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)

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.

In one way or another, the number 36 has felt like a milestone birthday for a long time. As a tween, I imagined the glamorous autonomy that came with being 36 because I was hooked on watching the televised adventures of a foursome of privileged White women in Manhattan. (Continue)

Yesterday, I attended the very first gathering of FC de Filmfanaten, a brand-new film club that my friend Jolien started. There were four of us, and we discussed the movie I was proud to have suggested: Talk To Me. (Continue)

My attempt to lure both Anja and myself outside for some fresh air and a walk was thwarted as soon as I learned the place was out of my favorite bubble tea. (Continue)

I offered this confession as part of my confirmation into the Mennonite Church of Haarlem. While I recognize a few details that make me chuckle or cringe, much of what I believe today is reflected in the words below. (Continue)