I honestly thought we weren’t going to be having this conversation now. Which, yes, is fucking naive of me, isn’t it? Continue reading
Nonfiction usually requires a windup. Some sort of stretching before it hits the track. A metaphor. Links, to other sources more reliable than myself. For once, I’m (almost) going to skip that. If you need resources, you are already on the internet. I hope that you’ll find the one that convinces you this is true. Or you could just believe me; I’m usually pretty good at being right.
You are not your productivity.
One of Those Weeks has turned into One of Those Months in One of Those Years. Continue reading
The temperature here is set to reach a hundred degrees by the end of the week, and we’re the lucky ones. In some parts of the country, it’s too hot for airplanes to fly. On days like this my dad used to throw us in the truck and head out to the lake, his scratched-up driftboat in the bed and us with our thighs stuck to the hot vinyl seats in the front. I remember being so small, kneeling in the curved belly of the boat while my father rowed, one eye on the sky for July thunderstorms. “Sit still, mae-mae,” he’d remind me. “Don’t rock the boat.” Continue reading
Of all the tone-policing arguments that have come out of the dozen or so groups I’ve been shunted into since the election, the one that currently impresses me the least is “you won’t win anyone to your side by breaking windows and blocking streets.” There also seems to be some sort of delusion that movements must court and win the favor of moderate white liberals in order to prevail, and that anyone who refuses to use honeyed words and pleas is “hurting the movement.”
Look, if being polite to the oppressor made them see you as human, take your side, and award you rights, Gone with the Wind would have ended with Scarlett selling all those fancy dresses so that she could make sure to have the right mule-to-acreage ratio for Mammy and Pork and Prissy and Big Sam. Continue reading