I like to think I can control my anger, but I usually end up burning my own life down instead.
A love letter to the only woman that stole my heart and snatched my scalp at the same damn time.
My journey to self-love through the influence of Whitney Houston’s life and music.
When the world feels dark, we have to find the light where we can and hold onto it. This is a story about a bright, shining spot of goodness: My Granny.
After I wrote “I Was Trained for the Culture Wars in Home School, Awaiting Someone Like Mike Pence as a Messiah,” readers had a lot of questions for me. While I’m working on follow up pieces, I wanted to answer some of the most common questions and provide some explanation.
“It’s one of the hardest things most of us, as a community, will ever have to do and has the capacity to irrevocably change our lives… for better or worse.”
To take back the country for Christ, we needed to outbreed, outvote and outactivate the other side, thus saith The Lord.
I choose her every minute of the day, and I will continue to choose her regardless of what the future brings. I choose her. For her, I will play the game and sign the papers, and ask the court to bless what we know is already true.
My vagina and I get along most of the time. We know our routines, the things each of us like (orgasms and panty-free nights) and the things we don’t (periods and hard fingering meant to be pleasure inducing) but occasionally one of us fails each other.
“For me, as a Black Trans Woman, to find her body not only as something worthy and magnificent (as it is), but to find someone to share that magick with, may very well be one of the only moments she has to enjoy a trying and very taxing life — one that’s always trying to kill her.”
“It became a running joke between my partners and I, that I was both too stigmatized and too famous to get my needs met.”
“I’m a Nice Person — I have one of those irrepressibly pleasant faces that makes people want to sit next to me on public transportation — but I can be nice and angry, I can be smart and angry, and I can be worth listening to and angry.”
Knowing I could take on a task and see it through, start to finish, reminds me that the same is true for my writing and my activism, too. I will literally start 2017 with my house in order — and the work I’ll do from there will be much better for it.
When the election results came in, it had already been a month since I gave up on trying to fix my own mental health issues. And so it turned out that the worst day of our generation collided with my own personal low.
“I get up off the floor, reach for a long, heavy leek and a cutting board and my favorite knife, its weight in my palm like an amulet. I feel like a stranger in my own life, but I have seven hours and eight dishes left. There is work to be done.”
I’m excited about my future. I’m a little nervous also, but I’m more excited than nervous, because just as the seasons change, our president will as well.
My problem with grief is its general shape. Grief is somehow both slippery and sharp, rolling over you with sadness then sneakily attacking your soft underbelly with its claws.
Then I made a friend from suburban, God-fearing Missouri. When she got married this past summer, you can bet that’s where the wedding was. So my first trip to the Heartland had arrived.
Maybe I’m not the best candidate to talk politics with strangers. But I couldn’t shake the feeling — the knowledge, really — that I’d copped out. Bailing on our first female President, of all people, because you’re scared? Nah, girl. I called the guy back, told him I could make it after all, held myself accountable on social media, and freaked out for ten minutes. But it was on. I was going.
What followed was absolute chaos. Pure, unadulterated terror. Those haunted house reaction pictures at the moment of surprise come to life. Girls were shoving each other out of the way but where we were running was unclear. Off the earth? Possibly.