I can think of very few invitations that are a bigger honor than one to a Black, brown, and queer house party. Having received such an honor, one must do right by their intersectional community. No half-empty bottles of liquor will do, which raises the concern of what offering demonstrates sufficient gratitude for the community many in my generation never thought possible—especially if we entered sexual maturity in the Midwest.

When in doubt, post something to the Facebook event page like, “OMW. Do we need anything?” It typically takes mere minutes to receive a reply along the lines of “Bring weed,” and bring weed I do. Upon my entrance, I unload a bag of recreational cannabis products onto the dining room table like some sort of stoner Santa Claus: sativa, indica, hybrid, CBD, THC-infused watermelon mint beverage, crumble, and moon dust.

Our host has supplied an excess of food, including chicken skewers, chilipeño chips, and an array of delicious vegan and raw dishes—many prepared before our very eyes, even as she collects donations in a stylish fanny pack to go to the recently vandalized Ori Gallery. I combine the THC-infused beverage with La Croix (’cause niggas love La Croix) and fruit soaked in surprisingly strong rum. That combination may sound gross, but it tastes worse than you’d imagine.

Political discourse? Check! Clowning white people? But of course! Repeatedly denouncing the racist, patriarchal, homophobic, transphobic, psuedo-religious, misogynoir, capitalist oligarchy? Absolutely! That’s how we celebrate Pride, bitches.

Wall décor includes generous bunches of lavender hung to dry and stink real pretty. I also need to note that all queer brown people are breathtakingly beautiful. Yes. Literally every single one of us is irresistible and—as one should expect from a gathering of urban farmers, nonprofit workers, social justice advocates, educators, counselors, and an obscure comic with a party column—conversation mostly centered on tarot decks, astrology, and Miss Cleo.

Most might remember Miss Cleo (AKA LaShawnda Williams, Corvette Mama, Elenore St. Julian, Desiree Canterlaw, Janet Snyder, Maria Delcampo, Christina Garcia, or Cleomili Harris) as the ambiguously Caribbean spokesperson for a particular psychic telephone network. Some might note that she was a California-born fraud. But those in the know may also recall Miss Cleo (born Youree Dell Harris, August 12, 1962) as a prominent icon among Black lesbian brujas. Tragically, she died from colon cancer in 2016 at the age of 53, in Palm Beach County, Florida. I only mention these final details because I was born in Florida, and 53 is a dope-ass number comprising two of my favorite numbers. You can’t deny that probably means something, like I’m spiritually linked to a fraudulent “Jamaican” shaman from Los Angeles.

Thorough unpacking of our connection is put on hold, so I can force my kid to chase mouthfuls of popcorn, corn on the cob, and garlic bread with some kale salad so he can successfully poop in the days to come.

The party itself is a perfect 10 out of 10.