After a youth spent trying to ignore my Asian heritage, I came looking for it. My journey turned out to be the beginning of an excavation that continues to this day.
Those who spend their lives in bodies others deem unworthy grow accustomed to building our own self-worth.
I suspect that these shows, which characterize speed and hustle as natural elements of cooking, are part of the male professional kitchen’s effort to divorce their work from the feminine history of cooking.
The decline from mascbot into mere mascot is that which transmasculinity resists. And it is the challenge that “the Austin Powers type” encounters, too.
I wish I had been warned—not because it would have changed my mind about the procedure, but because I might have been more prepared.
Imagining the city rebuilt so that beavers can return is an exercise in humility.
I wanted to outrun the Nothing. And there was nothing I would not have sacrificed—friendships, relationships, the blood from the heel of my foot—to get it.
Critics say that Sandra Lee’s idea of cooking is nothing more than opening a can and having a cocktail. Here’s the thing: That’s true! But who cares?
Boxers hide. Jockstraps flaunt. Briefs titillate by the very shape they contour and convey.
Esther, you are a queen not because of your physical perfection, but because of the horror and rage you transformed it into.