My mom’s side of the family came to the U.S. from Cuba as refugees fleeing the Communist Revolution. My dad’s side of the family is of the Midwestern variety that doesn’t believe in feelings, sickness, or anything that might be perceived as a weakness.
The machinations of oppression operated on such a small scale in the psych ward that their latent manifestations were immediate and apparent. There was no place to hide from the vagaries of that tiny world.
“We had to approach the organizers of the Women’s March because they hadn’t reached out to the disabled community at all,” she told us. “Mia Ives-Rublee, the founder of the Disability Caucus, moved mountains to make this all happen."
Authors may be but human, but they’ve always seemed like prophets to me. That faith ties into my deep belief that stories shape reality. The examples we grow up with, lived or imagined, define our expectations for the future.
The rhetoric of smol is the rhetoric of stealth empowerment. Even as I am bemused by this tendency to scale male celebrities down so they fit in a cotton ball-padded to-go cup, I am delighted by what I perceive to be the result of this shrinking.
The campaigns lobbying electors to stop Donald Trump lacked historical precedent — but millions of Americans embraced these efforts to combat such a dire threat. So why exactly did they fail so spectacularly?
Increasingly, I find myself retreating from friendships with men as an act of self-care. Despite the fact that they’re all generally pro-feminist, the divide of emotional labor in the relationship is always tainted by gender inequality.
My mother was widely acknowledged to be both extremely intelligent and very beautiful. It was generally agreed but always unspoken that I trailed behind her in the first category, and failed completely in the second.