Being civil to people who were complicit in what’s happening, who helped put the rope around my neck, is not on my to-do list.
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This is the story of my three-year hell as a trans woman working for a NYT-owned company. I might be fired, but I can’t stay silent anymore.
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People are just going about their business. Don’t they know what the election will mean for me and people like me? Don’t they care?
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I still can’t handle much right now, and something tells me I am going to need every ounce of energy I can muster for whatever’s next.
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It was an awful one, and it might be the last one in my lifetime the U.S. government acknowledges. It might even be illegal next year.
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I’ve been unable to focus on anything for days, but a phrase comes to mind: “Nevertheless, she persisted.” The future, the work, starts now.
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My dad died Nov. 1, 1980. I’ve told you that and about him. This time I’ve got a story for you that few people know. Bonus fright included.
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There are too many places for my addled brain to land as pieces of memories of Souther and his music float back to me today.
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The headline, I’d imagine, is its own content warning, but let me be clear here: This is about suicide and suicidal ideation. It’s about me.
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A subdued 11th of September begins with a hope that it’s mostly quiet and brings opportunities for peace and healing, for all the reasons.
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