They claim there is a “People of Donbass.” There is not.
“Every single one of my articles has come from a question or a situation or a conversation with somebody who was either currently incarcerated or had been incarcerated.”
“It feels insensitive or dishonest to not acknowledge the ways in which our work is a part of a greater narrative.”
Where do working-class women who are literary and experimental find, first, their models, and next, their readership?
“Individual Americans thought they were the only ones who could not afford to send their kids to college.”
“We need food, clothing, shelter, and healthcare, but we deserve that unquantifiable, experiential thing that is education, culture, leisure, beauty, nature.”
“Are there ways in which Black North Americans connected to places and things that were outside of the world we thought they were in?”
For decades, South Asian architecture was impelled by the promise of a new society after empire. Now, such buildings are being demolished.
Whether tracking a migrant traveling thousands of miles or someone on parole at home, carceral tech is reaching into all walks of life.
“Writers are being made to carry the weight of politicians.”
The family as we know it today functions to further isolate trans children from trans women and vice versa. Thank goodness for TV.
“At the end of the day, the America project was about an encounter with abundance that was responded to with greed and brutality.”
Chicago—for women artists of various backgrounds—demanded a new art to advance the struggle for freedom by imagining other possible worlds.
“Doesn’t every New Yorker really want to own a co-op?,” a realtor asked a crowd of tenants in 1972. But this provoked only “a chorus of noes.”
Many Latinxs—the nation’s largest ethnic group & most avid movie consumers—think the nation’s most beloved musical on racial tolerance is racist.
“As often the most vulnerable in our cities, immigrants face struggles that reflect the wider landscape of housing precarity.”
If we accept AIs crafting rap, we repeat the same exploitation that currently separates Black and brown artists from the fruits of their labor.
A new play centers on a Black woman who stops “accommodating white people” and, instead, asks them “about their love affair with my death.”
“You can wear something to be cool,” you told me, “or because another person likes it. You don’t have to be truly ‘yourself,’ or whatever.”
“The novel loves things. It loves money. It loves disappointment.”