Almost every day, on my way to school, I get harassed on the street. It’s like part of my routine: get off the bus, grab a chai, get catcalled, repeat.
As college acceptance letters begin trickling in this spring, Mali Dandridge turns to her mom for advice on what to expect in college.
My mom came to the U.S. from Taiwan when she was seven. As an immigrant in the ’70s, she faced racism daily. So it’s puzzling to me when she makes highly questionable statements about other groups.
When I tell someone my preferred pronouns are they/ them/ their, I never know what to expect.
My newfound feminist beliefs are real. They weren’t handed to me. I had to earn them by living day by day.
Once my classmates had the opportunity to speak anonymously, it was like an entirely new side of them came out, one of fervent hatred and unashamed criticism.
In my family’s minds, muscles are a kind of insurance policy against the dangers black men face.
After having my life completely structured for 18 years, it’s up to me now.
I was six when I met my mom for the first time. We were at the Oakland Zoo at an event where people meet foster kids. This tall, caucasian woman walked up to me and offered to get me a slice of pizza.