Gay districts are safer, more open and more profitable than ever before, but for whom?
“Not being an asshole” to myself meant admitting that my mom’s death and her illness permeate every single part of my being, and always will.
“When I’m worrying about how to teach without coming off as a bitch because I expect students to be quiet when I’m talking, I’m not thinking as much as I should be about whether my students are really learning.”
People would look surprised and say, “But…you can’t be a girl. You’re a blacksmith!”
Accepting ambiguity feels like being welcomed home.
What do you do when the world gives you a mandatory day off, when nothing is open except Chinese restaurants and movie theatres?
One of the first things my mother’s boyfriend noticed upon waking up Thanksgiving Day was that all of the rooms were named after prominent confederate soldiers.
We told some really incredible stories this year and you won’t want to miss a thing.
See, home isn’t for people like me — it is not for lesbians, or queers. I cannot return to a country that criminalizes and attempts to further oppress my personhood. One that publicly accepts psychological assaults on my being, while leaving no legal safeties or recourse for its state sanctioned actions.
I didn’t always hate Christmas.
“I could feel the power that came from being butch, the paradox of growing up a girl and then becoming the suited partner of a beautiful woman, the torture of being such a social outcast, and the deep craving hunger for being accepted.”
Ridesharing apps like Uber and Lyft are a great idea in theory, but in actuality they’re quite dangerous — for the passenger and the driver. I should know; I’ve been both.
“Farm work was everything my depressive body was screaming against: sunlight, physical activity, and tiny symbols of the fragility of life all around that I couldn’t remember how to value.”
“Who are these men noticing me? Who are these men giving me the long, soft stare, eyes holding mine like they got something for me, something they can’t talk about, something only eyes can pass along. Who are these men whispering ‘hi, papi’ to me? I don’t think I look more male today than I did yesterday.”
“Book of Life” posits that my father is in a place more vivid than memory, which is is just a medium between the man who raised me and the man who waits for me in a place beyond time.
“Delilah takes up mansion-sized space in your head. She bought property the first time you kiss in Adams Park.”
“I didn’t know much about gardens, in general, but what I was working with seemed less like the married person’s vegetable patch the church described and more like a Narnian wonderland full of infinite magical possibility.”
“We have to show them we want them to live. We need to advocate and fight for justice and for resources and for safety for our youth.”
“That instinct, to lie or protect the men who abuse us, is hard to explain. It comes from being afraid of the person who is abusing you, of course, but also afraid for the changes that honesty will force. We don’t want to endanger the men who hurt us, because we love them and we don’t think we can live without them… If anything, my identification as a feminist made the idea of disclosing the abuse even more difficult, because I thought it was something I was letting happen to me and it embarrassed me.”
“In fact, the strain of hiding my illness would likely have caused me to break down with even more frequency. How would she have coped with those dysphoric, hallucination-ridden breakdowns — and how would I have dealt with her uneducated reactions?”