With sadness, humor, and wit, trans writer féi hernandez pens a love letter to herself.
I think of my abuelita's stories. These tales often began with a declaration that she’d been born four months after the Titanic set sail. With a laugh, she’d swirl her ever present cup of coffee and add that the ship sank five days later. Meanwhile, she persevered. She said that it was coffee that kept her going.
Every time we’ve passed this shop, regardless of direction, this particular rockabilly is stepping out for a smoke. The rockabillies are calming. Their vintage etiquette is so precisely mannered that I know I can rely on them for consistency.
Do catcalls produce gender? Is skateboarding a gender? Arielle Burgdorf explores skateboarding, catcalls, masculinity, femininity, and the gender constellation.
“African” and “American” do not define me. The words “African” and “American” seemed to be at war with one another. When I became a teenager, I started referring to myself as Black. Not African American, not Black American, just Black. To be Black is to be my own creation.
Sex in the time of coronavirus: A gay man reflects on the dangers of touch past and the dangers of touch present.
It will entail secret rooms, padlocked trunks, maternal brutishness, and leather cuffs about the wrists and ankles. It will be psychotic. It is called love. A survey of films where women curiously love other women in lieu of their own mothers.