“The work of journalism is bound up in paying attention and noticing things. That’s kind of how I go through the world, with an antenna up for the unexpected, the beautiful, or the moving.”
In that moment who was to say what belonged to me—Munir’s mouth, my luminous skin color, a setting sun, the shady place we were in, I could never tell anyone.
Writers of the Bangladeshi diaspora reflect on liberation and identity.
On making critical connections to the long legacies of intraracial and cross-racial Black and Asian American lesbian organizing and community building.
Anahita’s head weighs 10 kilograms. Her hand, extended forward yet / disconnected from the bust, holds a fragment of drapery.
They say singing makes them recall the peaceful time in Arakan, that once upon a time, they used to sing these folksongs freely and proudly
He was nice to my father and his siblings. But still…
When you are a descendant of indenture, even the violence of the colonial archive presents the seduction of finding.
거울로 들어가는 문을 찾지 못해 / 내게는 오늘의 밤이 계속된다 | Since I / can’t find the door, the night ceases to end
Sudah hampir sepuluh tahun Ambe terbaring di sumbung | Ambe has been lying on top of the casket for almost ten years now
REPEAT: you stay up memorizing all the twists and turns of a ‘proper’ / enunciation and still your tongue fails you the morning after, syllables / flopping in your mouth like a dead fish, cleaved in shame.
“As a writer, as someone who reveals their innermost selves linguistically, it’s lonely not to speak the same language as your parents.”
Your mother always told you stories as she oiled your hair: of her youth, legends and fables, immigration, your father’s business ventures.
The investigative journalist and author of the true-crime book The Good Girls in an interview about honor, caste, and patriarchy in India.
Her grandma had once asked her how you could tell the difference between something that had disappeared and something that had escaped
Kutenun seikat mimpi / dari telapak pemigi | I weave a bundle of dreams / from the palm of the pemigi loom
And who could forget / when he declared he was going to marry himself, /showing up to Barnes and Noble in a wedding dress
និស្វាសវាត / អស្សាសវាត / បស្សាសនៃ / ខ្យល់ចេញមិនចូល | In, out, held – / so goes the breath. / Winds leave but no longer come
Like if we shared any of the same interests I could tell him how I recently learned that Kubrick in his younger days used to wander around New York City and play chess in parks
In that moment who was to say what belonged to me—Munir’s mouth, my luminous skin color, a setting sun, the shady place we were in, I could never tell anyone.
REPEAT: you stay up memorizing all the twists and turns of a ‘proper’ / enunciation and still your tongue fails you the morning after, syllables / flopping in your mouth like a dead fish, cleaved in shame.
“As a writer, as someone who reveals their innermost selves linguistically, it’s lonely not to speak the same language as your parents.”
Writers of the Bangladeshi diaspora reflect on liberation and identity.
Your mother always told you stories as she oiled your hair: of her youth, legends and fables, immigration, your father’s business ventures.
On making critical connections to the long legacies of intraracial and cross-racial Black and Asian American lesbian organizing and community building.
Anahita’s head weighs 10 kilograms. Her hand, extended forward yet / disconnected from the bust, holds a fragment of drapery.
The investigative journalist and author of the true-crime book The Good Girls in an interview about honor, caste, and patriarchy in India.
They say singing makes them recall the peaceful time in Arakan, that once upon a time, they used to sing these folksongs freely and proudly
Her grandma had once asked her how you could tell the difference between something that had disappeared and something that had escaped
He was nice to my father and his siblings. But still…
Kutenun seikat mimpi / dari telapak pemigi | I weave a bundle of dreams / from the palm of the pemigi loom
When you are a descendant of indenture, even the violence of the colonial archive presents the seduction of finding.
And who could forget / when he declared he was going to marry himself, /showing up to Barnes and Noble in a wedding dress
거울로 들어가는 문을 찾지 못해 / 내게는 오늘의 밤이 계속된다 | Since I / can’t find the door, the night ceases to end
និស្វាសវាត / អស្សាសវាត / បស្សាសនៃ / ខ្យល់ចេញមិនចូល | In, out, held – / so goes the breath. / Winds leave but no longer come
Sudah hampir sepuluh tahun Ambe terbaring di sumbung | Ambe has been lying on top of the casket for almost ten years now
Like if we shared any of the same interests I could tell him how I recently learned that Kubrick in his younger days used to wander around New York City and play chess in parks