There is a persistent truism within the feminist community – that if feminism isn’t intersectional, it isn’t working. Throughout the panel discussion, disability rights, race, and socio-economic disparity were threaded into the conversation. They grounded it into the reality in which so many people live.
I can still recall with detail the yellow painted walls of the back stairwell at my high school. The black banisters; the small windows teasing us with a view of the East River. The sound of a classmate calling out “look, everyone, Gabriella’s staring at her own boobs!”
The thick smoke, cotton mouth, simmering laughter, and grief have become wrapped up in each other. Being high was the reflex with which I confronted my life.
Please bear with Book Squad Goals while they switch web hosts- for now, read my blog post for them here:
My mom went into labour on the evening of 22 July 1989. It was the last of a stretch of inordinately hot days, the kind that make the Manhattan skyline waver against the clouds. I do not know if you could see the stars that night. She was 37 years old, and was in labour for 22 hours. On 23 July, at 6.08pm, I was born. A Leo.