I felt sure my grandmother’s stories, her faith in marriage, had no bearing on my life plan.
While I understood why theft or murder was wrong, this aspect didn’t make sense to me. What did sex and my body have to do with God?
This was overwhelmingly the tone epidural advice was given to me with—‘Sure, it works, but do you really need it?’
In this three-installment column, Chloe Caldwell and her 12-month essay generator students write about their daily life during the Covid-19 crisis
Drawing is a skill like reading, like writing, which can be learned by anyone regardless of talent. It is a mental discipline.
“Sexy Results” was my go-to walking anthem. If I was a baseball player, this would have been my entrance song.
It was a corny, educational joy, as if Bill Nye and Monty Python had teamed up to teach America how to cook.
I was a Black girl in the American suburbs, yet I believed The Beatles—and eventually, a dazzle of other white male musicians—were singing only for me. It wasn’t so.
It is not enough to be pretty. It is not enough to be obedient, or deferential, or useful. Being not a problem is not enough for a person to live on.
I could live inauthentically if it meant I could live with him. But my body kept betraying me with panic, and of course he noticed.