How is this the first time that I see that middle photo of Tony’s boy band choreography with you as hype MC in the background? Amazing. I’ll know that I have been fully accepted by your family once I get an invitation for karaoke night at your parents’ house. I can’t wait. (And I hope one day we can show them Mexico’s under-rated karaoke scene.)
Your newsletter convinced me that when my precious time comes to an end, I want to be in Vietnam or Mexico. (Or New Orleans, if it has to be the US.) Western, anglo, American death rituals just don’t to it for me. Imagine living nearly a century and all you get is a 60-minute funeral? Call me selfish, but I want my friends to come together for a meal every week for seven weeks. Or to put a photo of me and a plate of peanut butter and banana toast on the altar de muertos every November. Or at a minimum, a second line in New Orleans. (Ideally all three.)
And if Iris and I aren’t commune-neighbor co-parents, we’re gonna at least be the dope tío and tía who teach them fluent Spanish and how to make proper tacos.
My primary thought after I read the post: such rich photos. Rich in texture and color and rich in content. ;)
How is this the first time that I see that middle photo of Tony’s boy band choreography with you as hype MC in the background? Amazing. I’ll know that I have been fully accepted by your family once I get an invitation for karaoke night at your parents’ house. I can’t wait. (And I hope one day we can show them Mexico’s under-rated karaoke scene.)
Your newsletter convinced me that when my precious time comes to an end, I want to be in Vietnam or Mexico. (Or New Orleans, if it has to be the US.) Western, anglo, American death rituals just don’t to it for me. Imagine living nearly a century and all you get is a 60-minute funeral? Call me selfish, but I want my friends to come together for a meal every week for seven weeks. Or to put a photo of me and a plate of peanut butter and banana toast on the altar de muertos every November. Or at a minimum, a second line in New Orleans. (Ideally all three.)
And if Iris and I aren’t commune-neighbor co-parents, we’re gonna at least be the dope tío and tía who teach them fluent Spanish and how to make proper tacos.