Preface: I was born in Los Angeles, California. I lived in southern California for the majority of my formative years, until I was 9 years old and moved to Phoenix, Arizona. My only experiences before moving to Colorado were in very large super-cities filled with some degree of diversity, swap meets and bacon-wrapped hot dogs. …I think I just invented the term “super-city.”
I care about women, but lately I feel like expressing and acting like I care about women is tantamount to a criminal offense. I don’t know how many times I have been in the middle of a friendly conversation at a party or a bar, only to have to have it come to a complete halt. The otherwise agreeable person I’m speaking to will completely turn on me as soon as I utter the word feminist. It’s as if I’ve suddenly sprouted a third, viciously annoying head that needs to be put in its place. Every word I say from that moment forward is being searched for some kind of chink in my feminist armor, some way to trip me up and expose me as the man-hater I am.
I am awake. I can hear fluorescent lights humming above me. Even if I did have the energy to open my eyes – which I don’t – they would burn from how bright it is in this tiny little room. So I keep them closed. My roommates whisper softly about me in the corner. They are discussing which of them should stay here and which should let my boss know I won’t be coming in for the next two weeks. I shift slightly and feel the hospital-issued barf bag crumple next to me. The movement releases the smell of my stomach bile, which is the astonishing color of a green highlighter. Continue reading “lessons hospital rooms have taught me”
I make it a point to seek out all of the most strange, interesting and delightful things you can find on dear old tumblr. That’s kind of the only reason I have one, which is why I was immediately enthralled when the sculptures of Argentinian artist Camila Valdez popped up on my dashboard. Amidst funky street style photos of “black fashion” and things like this, it was still hard to miss a pair of voluptuous legs popping out from a teacup/a decadent doughnut/a bag of fluffy popcorn.
Dr. Hermon George, Jr. sits in a plastic chair near the front corner of a small classroom, respectfully waiting his turn to speak. Impeccably dressed in a sharp suit and tie, he completes his look with a white beret. He does not give off the air of someone who waits often; George exudes the quiet confidence of a man who makes it his habit to enrapture audiences with eloquent speech, but for tonight he will wait as the first act finishes up: a recording of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s eminent “I Have A Dream” speech.
I am a feminist, and I like it when a guy pays on the first date. In fact, I sort of expect it.
The reason I’m starting out with this (literally) bold statement is that I’ve seen a few things on my twitter timeline lately that have left me in contemplation. Statements to the effect of “If I can’t afford to pay for myself on a first date, then I just won’t go” and “As a feminist, I find it archaic to expect a guy to pay on the first date.” It’s not a sentiment that I agree with right off the bat, and it’s gotten me to thinking…
What is considered acceptable ettiquete in the modern world of dating?
As Ramadan begins, more than 100 hunger-strikers in Guantánamo Bay continue their protest. More than 40 of them are being force-fed. A leaked document sets out the military instructions, or standard operating procedure, for force-feeding detainees. In this four-minute film made by Human Rights organisation Reprieve and Bafta award-winning director Asif Kapadia, US actor and rapper Yasiin Bey (formerly known as Mos Def), experiences the procedure.
I have recently aligned myself with what has been dubbed the “natural hair movement.” My use of quotation marks denotes the general confusion and haziness that surround the words natural and movement.
In December 2012, I got rid of most of the heat-damaged hair on my head by doing my own big chop with the help of multiple youtube videos. Since then, I’ve been enjoying the fruits of my curly girl labor sans heat damage.
But last week, something happened….I got an itch to straighten.
I read through the March issue of Vogue the other day. It’s the power issue, and Beyoncé was on the cover. Dang! I just love that woman. In terms of performance skill alone, it is my opinion that she is an unmatched and holy creation. But I digress…Back to Vogue. There was a feature on Diablo Cody, which I really liked. In it, the stripper-turned-screenwriter jokes that she is “clinging to her youth” and uses a tattoo she has as an example of this inability to grow up. That tattoo was of a cookie, so I don’t think it was the author’s intention to imply anything here, but it got me to thinking about the way people view tattoos and piercings as some kind of rebellion reserved only for youth.