Posts in Personal Essay
Horror Vacui

[Image description: photograph of a Hong Kong high-rise building with a dark glass façade and balconies of different colours at seemingly random intervals. There is a smaller, pale high-rise building to the right of the larger one. Late evening sun washes the sky above.]

They get one day off at work, usually Sundays (although I saw them every day) and since they don’t have money to spend it in restaurants and cafes and they obviously do not want to be (or can’t be) inside their bosses’ houses, they spend their days outside, in makeshift public living rooms.

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Still Standing: Celebrating Pride When You Don’t Feel Like It

[Image Description: An abstract painting of red, orange, yellow, blue green, indigo, and fuschia stripes blended together]

Pride isn’t always a festive occasion for everyone, as we commemorate what the LGBTQIA community has endured and survived in past years. Tiffany Babb writes about the complex emotions that arise when we don’t feel celebratory during this month of rainbows and sparkles.

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Unrelatable Content

[Image description: black and white photograph of a row of vanity bulbs. There is a very faint image of a face looking straight at the camera layered over the shot, like a weak double exposure.]

It is a performance not only of the humor in mundanity, but also of our pain. Sharing pain in a way that is both honest enough to feel cathartic while still digestible to your smaller viewership. Real enough.

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Conditional Love

[Image description: photograph of a patch of dried grass on fire. The bottom of the image shows untouched dried grass, the center is aflame, and the burnt grass at the top of the image is partially obscured by pale smoke.]

Another year of abuse of power and atrocities - of the value of marginalized people shown to be disposable. Of agendas made of lies told by a tiny group of men deciding the outcome high above our heads.

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A Survivor’s Guide To Surviving Surviving

[Image description: photograph of a bright red flower blooming on a charred tree.]

I forced myself to admit that, while things were irreparable, I was still holding on. That I was staying even though I should leave, because I believed her when she said no one else would love me.

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My International Identity: French School In Tunisia

[Image description: close photograph of sequins inside a kaleidoscope; overlapping circles of blurry, brightly-coloured light.]

I devoured Arabic books, one after another, with a certain pride and a sense a victory. For me, reading Arabic books was another way of saying, “nah, you’re not going to kill my identity and force me to adopt your stupid European one!”

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