The Trans Body as a Work of Art
Burlesque is my loving manifestation of what all my ancestors deserved—not simply tolerance, but unbridled celebration.
Burlesque is my loving manifestation of what all my ancestors deserved—not simply tolerance, but unbridled celebration.
In New York, I make malai curry with everything but prawns.
I decided to start sitting with my grief because why not. It’s not like I think this will help, but it’s something to do.
Here’s what I remember: a wooden bowl. My father’s silver hair under the spotlit kitchen island. Hands busy mashing yolk and rind; the squeeze of a tube of anchovy paste, the clinks of spoon to jarred garlic.
“Siri, can you please lock me out of Twitter?”
When the sound of a scream leaves my throat, it is a choice. I am never accidentally screaming. I scream in the car and it is on purpose.
Even years after we graduated high school or left our hometown or eschewed processed snack foods, we couldn’t deny the evidence of our former appetites, each of our fingers a flapping red flag.
I’m hungry to throw a dinner party. For now, there’s this. DINNER PARTY—a series of micro essays on food.
Science fiction taught me that any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic. In the kitchen, my girlfriend is a witch.
How do we find dignity in our bodies after it has been taken from us by an abusive partner?
When I tell people that I wrote myself a sexual body, I don’t know if they believe me. But our bodies are stories as much as they’re anything else.
An exploration of summer, desire, and the senses through the lens of tarot and trans womanhood.
My summer hookup with a rich businesswoman in Japan gave me something more valuable than even the room service wagyu steak.
Society painted me as a burden, and undeserving of autonomy. I have taken that paintbrush and created a beautiful life where being disabled isn’t a bad thing.
Body fat is central to how we perceive gender. So what does that mean if you’re a trans person?
As these queer and trans bodies took up space on my walls, my queer and trans body felt free to take up space in the home itself.
Because the thing is, of course, that my feelings about all the accessibility stuff aren’t really about the stuff at all; my feelings are about the disabilities themselves.
After the song’s gentle teasing passes, Patti exclaims, “it’s me,” the somebody who loves you. I think of the women I have loved, despite the ways we have hurt each other.
There’s a reason it has been my pinned tweet since 2016 — It’s my origin story.
On putting the safe decorations in the closet and letting my home reach its full gay potential. On taking up space in my own space.