2016 In Review
I’d been walking around in a literal haze, but deep down I thought buying contacts might be the faint victory I’d been seeking.
Practicing self-care by telling white people about themselves, calling in Black to life, delighting in Black art? That was Black as shit.
The spread of plagues is the beta version of “Congratulations, you played yourself.”
When you’re depressed, you learn all of the angles inside a half-empty apartment. You become a student of the ceiling.
Will the conversations inspired by high-profile trials such as Jian Ghomeshi’s mean actual change?
I was not born powerful, but this year, I chose power for myself.
I find myself staring down 2017 with a surplus of useless wisdom and nowhere to put it.
How do you decide when to call somewhere home, and which one takes precedence if more than one place fits the bill?
I wasn’t alone in turning to teen dramas to deal with mental health issues.
I kept my dad’s name, even after he left, and I’m still not sure why. Now it’s too late to change. Isn’t it?
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