It’s hard to articulate what it feels like to spend a lifetime being told that you are not allowed. Not always in so many words, but in gestures, in spaces, in thoughtlessness.
Perhaps the certainty that you are not the monster—that no matter what you do, you will never become the monster—is what gives rise to monstrous behavior.
Through myth-making and symbolism, the natural world comes to stand in for potent human ideals.
Black women have been killed for our beliefs for as long as Black people have been demanding the right to breathe.
His mother said to me, “French mothers can be wild. That one in particular is a monster.”
In my family, race itself did not exist. If I wanted to be real, I could not experience what was not real.
When your back is against the wall, dumping your loved ones in the president’s front yard can seem like the only rational response.
In my grief over my grandmother’s death, I derived solace from the idea that something could still be done to benefit her, that she hadn’t left us but was just in a different place.
Maybe Beardsley’s illustrations are divergent because he, like everybody else, couldn’t quite understand what Wilde was going for in the play.