Why care so much for someone who hasn’t done the same for you? As a feminist offering to the project of abolition, Saidiya Hartman reflects, “Care is the antidote to violence.”
One day the woman wakes up and she can’t say exactly what it is that’s changed, only that she knows it all has.
They thought me the oddity, though they were the ones depriving themselves of air. I watched them with the same curiosity that they watched me. How? And why?
People talk about the dead sometimes having unfinished business with the living, but my case was the opposite.
Since the new government promised land reform, the have-nots in your father’s village buckled over with joy, while the landed were bewildered
There was a time, Abu says, before your great-grandmother, when water was blue because it was a bruise, when it could feel our hands like the skin of a fruit.
That spring my wife covered the walls of our living room in newsprint.
Creativity, as it turns out, is especially hard when your brain is in survival mode.
You spoke through the impossible and you teach us once more how a story, through a faithful, stubborn kind of continuation, can be like a collective strength.
He collected the past in amber, often describing war memorials as beautiful. He called himself a gardener.
The white Liang mansion was melting viscously into the white mist, leaving only the greenish gleam of the lamplight shining through square after square of the green windowpanes, like ice cubes in peppermint schnapps.
These days I’ve grown tired of my heart, how much feeling it has required, and would much prefer to laugh.
In the shelter of our happiness, his shell shone brighter and brighter until one day, it split open and crumbled into dust to reveal a baby, golden skinned and blinking up at me.
She was a prisoner in this home, where death and decay had collected like a fog.
Sometimes she grew so nervous that she had to sit in her room for hours until her hands stopped trembling. She wondered if her daughters ever thought about her.
She should moisturize more often, drink at least three liters of hot water with lemon each day, and wear silicon sheet masks to bed to hide the stigmata of a woman who was everything.
And though I knew it was someone’s son, I unburied the rooster in the dark and kick-started a fire and roasted it on a spit, my fingers lamping with grease.
The sunflowers fall, right along with their mason jar, in the middle of the night. Their heads too gloriously full of early July. How they seem to know everything, except the virus.
“The girl didn’t want a new life; she wanted her old comfortable life, though it was as worn out as her pajamas.”
One day the woman wakes up and she can’t say exactly what it is that’s changed, only that she knows it all has.
The white Liang mansion was melting viscously into the white mist, leaving only the greenish gleam of the lamplight shining through square after square of the green windowpanes, like ice cubes in peppermint schnapps.
They thought me the oddity, though they were the ones depriving themselves of air. I watched them with the same curiosity that they watched me. How? And why?
These days I’ve grown tired of my heart, how much feeling it has required, and would much prefer to laugh.
People talk about the dead sometimes having unfinished business with the living, but my case was the opposite.
In the shelter of our happiness, his shell shone brighter and brighter until one day, it split open and crumbled into dust to reveal a baby, golden skinned and blinking up at me.
Since the new government promised land reform, the have-nots in your father’s village buckled over with joy, while the landed were bewildered
She was a prisoner in this home, where death and decay had collected like a fog.
There was a time, Abu says, before your great-grandmother, when water was blue because it was a bruise, when it could feel our hands like the skin of a fruit.
Sometimes she grew so nervous that she had to sit in her room for hours until her hands stopped trembling. She wondered if her daughters ever thought about her.
That spring my wife covered the walls of our living room in newsprint.
She should moisturize more often, drink at least three liters of hot water with lemon each day, and wear silicon sheet masks to bed to hide the stigmata of a woman who was everything.
Creativity, as it turns out, is especially hard when your brain is in survival mode.
And though I knew it was someone’s son, I unburied the rooster in the dark and kick-started a fire and roasted it on a spit, my fingers lamping with grease.
You spoke through the impossible and you teach us once more how a story, through a faithful, stubborn kind of continuation, can be like a collective strength.
The sunflowers fall, right along with their mason jar, in the middle of the night. Their heads too gloriously full of early July. How they seem to know everything, except the virus.
He collected the past in amber, often describing war memorials as beautiful. He called himself a gardener.
“The girl didn’t want a new life; she wanted her old comfortable life, though it was as worn out as her pajamas.”