brock About town

I don’t talk about kids very often in this column, because I don’t have any and I don’t know anybody who has any and I have so little maternal instinct that when I was in high school and our next-door neighbors asked me to babysit for them, my dad laughed, as if they had asked me if I’d like to learn how to levitate. However, I am not totally dead inside, and there are a lot of things I really admire about kids, like their creativity, optimism and amazing skin. It says a lot that when an adult is asked to reevaluate their lives, they often wonder, what would my 12-year-old self think about me? (Answer: nothing good. Oh my God, ew, what is going on with that haircut? And why do you still have roommates? We told Mom we were going to be a lawyer.)

It is so easy to get down on yourself about not being “enough of an adult,” especially these days, when it feels like you’re doing everything you can just to keep it together in the hellscape that is modern life. One Google search for the word “adulting” (gag me with a spoon) reveals a tirade of insecurities for you to take on. What’s your credit score? Do you have symptoms of insulin resistance? Is your boyfriend secretly planning on breaking up with you for someone who doesn’t cry when he forgets to text her during boys’ night? Someone I went to high school with is a staff photographer for the New Yorker, and yesterday, I put “take a shower” on my to-do list.

I say, forget about adulting and ask yourself, what would a kid do? Probably drive to Hy-Vee, buy a sheet cake, eat half of it, and then throw the other half at the principal’s car. I’m not suggesting you do that, exactly, but try to bring that kind of whimsy and energy to your daily life. Go play outside. Call your grandma more. Do something with your car keys and minuscule disposable income that would make your 12-year-old self jealous as hell. After all, her curfew is 10 p.m. Yours is at least midnight.

P.S. Look for me on Halloween. I’ll be at the Deadwood, violating the bounds of common decency all night. I’m going as a sexy bunny, and my boyfriend is going as Lenny from Of Mice and Men.

STRESS FRACTURES

JOHN MARTINEK

I had only just moved to the Cedar Rapids area when I was warned, repeatedly, to stay away from Wellington Heights because it was “the ghetto” because of “the black gang members from Chicago all moved there to deal drugs”. I asked a couple of the fine Iowans who gave me that advice “Well, WHY do you think drug dealers moved to Cedar Rapids?” The idea that the lucrative market for drugs in Cedar Rapids area was the 80% white populace was lost on them. Being Indigenous myself, I learned what I could of the Meskwaki people, and quickly found out that even though the economy of Tama/Toledo depended heavily on the Meskwaki casino, the Meskwaki people themselves faced derision and contempt from many in the area. I found a lot of Systemic Racism, rather than overt racism. Many white Iowans simply don’t know exactly

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how to deal with people of color (for instance, my small town Iowa ex-wife didn’t even meet a black person until she was 8 years old). The result is they don’t recognize their Systemically influenced behavior as being offensive to people of color. Being a “red state” induces people to pour gasoline on the fire, at least from the perspective of minorities. —Charles R.B.

Sad but true. It shows in different ways. In the midwest it feels covert and in some cases not; enter in the south it seems more entitled and in some cases covert. Sad state of affairs. Everyone wants to speak in niceties and turn an eye for the action rather than speak honestly. In my observation and opinion. —Michelle H.

I imagine we’re still dealing with the legacy of people of color being intentionally kept out of New Deal era-hiring and union labor gigs. —Chad S.

Researching IC history is a hoot sometimes! Ask me how racist Emma Harvat was! —Josh L.

Wisconsin is not a Charlie Berens sketch either. —Joel K.