Columns
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The Rumpus Prize in Nonfiction, First Place: Daniel B. Summerhill
A tight plot of land with poverty gripping the neck of its residents even tighter. The same way America held off on recognizing street gangs as an issue until blood was spilt outside of the hood in 1988 in Westwood…
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At Disney, I Cry Over the Water Buffalos
There are six of you in Animal Kingdom, in the section called “Asia,” and I joke to my American friends that I am home.
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Misperceptions, Assumptions, and Slurs: Jackie Domenus’s No Offense
Even when doing the work to figure ourselves out, even within the seemingly safest of spaces, we must grapple with how others contain and label us.
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Rumpus Original Fiction: Second of April
On the third fools’ day, Ma was shrinking downward and I was floating upward.
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Chaos Seeps Into Order: A Conversation with Maria Reva
If you can laugh about a difficult situation, laugh in your aggressor’s face, it gives you a sense of power.
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Rumpus Original Poetry: Brian Gyamfi
Soon after the rain, no sound is heard. / No fluttering of wings. / Just a silent house in a city / and father, haunted with visions / of barely and fire.
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Voices on Addiction: A Small, Dry Place
My earliest impressions of my father are like the negatives in a reel of over-exposed 35mm film, the kind of images that were returned from the photo lab with quality control stickers, marked “light damaged.”
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A Summertime Swoon Tash Aw’s The South
The relationship helps Jay achieve a sense of selfhood that promises to outlast the usual parameters of a summer romance. In a sense, he’s coming out to himself.
