Savage Pageant is a profound work of care that insists on our becoming involved in the face of historic and continued harm—because, in fact, there is no way to extricate ourselves.
Yearly Archives: 2020
In this journey, Nye demands the reader pay attention to Gaza, understand life from a Palestinian perspective, and join her in witness.
Ultimately, like a magic eye puzzle, the fullness of Ntshanga’s accomplishment only comes into focus if we allow our suspicious attention to go a bit slack. The harder we look, the less we know for sure. We can only carve a space around what it is and find joy and pleasure in seeing how the image shifts into and out of focus, knowing that it will disappear as soon as the delicate balance is lost.
“I don’t know if “I begin with love” means he was conceived in love or means that it is his starting point in life or this is his treatise on the meaning of life. I don’t care. It’s all good to me. I want to be with a person who says that.”
by Becky Tuch The first phone call came on a Wednesday evening. The guidance counselor at Michael’s school. Disturbed, he said he was, by some of Michael’s recent in-school behavior. He referred to Michael as your son and then, moments … Continued
doan’s work opens up new possibilities for living as an autonomous body unoccupied and undefined by a series of historical and violent circumstances. She provides a hidden stairwell out—guidelines for how to dwell within that conflicted space of the diaspora, and how language temporarily relieves us of its strain.
After nearly thirty years of rage, laughter, and a whole lot of narcotics, Welsh finally seems ready to lay his friends to rest.
In Though I Get Home, pluralities of identity go beyond human comprehension: does it have to do with the country where you were born? The place where you live? Where you work? Or is there something deeper?
by ANNE HOSANSKY “My father jumped out of a window.” Those were the first words I heard from her. We were standing in the schoolyard when she said that. She was a new girl in my class, kind of funny-looking, … Continued
by Emry Trantham I still hold my breath going through the dark of a tunnel, through a mountain somebody’s granddaddy blasted hollow so as to make space for this black and yellow asphalt trail. The dark in the bowel of … Continued