Transforming craft into an act of protest against indifference is something women have done for centuries.
The plight of Little Jamaica fits into a cycle of development that allows formerly thriving Black neighbourhoods to fall into neglect.
Bob Fosse’s current revival makes sense, but the wave of appreciation will also be a reckoning: moral immunity has been rescinded for geniuses.
Every time someone sees me as either white or black, I wonder, is passing an act of capitulation, or resistance? A rejection of identity, or of identification?
After years of being one of those people who used the term as a derogatory catch-all, I realized that music that falls under the label can, and often does, help me in unexpected ways.
Twenty-five years after its release, Magic: The Gathering still strikes a balance between performance and commodity—a mix of chess’s chilly purity and poker’s social theatre.
First Nations people don’t believe in crossing the border, but the imaginary boundaries we’re forced to move between can create very real divides.
When people ask if we need more queer movies, I think of a boy in a trailer in Kentucky watching two men on screen touch, just for a moment, deciding this is what love looks like.
Searching for where I belong, I find myself cobbling together a sort of mongrel Judaism—half-remembered and syncretic and porous and contradictory and all mine.
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