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.
Tragic KingdomEnema of the State
So Much for the AfterglowSparkle and Fade
I am still living with your . . . ghost,
Don’t worry, that’s just my heroPlus, I'm pretty sure if he met me in real life, we’d fall in love.
You do what they tell you to do/you say what they say/you try to be everything to everyoneI will never be safe, I will never be sane, I will always be weird inside, I will always be lame.was
wrongwrong“it wasn’t easy for me to be a scared white boy in a black neighborhood.”
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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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?
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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.
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Suddenly, miraculously, it was no longer dismay that I felt. It was freedom. It was Death doffing its blackness and revealing itself to me as life.
Listening to Fall Out Boy on the Brink of Collapse
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What Tina Turner Taught Me
In a theater, I am freed by the voices that shake the rafters, the dancing, the lights, and the colors. Musicals are my form of catharsis.