mothers
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Something Small and Heavy
This is not a biography, photograph, or method of cloning, not footage, not a transcription—in short: this is not faithful.
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Body of Words
Standing at the pool’s edge, he planted his eyes on the V-shape of my body where my legs met at my hips, where I felt the water drip. I saw his brown irises turn hard and hungry.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Reading Don Quijote with My Mother
“That’s the anthem I would have sung at my original graduation if the university had stayed open,” my mother said.
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Dispatch from the Carnival #4: Taking in the Sword
What is this body if you take its power over you away? In the torture arts, you are both the creator and recipient of your pain.
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Changing the Subject
Does the time come for everyone when holding it in just won’t do anymore? I kept the story of my abortion to myself until Michael broke up with me two years later.
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The Rumpus Interview with George Hodgman
Editor and author George Hodgman talks about his new memoir, Bettyville, what makes for a good memoir, and returning to his hometown of Paris, Missouri from New York to take care of his aging mother.
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Daisy Duke and the Manosphere
The story goes, if you can dehumanize a population with a stereotype, there’s no need to share their fate.
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Super Hot Prof-on-Student Word Sex: Julia MacDonnell
Julia was one of those “students” whom you suspect, after maybe fifteen seconds, should actually be teaching the class you are currently (allegedly) teaching.
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God Help the Mother
Her name becomes shorthand for a republic of women and black artists with “no home in this place” to borrow a phrase from Morrison’s Nobel lecture, people who create, reclaim and celebrate art that is intent on offering something of…
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Lockdown
The CRDF is made up of several buildings surrounding a central courtyard. There will be nothing dangerous or seedy about the environment; it will feel like an abandoned civic center.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: love/Woman/thirty
They did not tell us that love was not something you could throw away once finished. That it would remain on us like blackened scars, underneath blouses and in those places only we could see.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Dead Girls Sold Here
Why then are we comfortable with women routinely being cast as the victims of violence? Why don’t we see that as sexist? Where is the outrage?