The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
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The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
“Bird,” he cried, “I come on behalf of the emperor. Your voice is all anyone speaks of.”
The message is, overwhelmingly, that we Muslims are not welcome in the West. Yet, we are here, everywhere, invisible in big cities and small, until someone cuts us down.
The post-election social media barrage has put us in a strange spot: We don't want to remain silent and complicit, but are we just adding to an exhausting wall of sound?
Talking with the author and essayist about rewriting female power narratives, telling honest sex work stories, and making peace with Gwyneth
It's been a week of protesting the right to cross borders. But these lines aren't just geographic, they're economic and racialized, too.
When a marriage ends, it doesn't always imply a deficiency. At least, not a personal one.