An Oral History of New York’s Arab and Muslim Community After 9/11
Feminist organizers and writers reflect about what we have learned from one another about care, community, and survival in continuing to build solidarities towards collective liberation
And finally smashing the eggshells after 35 years on my tiptoes
The looming threat of yet another mass expulsion of Palestinians from their homeland is ever present, especially today.
It didn’t bother him that he attracted, and was attracted to, people of the same gender—all of this felt perfectly natural to him.
We reveled in the way our unlikely friendships disturbed the world around us. In each other’s bodies, we found joy and brotherhood.
I drive two hours to grieve a person I have never met, and my grief is a country without borders.
Discourses of compliance and metrics foreclose collective possibilities in reimagining approaches to justice and equity that are organized in care and love
What got you through those first few months of COVID? What comes to mind when I say, “body?” How will you live now?
You want more than the count of their lives lost
Women like my mother don’t post their lives online. Often, their stories remain untold and undocumented.
On Kikuko Tsumura’s There’s No Such Thing as an Easy Job and the path beyond workplace burnout
The concrete tetrapods tempered the waves, and the space between them made room for love between boys.
On the “impossible archive,” the historical and future queer imaginary of a “lesbian cultural archive” and Grandma’s Girlfriends 阿媽的女朋友
An Introduction
The better half of her four decades of life were marked by the ebbs and flows of relapse and remission, either sick, or about to be. Remission is life with an asterisk; conditional.
What can we do to stop hate and protect our communities?
Remember that time I asked for your opinion on my hijab? Oh right, never happened.
The morning I was hit by a bicycle was the last time Ma asked me to do an errand before she left us to work in another country.
I’d see the soft outline of a couch or get a whiff of coffee roasting in machines, and it was like I was smelling diesel, blood mixed with dust. The bees would start to buzz frantically then, and the noise was deafening.
Feminist organizers and writers reflect about what we have learned from one another about care, community, and survival in continuing to build solidarities towards collective liberation
Women like my mother don’t post their lives online. Often, their stories remain untold and undocumented.
On Kikuko Tsumura’s There’s No Such Thing as an Easy Job and the path beyond workplace burnout
And finally smashing the eggshells after 35 years on my tiptoes
The concrete tetrapods tempered the waves, and the space between them made room for love between boys.
The looming threat of yet another mass expulsion of Palestinians from their homeland is ever present, especially today.
On the “impossible archive,” the historical and future queer imaginary of a “lesbian cultural archive” and Grandma’s Girlfriends 阿媽的女朋友
It didn’t bother him that he attracted, and was attracted to, people of the same gender—all of this felt perfectly natural to him.
An Introduction
We reveled in the way our unlikely friendships disturbed the world around us. In each other’s bodies, we found joy and brotherhood.
The better half of her four decades of life were marked by the ebbs and flows of relapse and remission, either sick, or about to be. Remission is life with an asterisk; conditional.
I drive two hours to grieve a person I have never met, and my grief is a country without borders.
What can we do to stop hate and protect our communities?
Discourses of compliance and metrics foreclose collective possibilities in reimagining approaches to justice and equity that are organized in care and love
Remember that time I asked for your opinion on my hijab? Oh right, never happened.
What got you through those first few months of COVID? What comes to mind when I say, “body?” How will you live now?
The morning I was hit by a bicycle was the last time Ma asked me to do an errand before she left us to work in another country.
You want more than the count of their lives lost
I’d see the soft outline of a couch or get a whiff of coffee roasting in machines, and it was like I was smelling diesel, blood mixed with dust. The bees would start to buzz frantically then, and the noise was deafening.