Uh-Oh Sparks

My friends,

divorced or drifting,

swipe for company.

If it were me,

I could never—

I’d probably

just die alone.

I don’t believe

in soulmates

that arrive

by algorithm,

matching hobbies

or a list of curated books

on a profile.

(How pretentious.)

I believe in accidents—

the uh-oh spark

of recognition

in a public place,

two beings

colliding

like stars

across the

galaxy.

Maybe in the produce section,

my hand closing around

the firm neck

of a zucchini

as I admire it

a little too seriously,

when he looks up

from the tomatoes

and says,

“I wish my last date

looked at me like that,”

and I’d laugh

and we’d talk

just long enough

to be sure he doesn’t

work in finance,

on a pipeline,

or part-time

at a dispensary.

On our first date

I'd get nervous

not eat

a single bite,

probably drink

a little too much,

slip a clumsy hand

in the back of his jeans

as we walk

to the car—

because I always

make the first move.

He doesn't mind.

In the evenings,

we’d drink dark beer

and talk about

class consciousness,

workers’ rights,

and the rot

of corporate greed—

like we’d been

touching souls

for centuries.

Later, he’d chase me

down the hall

to the bedroom

tackling me

on unkempt sheets

like we’re

always

going to be young.

Our love

wouldn’t be mediated

through a screen,

and there’s no

bullshit or tiptoeing around

obscured meanings—

just truth

of the messiest kind.

We’d prep

dinner together

and bitch

about our days—

how the boss

does nothing

and takes all the credit—

so bourgeoisie.

We roll our eyes at

dogma,

and the

annoying shit

gym rats say

and he doesn't

make me watch

sports

and I love

that we hate

the same things.

Everything

and everyone else

seems so mundane

compared to a love

that arrived

like a summer storm—

untameable,

without warning,

no regard for

pre-scheduled

calendars,

or best laid plans.

That's the way it is

with the one

I'm married to now.

Because sometimes,

the best things

happen

when you

least expect them.

Cue the Reactionaries: My Baby Girl Reaches for Rosa Luxemburg

You know what they say: revolutions start in the play yard. Besides, a busy mom’s gotta appease her intellectual curiosity somehow. Calm down, capitalists, the baby still gets a few plastic light-up toys to play with during theory class. On breaks, we boogie to her favourite folk banger: “Big Yellow Taxi” by Joni Mitchell. She’s undoubtedly her mother’s daughter. When I roar, she roars—tiny acts of radical tenderness shaping her spirit. I know it seems silly, but I feel like I’m really making a difference with her. She’s going to burn bright, and she’s going to help heal this rock. My job as a mom is to guide her there.

I’ve always believed that motherhood is an underutilized yet potent site of social transformation. Mothering can serve as fertile ground for resistance and change, illuminating small beams of light through the cracks of a crumbling world, as it were. Though patriarchy has consistently led us to accept the devaluation of mothers through gender and parenting norms that benefit men, being a mother actually demands an unyielding amount of intellectual, political, and social agency. But, in order to harness the full power of mothering, the experience of motherhood ought to be disentangled from the institution of motherhood, which is constantly working off an outdated, impossible script written by men and, more recently, co-opted by a version of feminism that centers white, individualistic ‘boss bitch’ ideals rather than collective care. I don't fit into in either version, which makes me feel like an outcast in the game.

Not to bore you with too much theory, but feminist Sarah Ruddick asserts that motherhood is not just a role we play, it’s a discipline. In any case, the way we’re doing it under capitalism is burning us out and not serving us. That’s why I spent the last year of my undergrad trying to understand what happened to me when I became a mother — why in recent years I felt so out of control, almost adolescent-like, from years of just trying to keep it together. I immersed myself in the work of Ruddick, Adrienne Rich, Andrea O’Reilly, Judith Butler, and other feminist scholars. I dived deep into theories of gender performativity, matricentric feminism, and matrescence. I discovered how intensive parenting forces moms to “do it all,” robbing families of actual quality time with their kids — even in a time when moms seem more invested as parents. But most of all, I learned how motherhood shaped me, and how I can preserve aspects of my identity that are critical to my essence while rediscovering new parts of myself as I move through this abundant, intense, and profoundly transformative season.

For one thing, I know I can still be a mother and fight for what matters to me. Today, we found ourselves in a crowd of pro-Palestine activists chanting rally cries. It was a small moment for her — one she won’t remember — but for me, it was a reminder of who I am at my core. Motherhood hasn’t dulled me at all. Though I’ve always been something of a radical leftist, nothing made me more politically ferocious than becoming a mother. It elucidated the kind of world I want to be part of, and the one I want to leave behind for the next generation.

So we read Rosa on a floor scattered with baby toys. Rosa believed freedom is “always and exclusively freedom for the one who thinks differently,” reminding me that raising a child means fostering her spirit, not shaping her into obedience. I don’t want her to be subservient. I want her to use her voice. That’s why we sing songs lamenting the rapidly changing world from right here in the living room. And we stand in solidarity with Palestine, because, like Rosa, I believe true revolution grows from the power of the masses rising together, not from top-down decrees. We see how everything and everyone is connected. We live for nuance. And we look for good. With every glance upward to the sky, with every inhale of a fragrant bud from a flower, I show her that true beauty can’t be bought in a store — that even in struggle, joy persists.

It gives me hope. Even though I’m world-weary.

They wanted obedient daughters. Girls who sleep, who serve, who wear fragile beauty as a docile mask.

Too bad.

I’m raising a revolutionary — a little one who, like Rosa Luxemburg herself, refuses to be silent or compliant.

As Rosa warned us, “Those who do not move, do not notice their chains.”

The Palace of Versailles Is a Real Shithole (Drenched in Gold)

Of all the places I’ve visited on vacation, I hated the Palace of Versailles the most. As someone who’s never been impressed by grandeur, I wasn’t expecting to be dazzled. I’ve always preferred ruined castles to gilded ones. Still, I wasn’t prepared for the visceral reaction I had when my husband and I decided to check it out 8 years ago while in France.

As I wandered through its gilded halls, I was struck by a lingering malaise — a feeling that gnawed at me and became impossible to ignore. Beneath the opulence and shimmering gold, I sensed a festering wound: a monument not just to royal excess, but to centuries of moral decay.

I’ve always been intuitive and attuned to suffering. It’s why I can walk into a place and immediately know if someone has died there. Eerie, I know. But in Versailles, it felt like I was carrying the weight of a thousand souls on my back. The palace’s luxury was merely a mask for greed and cruelty — a facade hiding a brutal legacy of class exploitation and alienated labour. It was built as a citadel of grotesque luxury and intimidation, on the backs of peasants who would never experience its pleasures.

I was born with a critical eye, so I have a hard time going anywhere and not looking at it through the lens of conflict theory. Nonetheless, what should have been awe — and still is for many tourists –– curdled into unease as the weight of history pressed down and revealed the rot at the very heart of power. I tried to focus on the art, to enjoy the sordid history lesson, but all I could think about was how many people had to suffer and starve so that a royal few could live in shameless profligacy. I couldn't help but think I would've loathed the assholes that ran the place.

The way I saw it, Versailles wasn’t beautiful at all. It was a gaudy spectacle of consumption, filled with bloated vanity and designed to normalize elitism and uphold the hierarchy that fed it. It was built into the bones of the place. Nothing about it felt warm or impressive, and yet here I was, with thousands of other tourists still feeding into the myth of it being larger than life. In truth, I hated all of it. I hated how vast it was. So wasteful and unnecessary. I despised the architecture and ornate design. I loathed the perfectly maintained gardens, rejecting their lack of wildness, forced pleasantry, and fountain shows. I even found the Grand Canal and its snobby swans lackluster and annoying.

By the time we reached the Grand Trianon, I felt sick. It was a scorcher of a day to be sure, but I grew increasingly hot, my hands clammy, my heart racing, until finally I had a full-blown anxiety attack in the courtyard. Fun times. Clearly, I'm just not built for places like these.

When it finally passed, I looked at my husband and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

I had seen all I needed to see. Was it cool to visit in hindsight? I guess — maybe, if you want a brutal reminder of your values and the absolute cruelty of the ruling class while on vacation. But mostly, it felt like a colossal waste of time.

In any case, it solidified this for me: had lived during the French Revolution, I’d have been storming the gates.

Mostly, it taught me that I hate doing tourist runs through shitholes. Especially gilded ones.