Sanctuary in the Stacks
I didn’t expect to become a keeper of stories, but that’s what happened when we bought Alexander Books, a used bookstore in Cajun Country: Lafayette, Louisiana.
Every donated box of books held fragments of lives lived: grocery lists tucked between romance novels, ticket stubs marking anniversary dates, children’s drawings used as bookmarks in cookbooks. We started pinning these discoveries to the walls, creating this accidental archive of intimacy.
Folks would walk in and gasp, recognizing photos of distant cousins, or their grandmother’s recipe card that had somehow found its way to us.
The front porch became my testing ground for what I now understand as transformative belonging.
Some folks would climb those creaky steps and immediately settle in, pulling books off shelves like they belonged there. Other folks hovered at the threshold, unsure if they should be there.
I started paying attention to what made the difference. It wasn’t just the signage, or the carefully curated genre sections; it was whether someone on staff looked up, made eye contact, offered a greeting of connection, instead of the standard “can I help you?”
I learned you can’t perform authentic belonging into existence. In the times I tried too hard — organizing elaborate community events, crafting the perfect Instagram post — the space felt hollow.
But when a visit turned into a weekly hello from a friend…. or when the sounds of local bands flooded through the halls — that’s when the magic happened. The space was working when I stopped trying to control it and started listening to what it wanted to become.
From that, I learned who I wanted to become and how I wanted to think.
The Academic Turn:
Standing in that bookstore, surrounded by stories I couldn’t quite name, I realized my academic journey could support my intuition.
I knew something profound was happening in our little house, but I couldn’t articulate it beyond “it feels like home.”
Graduate school gave me words like “phenomenology” and “embodiment,” frameworks that helped me understand why finding someone’s love letter in a used cookbook made me cry, or why certain spatial arrangements made people linger versus leave quickly.
The tension between academic rigor and front-porch wisdom is real, though. Sometimes the academic theory matches up, like when I learned about “third places” and suddenly understood why our bookstore worked differently than a library or coffee shop.
But at other times, the academic framework is like trying to explain the most complex feelings in words. How do you measure the transformative power of genuine care? How do you footnote the moment someone feels seen?
Now, in studying queer spaces while simultaneously creating PatchWork, I’m living this tension daily. My dissertation examines how Seattle’s queer bookstores navigate the difference between performative and transformative queerness, while PatchWork tries to embody transformative care in real time.
It’s like being a participant-observer in my life, always asking: Is this analysis serving the community, or just serving my academic career?
The Framework Emerges:
When I enter any space now, my body responds before my mind does. I notice where people gather versus where they avoid, what encourages lingering versus quick exits. I ask: Who belongs here automatically? Who has to “earn” their place? What stories do these walls hold, and which ones are being erased?
My framework architecture has become a way of building structures that others can inhabit and adapt. Just like Alexander Books became something different for each person who entered, I create frameworks — whether it’s a mutual aid network, a workshop design, or a research method — that can hold multiple truths simultaneously. The structure provides stability, but the content emerges from community wisdom.
I’ve learned to distinguish performative care from transformative care by paying attention to outcomes rather than intentions. Performative care looks good from the outside; the right language, the visible gestures, the social media posts.
Transformative care might be messier, quieter, harder to photograph, but it changes material conditions. It’s the difference between hosting a panel about housing justice and actually helping someone find a place to sleep tonight. Both must work in tandem.
Where This Goes Next:
I’m still figuring out how to bridge the gap between academic knowledge production and community care without exploiting the communities that teach me.
How do you write a dissertation about spaces of belonging without turning those spaces into objects of study? How do you honor front-porch wisdom within institutions that rarely value it?
Through The Front Porch Papers, I want to share the messy, ongoing process of learning to think systemically while staying grounded in authentic relationship. I’m curious about what happens when we approach complex problems with both intellectual rigor and genuine care, when we build frameworks that can hold both critique and love.
So pull up a chair, grab some coffee, and let’s figure this out together. Because the best thinking, like the best gumbo, happens when we combine what we’ve learned with what we’re still discovering, seasoned with the wisdom of everyone who’s willing to share their story. Welcome to my front porch.
