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Amid the daily hustle of jobs to do and families to feed, local communities to foster and personal cultures to preserve, it can sometimes be easy to forget that the planet is massive and she’s also mad as hell.
James Baldwin wrote, “No one can possibly know what is about to happen: it is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time.”
Even in the most amicable of arrangements, when all the ostensible needs are met, and everyone is healthy and clear-headed, it’s nearly impossible to harness the sedulous nuances of adoption.
“We Are Never Meeting in Real Life,” Samantha Irby’s collection of candid, funny and deliberate essays will make you laugh until you pee and cry and ache in your belly.
There is something mesmerizing about a girlhood friendship that is so close and adventurous, symbiotic and impenetrable.
Like the majority of women in America, I think about nearly every piece of food that I put into my mouth.
When news surfaced a few weeks ago that Carolyn Bryant, the white woman responsible for the 1955 murder of Emmett Till, had confessed to having made up the most glaring part of her testimony, it felt almost like the whole thing had been orchestrated — if not to play into a grieving, post-Ferguson climate in which we now have a new president boasting a white supremacist agenda, then into my own life and work.
In the weeks since Donald Trump was elected president of the United States, many of us who work in media — particularly those of us who are black or brown — have questioned the role we may have played in sensationalizing the already sensationalized story of Trump and the terrible, horrible, no good campaign of 2016, as well as our own moral obligation moving forward as conveyors of truth and insight under an administration that promotes white supremacy.
It’s hard to make your way through the Underground Railroad.
Toni Morrison once said: “We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language.
