From “Bad Art Friend” to the Miya Marcano murder to reports of femicide, writers shy away from a crucial word: stalking.
For Nigerians seeking therapy, two options exist: IRL and URL. Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu describes her experiences with both.
I was lost. Although I had never imagined myself as a mother at the time, I knew it couldn't happen the way it was going to. I was despondent and caught in a physically, emotionally and sexually abusive relationship. I didn't need a child. I needed help. During this terrible time, I experienced a clear realization that if I went forth with this pregnancy, my baby would suffer.
Raffy’s was the bodega directly across the street from our Brooklyn apartment, and up through high school, I was certain that it had everything I could ever need in life, from candy and laundry starch to the latest neighborhood gossip. Raffy’s was where, on a Saturday afternoon, I heard that the Guyanese girl in 4C got pregnant.
Each evil woman’s origin story is seemingly unique, but Maleficients and Medusas all too often begin as victims. These characters struggle to obey, to fit in, to be respected and taken seriously, though their efforts are for nought. Their foes point to some physical attribute, an aspect of their temperament, or a pariah status to justify keeping them down.
Nigerian President Buhari's banning of Twitter terrifies populace, disrupts activism, impacts the economy, and indicates a dangerous future. Disregard for such consequences is characteristic of Buhari's administration.
In this excerpt from Chris Rice’s hardboiled memoir, an artist dumps her boozehound bankrupt boyfriend, steals what is rightfully hers, herself, and retreats to Venice, California
I was embarrassed to admit I'd been sexually assaulted. It hadn’t really been anything, but it had been giving me nightmares, his lips forming the words, “Your mouth is saying no, but your body is saying yes.” I was someone who was very comfortable, very open, about her sexuality and having sex. Why would the way he acted make my skin crawl for so long after he did it?
After a gang unit stopped my 14 year old cousin for driving in a stolen hoopty, they took her to Eastlake Juvenile Hall and handed her over to a new abuser: a cop.
An older homegirl, a hood mom whom Desiree considered her mentor, announced, "I'm jumping you in."
As I settle into my pregnancy, I fantasize about the human I’m going to bring into the world. I picture a girl. Beautiful. Black. Freckled like her father. Myopic like me. When she is thirteen we will sit down and have the talk. Not about periods. Or boys. Or girls. Or bodies. Or pets. Or HBCUs. Or sex. But about getting a perm.
Myriam Gurba writes about her cousin Desiree, female gangsters, cholas, Mexican bad asses with big hair, and the criminalization of survivors.
When my uncle Claude eventually passes away, he'll leave behind an estate of remarkable wealth. He's the only one of my father's siblings that was able to retire before becoming eligible for AARP citizenship. It's remarkable for me to think that for most of my life I've known my uncle as a shady real estate investor rather than the cheerful supervisor at the Palo Alto Main Post Office.
A story of workplace abuse: “Saftey words are for Pussies!” read the misspelled Roy-Lichtenstein-does-BDSM faux pop art painting displayed in the office of the Anonymous Sex Toy Company. "Safe, Sane, and Consensual" was the company motto. None of the men running the company understood those slogans were incompatible.
In rock musician Michelle Zauner's memoir "Crying in H-Mart", food is not just a vessel to memorialize her mother but a touchstone for accessing her Korean heritage.