It took the gashes she etched into my back months to heal. I feared they’d be pulpy and inflamed forever. I took artsy photos of my battle scars in the sepia lighting of my bathroom and uploaded them to the internet. When I wanted to feel something for her, I would dig my nails into the welts closest to my ass. Being on top of someone, filling someone up who’s that empty — took all of me. I loved her. I really fucking did. Who else would if I didn’t? I can still hear the way she said my...Read More
Author: Natalie Frazier
Spike Lee asked if I wanted my money back. I surveyed the auditorium full of New Balances, stale khakis and the stench of pretension seeping from under the liberal veneer. White intellectuals. Suburbanites. My oblivious white film student peers. A pitifully short row of weary black parents in t-shirts and wristbands commemorating their dead, bullet-ridden children. I did want my money back. As a proud Chicagoan, born on the southside and raised on the westside, I didn’t recognize the sloppy illustration of Chicago Lee had so haphazardly drawn. Even more offensive was the bombastic 127 minute lecture aimed at...Read More
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