The more I wrote about women, the more distanced I felt from the figure I saw in the mirror.
It’s not my job to absorb every feeling a man has. In my classroom, I am the one who decides whose feelings get airtime, and how they are shared.
Others began to intrude in what had once been a mom-and-pop operation. The conversion from hobby to profession had been made.
There will always be liars in the focus group, but Fred was never one of them.
It’s happened for the past three days now. A three-day streak definitely qualifies it as A capitalized Thing.
As a black man in the field of social work, my dad was, as a white female coworker of his once put it, “like a fly in buttermilk.”
After I left, everything became clearer, in the way that a breakup can clarify a toxic relationship; put things in sharp relief.
When we conflate men’s sexuality with harassment and violence, we don’t ask much of them. Masculinity doesn’t have to be toxic.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what I would do if something went wrong. If I made a mistake, my son and I might go back to being homeless.
I wish I could tell my dad that I worked to recreate the newsroom. That people still think newspaper stories—and stories about newspapers—are worth telling.
“So many of us professional food people struggle with eating and body issues. We’re drawn in.”
“Some of these horses have also been rescued from floodwaters. They too are in a strange place, and deeply alone.”
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