Mrs. Fletcher is entirely directed by women and it’s all about sex. More specifically it’s about who’s historically been entitled to sex, how it feels to historically be denied sexual expression, and the difficulties of navigating sexual discovery. Especially if you’re as horny as every single character on this show.
Both Marge and Madeline chose to find family within each other, and from there I understood, as I heard these stories from Marge after my grandmother had died, and then from my mother after Marge had gone, that such a thing could be done.
What, were you expecting the National Anthem to be sung in Spanish?
“I have enough of my own grief, I don’t need yours, too.”
If the idea of having children as queer women is a fraught and complicated topic, Good Manners opens itself up to the mess.
While I really love the feeling of being transported to a new time and place, like when I’m reading a good book, what really got me misty-eyed about this festival was how inclusive of all weirdness it was.
I wanted to be whole, pure, the person I was supposed to be. I wanted to be good enough that my sexuality wouldn’t matter.
Part-poem, part heartfelt plea, this letter proves I have always been a bad liar.
Is it not a gay badge of honor to be tired and sad and drained and to still exist?
For this piece, I talked to some trans women about their names and their experiences changing them legally (or choosing not to), as well as a couple of the incredible organizations attempting the make the process more accessible to all of us.
Having settled into sweet solitary contentment, I wasn’t looking for love. It found me anyway. Meeting an old friend, I was struck by Cupid’s arrow when I realized she was single.
“Do you have something to tell us?” my mom joked. It was a joke, because of course I didn’t. “No,” I said with a laugh. And I thought I was telling the truth.
Mozzarella sticks, above all else, are meant to be shared.
She is living her best life. I am living mine. It is as though we released each other.
You have to know when to end things, and you have to follow through with it.
Watching them sweat from my spa on the sidelines, I’d thank my body. On the one hand, so humiliating; on the other, its own defense mechanism against the wretchedness of exercise.
The more I allowed myself to want, the more I realized I wanted. The more I leaned in to my desires, the clearer they became.
I got sober alone, in a village about an hour north of Kampala, Uganda. I had moved there for a job opportunity, naively confident I, as an openly queer person with a mental illness, could flit across the globe like a moth. By the time I quit my job and scheduled an emergency move back to the United States, my drinking was threatening my life.
Listening to a song your crush recommends is a low-stakes window into their identity. It’s a way to get closer to someone, away from them. And isn’t that what a crush is all about? A solitary experience that has everything to do with the other person and at the same time nothing at all?
When everything starts moving too fast, I like to walk on bridges.