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Gloria Horton-Young's avatar

March 2: Cultural Echoes – How does heritage influence contemporary life?

Heritage is like an old song stuck in your head—you can leave home, change cities, reinvent yourself entirely, and yet, there it is, playing softly in the background when you least expect it.

I was born in Memphis, Tennessee, a place where history seeps into the sidewalks and barbecue sauce is practically a blood type. I moved away in my twenties, convinced I could shed my Southern roots like an old winter coat. And yet, decades later, I still have the accent, still say “y’all” without irony, and still believe iced tea should be sweet enough to put you in a diabetic coma.

Heritage isn’t just about where you’re from; it’s about the things you carry with you—whether it’s the ability to make small talk with absolutely anyone (a true Southern superpower) or the deeply ingrained understanding that showing up to someone’s house empty-handed is just plain rude. It’s why I still instinctively write thank-you notes on actual stationery instead of sending a text. It’s why I can spot bad biscuits from across the room.

Even in a modern world where everything is streamlined, digitized, and delivered in under 30 minutes, I still feel a certain way about sitting on a front porch, about calling people “darlin’” without needing permission, about knowing deep in my soul that no matter how far I go, I am—and will always be—Southern.

So, does heritage influence contemporary life? Oh, honey. Bless your heart for even asking.

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Darieus Legg's avatar

March 16 -

Love Café

As I waited in line to order my drink, my eyes wandered to a newspaper folded over on the counter. The front page headline caught my attention:

“CEO Resigns After ‘Flirtatious’ Comments to Secretary—Company Cites ‘Inappropriate Workplace Behavior’”

Skimming the article, I gathered that the man—an executive with pro-Trump leanings—had made a few offhand remarks to his assistant. Enough, apparently, to cost him his career.

I exhaled through my nose. That tracks.

Then, a few seconds later, I witnessed something that deepened my confusion about Los Angeles.

The café I frequent in Santa Monica is run by a gay man who hires mostly young gay and transgender employees. It’s called Great Café, and true to its name, the coffee and service are great.

As I reached the counter to order, the owner walked in—an hour after opening. One of the young, bubbly baristas had a streak of cream near his lower lip, splashed up from frothing milk. The owner noticed and, in a tone that teetered between teasing and something else, said:

“Ohhhh, what were you two up to in the back before I got here, huh?”

I gasped. In any other workplace, a comment like that from a boss to an employee would be grounds for a sexual harassment lawsuit—or at least some serious HR intervention.

But here?

Both baristas giggled, like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Their reaction wasn’t discomfort. It was delight.

I paid for my cappuccino, still trying to process what I’d just witnessed.

Next to me, a woman cradling a small dog in one arm and her daughter in the other picked up her drink from the counter. She chuckled, unfazed.

“You all are too cute. Bye, friends!”

I stepped outside, the warm cup in my hands.

Whatever the rules are in this town, I’ll never understand them.

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