specialty is print making, where I am most at home with textiles).
The flipside of this visit ties back to being California fine: though meeting and talking with Favianna was affirming, part of me was devastated considering what I might be if I lived somewhere that art was seen as a real job, and Black people were seen as real people. Being in a place where Black and brown folks were thriving, artists were seen as contributors to the labor force and agents of change for justice made me lament the circumstances back home. Georgina stepped up at this moment of collapse, and reminded me that we’ve both come so far in spite of everything. The journey not over, this moment was only a step in trusting the process.
Rozie Kennedy (left) reading the introduction to Our Brave Foremothers. Latanya Mapp Frett (right) read from The Everyday Feminist. The picture isn’t great, but it’s part of the documentation of this strange and wonderful journey.
Later that evening, Lauren and I drove into San Francisco to celebrate two more authors publishing their books. Kamala Harris’ motorcade and traffic blocked our entry at first, but once things settled down we scored rockstar parking for the party. From high up in some skyscraper, I listened mouth agape as Rozie Kennedy and Latanya Mapp Frett read the introductions to their new books. Latanya’s reading from “The Everyday Feminist” covered her experiences with global feminism on the ground, and I almost cried in public. The experience of hearing these stories about women like me, of ordinary women from around the globe doing courageous things left me feeling raw. For those of you who don’t know me very well, crying isn’t something I do often, especially not with people I wouldn’t trust in a life or death situation. I almost wept in a room full of strangers because these two aunties were sharing their books full of stories I could recognize and resonate with. I wasn’t expecting to feel so tender, or so seen.
When Rozie read from her book, “Our Brave Foremothers,” I was surprised to hear nods of respect given to one woman who indirectly influenced my journey in becoming a professional artist: Grace Lee Boggs. I say indirectly because my first artist residency was hosted at the New Work Field Street house, where Hong Gwi-Seok (former Poet Laureate of Milwaukee and founder of the Riverwest Yogashala) invited me for a ramshackle residency up the street from the Boggs Center. She was one of Grace’s caretakers, and handed me an opportunity to test my mettle as a quilter and artist. Here I was in the midst of a loop closing, many years later and across the country, the name of my teacher’s teacher being sung from the heights by a Black woman (Rozie!) who made the entire book experience possible. Wonder of wonders, connections and influence from ancestors and generations (Grace Lee Boggs! Della Wells! Gwi-Seok! Baba Blair! Hadley and Lauren!) conspired to put me exactly where I was that evening. I’ll never forget it.
Muscat grapes. My new favorite.
Fava beans from the Monterey Market: This small bowl took about 3 human hours of effort. Justin and Mia showed me the ropes, but I didn’t know how to cook them. I can olny imagine how delicious something so beautiful and hard-won could be.
Day 5 was committed to recovery, and to the good life that California had to offer. Having been hit with so many experiences back to back after years of staying close to home, I needed to regroup. Lauren’s kitchen was at my full disposal, and I was more than happy to make myself at home. Her husband Justin took me on a grocery adventure to Monterey Market, and I had my first taste of muscat grapes. These are what moscato wine (which I dislike) is made from, but the grapes themselves were glorious, with the most beautiful hint of blush on green that I have ever seen. Next, I had one of the most exquisite bars of chocolate I have ever eaten, Dick Taylor’s Fleur de Sel. Two ounces of bliss wrapped in letterpress cardstock, worth every penny. I borrowed Lauren’s family for an afternoon of kitchen work: we hulled fava beans on the countertop together, but the grown ups had events to attend, and I had no idea how to go about cooking them.
Gallery director Chris Kerr at Round Weather gallery was kind enough to show us this Rosie Lee Tompkins quilt.
Lauren asked if I would be interested in seeing one of her friend’s shows at Round Weather Gallery in Oakland. Georgina met us there and we accidentally saw a Rosie Lee Tompkins quilt the gallerist had tucked away in a closet. Everywhere I turned, the felt like California’s bounty was in celebrating culture workers: authors, artists, musicians, chefs, and all manner of makers possible. My job there was to remember that this work, regardless of how it has been valued at home, is instrumental to our human quality of life.
While Lauren and Hadley were honored at the Berkeley Library that evening, I stuck around the house to unwind. Travel and witness had ground me down to dust, and I needed rest and nourishment. Lauren’s daughter Mia shared her guitar and experimental hammentaschen recipe with me. It was a night of cooking and giggling, wondering about gender-neutral partner pet names, and seeing the flower silhouettes in the darkness. I made peanut stew, and gave learning a few Kimya Dawson songs a try with mixed results.
I stayed up late that evening to wash my laundry and do a little reflection. This was the first time in recent memory I had the energy to do any writing whatsoever, and reintroducing the aspect of journaling to my practice would become a signature of the tour. I’d picked up a white linen planner from Rozie’s book tour, and began to repurpose it as a travel journal. It reminded me of the linen book I got from the art exhibition where I first met my artistic mentor Della. Good things have always come to me wrapped in white linen.
I am sworn to secrecy on the location where this meal took place, but damn it was delicious.
My final day in the Bay area was a flurry of motion. Georgina and I woke up and went out early to eat. I have been sworn to secrecy on the location of the meal, but it was a perfect culinary end to the whirlwind adventure. There were people pouring in from all directions, and Georgina insisted we arrive as early as possible to avoid the long lines that would form in front of every stall. After waiting in line to get tokens, we exchanged said tokens for a bunch of incredible food. There was a noodle soup and taro fritters, and these little coconut cakes that were crispy on the outside and a bit creamy on the inside. The soup was nourishing, but the taro fritters were my favorite.
We had one more bookstore stop scheduled that afternoon, but I wanted to visit one more place before heading off: the home and studio of Miriam Klein Stahl. Miriam and Kat Schatz were featured in one of the stories in the book, and I wanted to check out Miriam’s studio, where she and her wife Lena Wolf make their living as artists. We had another too-short visit, it never feels like there’s enough time to talk when you meet an artist who inspires you. Miriam poured us coffee, showed us some cool pieces, and sent us on our way with a handful of beautiful prints that now hang on my studio walls for inspiration. Miriam’s narrative work is also iconic, primarily using portraiture to share stories of resistance and radical joy. Like Favianna, she’s done some very cool work that has been secretly inspiring me for a long time without me knowing it. I’m so grateful they allowed me into their sanctuaries, however brief the visit.
We rushed from breakfast to the studio, then into the car for an hourlong drive that would deposit us at our final bookstore engagement for the California leg. In my final hours in the Bay, I was so frazzled that I failed to acknowledge my first close encounter with the Pacific Ocean. There had been so much to take in that first week, it was all I could do to show up with my mental faculties intact.
When we arrived at Black Bird Bookstore, I was so grateful that our event would be held in the open air of their lush courtyard. My shoulders did drop at the feeling of being seaside, not unlike the place I grew up. The sun shone down and the salt of the sea was in the air. Wetsuits on the balcony, a surf shop and ballet school, all surrounded by pastel of the sky clashing against the neon of commerce. Later that evening, Hadley’s husband Kent would ask how I was finding California, or if I’d seen the Pacific before. It dawned on me that I’d hardly registered the pull of the water and opted to settled my nerves with mere sunshine and 65 percent humidity. I vowed to pay proper respect to the ocean at the first opportunity. After the talk, Hadley and I said our goodbyes to Lauren. She’d head back to Berkeley while we headed for the country to rest and recover.
Before leaving the city, I made a request: I wanted to darken the doorway of the legendary City Lights bookstore to pay homage to Ginsberg and all the beatniks for their contribution to my literary education. It wouldn’t be right to be on book tour in San Francisco without making that pilgrimage.
On the way, Hadley gave me a quick driving tour. We drove through the Haight (my first encounter with “Naked People,” older gentlemen wearing nothing but smiles and towels around their necks), I saw Chinatown, a few old victorians, and finally arrived at the foot of the mountain: City Lights. I went in, realizing that I couldn’t concentrate long enough to really appreciate what was happening to me. I had to pee, and there was no public bathroom. Weary from the week, and incapable of thinking straight, I touched the doorway, muttered a prayer of thanks, and headed out the door. After finding a place to pee, I headed back to the Jeep. We put on a playlist, took to the coast, and drove: Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, foothills and port towns, finally toward wine country.
A volkswagen bus turned ice cream truck encountered just before driving onto the Golden Gate Bridge. This was the last thing I saw before departing from the Bay.
Thanks for reading part two. You can hop over to part three by clicking this link. As a little thank you, here’s a link to my Tri Coastal Tour Playlist. If you’d like to purchase a book and postcard bundle, head over to the shop.