Goodbye to All That Sex and the City
I couldn’t help but wonder: Of all the self-chroniclers I’d gone to like a moth in my early twenties, why were so few brown, and Black?
Brittany K. Allen is a Brooklyn-based writer, performer and library goblin. Her prose appears or is forthcoming in Catapult, McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, Kenyon Review Online, and Longreads, among other places, and her short fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her stage plays have been produced and developed at Portland Center Stage, Manhattan Theatre Club, Ensemble Studio Theatre, and elsewhere.
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To All the Messy Girls I’ve Loved Before
A white girl’s refusal to live by the dominant narrative gets to be glamorous, whereas I cannot imagine how a Black girl’s refusing the terms of society ever could be.
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I was a Black girl in the American suburbs, yet I believed The Beatles—and eventually, a dazzle of other white male musicians—were singing only for me. It wasn’t so.
In Defense of the Low Bar: An Ode to Everclear
Kurt Cobain would not approve, but privately I wondered if there wasn’t space for a beloved burnished thing in my new and improved pop pantheon.
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We’re told the Wicked Witch wants the ruby slippers because they have magic powers—but so does any material object once possessed and cherished by a deceased loved one.
In Discovering Perfume, I Discovered Who I Am
Before I transitioned, perfume was the only thing I felt safe to experiment with. It worked in the realm of the invisible, the as-yet-unsayable.
Being a Dad Means Respecting the Yard
Part of how I think about myself as a dad is how I take care of other people, but it’s also in how I care for the living world around me.