If Alice Walker once said “hard times require furious dancing,” then hard times call for reading poetry, particularly black poets. Follow zaynab’s journey in reconnecting with black poetry as a means of daily survival and understand why reading the work of black poets can enhance our collective understandings of what it means to cultivate and sustain resistance.
“I pushed and shoved and laughed and danced in big black shoes that would later bruise my feet, next to a girl who would later love me back.”
When I read poetry, including the Psalms, it messes with my alignment. It forces me to sit up straighter and recognize words and ideas that pluck at the sinewy parts of myself I ignore. I hope in these few weeks we can all try to read some things that scare us.
A cautionary tale.
“It is a matter of national survival that we never get used to the president’s hair.”
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.”