I was an inauguration absconder. I escaped to Mexico early morning prior to the swearing in like I was El Chapo with a map of a tunnel to freedom. It was the first time I got on a plane to run from something instead of running to something (except for the time in college when I broke up with my fiancée, but that’s a long story).
Mexico seemed ambivalent to our country’s happenings. Talk of “the wall”, immigration, or civil rights didn’t occur and would have seemed incongruous in a place where the sun has permanent residence; sand is your carpet; and the ocean is your soundtrack.
My fellow refugee and I didn’t turn on the T.V., read newspapers, or scroll online. Instead, we crashed a 50-year-old Sista’s birthday party and vigorously twisted, as her husband karaokeed “Let’s do the Twist” at a…
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