There will always be liars in the focus group, but Fred was never one of them.
It’s happened for the past three days now. A three-day streak definitely qualifies it as A capitalized Thing.
As a black man in the field of social work, my dad was, as a white female coworker of his once put it, “like a fly in buttermilk.”
After I left, everything became clearer, in the way that a breakup can clarify a toxic relationship; put things in sharp relief.
“I take these photographs so she’ll be able to remember the time when she had two heartbeats. Tears bucket down her face.”
Dance is about freeing ourselves, finding a secret space inside our bodies that no lock can close.
When we conflate men’s sexuality with harassment and violence, we don’t ask much of them. Masculinity doesn’t have to be toxic.
“What leads a man to transact with death for his daily bread?”
I couldn’t stop thinking about what I would do if something went wrong. If I made a mistake, my son and I might go back to being homeless.
I wish I could tell my dad that I worked to recreate the newsroom. That people still think newspaper stories—and stories about newspapers—are worth telling.