For Catapult, I wrote about our mothers, the terrible marriages they are in and the things they tell us bout surviving those marriages. “I wondered if part of surviving your husband’s betrayal is assuming that of all the women, you had to have been the smartest; you had to have been the one he was most honest with when it came to money; that you’re … Continue reading Do not marry a politician and other kitchen table things.
There is a tiny little matter called bodily autonomy: the idea that your body belongs to you and you can do with it whatever you want. It also means that you get to decide what is done and isn’t done to your body. It’s why you can’t be forced to donate blood or an organ; it’s why dead people are buried with organs that could be useful to people languishing in hospitals; they did not consent to have their organs donated. We get that, right? So how come we don’t get that the choice to abort, or not, should entirely be a woman’s; that the only way the government and other people should be involved in this, is if they are providing legislation that makes safe abortions every woman’s right and minding their business respectively. Continue reading Yellow.
And then Drake’s Hotline Bling happened and I was done. That song destroyed the goodwill I still had left for hip-hop in me. Because on the surface it’s a sad, albeit catchy, song about heartbreak, but then you think about it and it’s the kind of subtle misogyny that makes you want to crawl up in a fetal position and weep for days. Continue reading Drake honey, your misogyny is showing.
This book excites me. One of the tenets of my feminism is women unlearning the shame associated with our sexuality: women enthusiastically initiating sex; women exploring their bodies, finding their erogenous zones; women openly talking about sex; women explicitly stating how they want to be pleasured. This is important if we’re to end rape culture. Because when sex is constantly framed as something that is done to women, rape is inevitably viewed as some version of sex. When women can unashamedly say yes to sex, then maybe society will understand that no doesn’t mean “convince me.” Continue reading Season of Crimson Blossoms: A commentary.
You grow and change but some things stay constant. My writing still is for people who’ve felt invisible at some point but more than anything I want it to be obvious that for me, that demographic is black women. Man, it’s mad how aware my nineteen year old self was. This excerpt is a smack in the face, proof of how powerful my subconscious is. I may have figured out which group of people I want represented in my writing, but my sexuality has freshly become a riddle I’m extremely hesitant to solve. Because when I said queer, I thought I meant weird. But now, I am not so sure.
I am essentially a womanist, and if we’re being specific, an afro-feminist. My feminism is about and for African and black women. I still do however identify as a feminist which is a lot broader. This is probably because African and black men keep trying it and even though white women (and white feminism) are problematic, It’s sometimes a lot easier to identify and empathize … Continue reading Women: but my privilege…
Trigger Warning: this post contains content and links to content on sexual violence from sexual harassment to rape, subtle and overt. A while ago, being unable to write the sequel to I’m not quite sure, you will ask guys to comment/ send you emails of the first time they wanted to know if he fucks the way he talks. Your friend (God bless her) concerned, texted … Continue reading Meh…
“If you’ve ever tied to put your finger up a straight guy’s ass during sex, you’ll know that they actually understand ongoing consent, withdrawal of consent and sexual boundaries very well. They act confused when it’s our bodies.” –@Neo_url(twitter) I know guys. That was one hell of a starter. As you may have gleaned, this post is about the infantilization of men especially in the … Continue reading Infantilization of men.
I lie prostrate on my bed, my whole body engrossed in the act of waiting. Idle hands trace patterns on my quilt while listening in to the conversation going on in the living room. My room is dark and quiet. I try to pace my stuttered breathing with the ticking of the hands of the alarm clock on my bedside table. A memory replays in … Continue reading Dad, the misnomer
Read part 1 here. Now obviously, I couldn’t get pregnant just by looking at him. For the most part, this is hyperbole, but it still does remain a kind of reality for me. In the innocent, less plagued by darkness parts of mind, I believe this irrational conviction. Sometime last year, I was binge-watching The Daily Show. Trevor Noah was doing a bit about the … Continue reading “I just want to know if he fucks the way he talks.”