I never thought I’d be thankful that our washing machine broke. Truth be told, I hate laundromats. I’d rather walk barefoot down a gravel alley than sit under those flickering fluorescent lights, waiting for my drawers to spin dry. Call me snobbish, but the thought of hauling my dirty clothes to a public space makes me itch. The laundromat near my house growing up was hot, grimy, and a little scary — not a place you lingered.
So when our washer flashed the now-burned-into-my-brain error code — F7E1 — and the repair guy tilted the machine, shrugged, and muttered the words no one wants to hear (“I’ve never seen anything like this before…”), I was not happy. Weeks later, the machine still isn’t fixed. But this story isn’t really about broken appliances.
I googled “laundromat near me” with dread — and up popped The Laundry Café at The Aux. I had forgotten all about it, forgotten that it was owned by two women I’ve known for years, Tosha and Jacqui. The second time we came in, we met Tarence, Tosha’s husband, who gave us a tour while our clothes tumbled.
That’s when I realized — this wasn’t like any laundromat I had ever been in or imagined. The laundry area was spotless and well lit, with a wide selection of new machines. The café side was a whole vibe — a full menu of coffee and food options, high-top tables, couches, garage-style glass doors, and big-screen TVs. It’s the kind of place you actually want to spend time in, not just wait out the spin cycle.
Tarence told us about Lyrics & Laundry, an open-mic night blending poetry and music. Right then, I knew we were coming back even after the washer was fixed.
And we did.
The Experience
Saturday night was one of those evenings that reminds you why community matters. Black tablecloths. Candles. A stage with a single mic. People greeting each other with smiles, hugs, and dap whether they’d just seen each other yesterday or not since forever. The space was alive, and before the first performer even touched the mic, I knew it was going to be a night of Black joy.
C Rose — my guy — was the host, which I didn’t know until we walked in. His energy set the tone, and then She.Unapologetic, a beautiful sister from the South Side, took the mic and took us all on a ride. She taught us how to receive a poet — “rewind that!” and “those bars right there!” — and had the room nodding, snapping, hollering. Her poems were fire and fierce, speaking truth about Black womanhood, the pain and the power, the triumph and the testimony.
Next was Johnetta Anderson, West Side Chicago all the way, who wove memory and history together. She reminded us that Dr. King briefly lived on the West Side in 1966 as part of his fight for fair housing and economic justice, that Chairman Fred Hampton fed kids for free until he was murdered in his bed, and that Mayor Brandon Johnson still calls it home. Sometimes Black joy is remembrance. Black joy is knowing. She started her set reciting the lyrics of N’s Are Scared of Revolution by the Last Poets… Black joy is truth.
And then came Al Bettis — a brother out of Detroit with an acoustic guitar, a storyteller’s soul, and a voice that felt like home. He didn’t just sing; he took us down memory lane, giving us glimpses of the soundtrack of his life — the kind of music that gets passed from one generation to the next, the kind you didn’t know you remembered until the first few chords bring it all rushing back. His set was intimate, honest, and deeply human, weaving stories between songs in a way that made you feel like you were sitting in his living room. He even had the audience singing along, smiling, voices rising in unplanned harmony — because Black folks can harmonize without rehearsal. His vocals and musicality were the perfect dessert, leaving us full, not just of music but of memory, of connection, of joy. Black joy.
Why You Should Go
If you’ve never been to The Aux, go. See the space, take the tour, do your laundry — yes, even your laundry — and most of all, come for events like Lyrics & Laundry. Spaces like this aren’t just businesses; they’re love letters to the community. Saturday night reminded me that Black joy isn’t something you watch — it flows from you and into you at the same time. You can’t resist it. And it is made, nurtured, and multiplied exclusively in Black spaces.
Good stuff!