How can you reconcile your identity as a liberating force while using the language of your oppressor and benefiting from physical freedom that many of those in your homeland do not possess? Assia Djebar wrestles with these questions in "Fantasia."
One day, I phoned my grandparents’ house just to have a talk. My grandmother picked up the phone and told me that my grandfather was taking a nap upstairs. Soon enough, we were talking as relaxed as ever. At some …
It’s the quality of so much sorrow held at the brink that attracted me to "BoJack Horseman." It’s brilliant, at once both witty and belly-laugh silly, and often capable of being shockingly real.
I remember burying the seeds every time I ate an apple. They never grew into apple trees. I remember going to the airport for fun.
I remember, on Thompson Street, the moment they called the 2020 presidential race. I remember the way my childhood home smelled when it was completely empty.
Phone said 2:45pm. This means school is out, scream and shout. In case future daughter/granddaughter is reading this, a few things to note: all students wear tiny gray uniform skirt, boxers poke underneath.
She puts on long, droopy earrings and stares back at me in the mirror. Try these, she says, and hands me a pair of danglies. You have perfect ears, she says. Look, she says. Perfect. Look at your earlobe.
The truth of any good tale is the thing that makes it art. Without truth, art’s power to change the way we see things fails in the hands of the artists and remains, then, merely words on a page.
Just outside of Grey’s Papaya, there was an odd, frozen cluster of people. Neither my babysitter nor I could see through or over the group from afar, so we kept on walking toward it. Valerie squeezed my little hand.
"Bolero reminds me of something—not something I have forgotten but rather something I have never thought." Why knowing nothing about a work of art can aid appreciation.