On chasing ecstasy, finding tenderness, creating art, and experiencing motherhood.
Richmond could offer a bold challenge to historical narratives about the South, the Confederacy, and American slavery.
“I need a new way to eat,” I say. The nutritionist nods and says, “You want to lose some weight while we’re at it, right?”
How many days had we spent asking the same questions of God or doctors? How long had we wrestled with conditions that didn’t yet exist?
I was thin-skinned as a child, with an ego that could put bruised peaches to shame.
We remember only a version of the story, and we tell only a fraction of that version. And sometimes, even that will fail us.
Despite his literary brilliance, Dumas became a tragic symbol of young black men slain by police.
I hope the voices of people who haven’t necessarily had the words when they needed them can also be heard.
I grew up with food stamps, latchkeys, Lee jeans from an outlet, Campbell’s soup, three deadbeat dads, and a mother who wrote letters to a TV evangelist praying for a husband.
“When is disability humor appropriate and when isn’t it?”
Science is not now, nor has ever been, objective, fair, or inclusive.
“My parents are quietly crumbling, and their house is crumbling around them.”
Skating was for graceful girls, pretty girls. Girls with money. Not a girl like me.
On the day when two pink lines stared up at me, I wondered which set of events I had set in motion. A baby? Or not a baby?
I feel what I feel, and I cry in the shower with a beer, but the week before I turned thirty, I felt nothing.
This is where, for me, motherhood divided into ‘Before’ and ‘After.’
I try to use my master’s thesis as a way to find myself in women’s writing—the mystics, Flannery—but, ultimately, I fail.