page contents

Drunk Monkeys



On November 9, 1994 I was sexually assaulted. I still cannot say “rape” and I really do not know why – it’s hard for me to even type the word, forget about saying it. The word “Rape” feels so victimizing – that life happened to me, that I was powerless to avoid it – that I was at the mercy of someone else’s desire – that I did not have a voice.

It Seems Like Any Other Night

ESSAY<br>It Seems Like Any Other Night

It seems like any other night. My mother helps me put on my nightgown and tells me to brush my teeth and wash my face. I go into the beige bathroom with turquoise tiles and stand on a small chrome step covered in black ribbed plastic, rough on my soft bare toddler feet. I wash my face over the beige ceramic sink. I squeeze a glob of pale turquoise Crest from the aluminum tube onto my toothbrush and brush all my teeth back and forth until the foam builds up to overflowing. 



"Let's have a gay night," he said.

"A gay night?"

Of course, we didn't know what he meant. I was eight and my cousin, Terry was nine. We were staying the night with our great-aunt and our 19-year-old cousin, Larry, who lived with her. Larry was very handsome, and he could almost dunk a basketball, which went a long way with us. He also seemed to like hanging out with us. Earlier, Terry and I (who grew up in the same house) had been playing Army with him in our back yard. Larry was tall, lean, and dark-skinned. Looking back on it thirty years later, I'm surprised, and a bit upset that I remember him as being so attractive. 

New Identity

ESSAY<br>New Identity

I changed my name the day after my church confirmation. That Sunday, May 10, 1987, I stood in front of my church and vowed to reject the forces of evil and confessed Jesus Christ as my Savior. As I said, “I do” each time, I wanted to mean the words, but they rang false in my ears. I felt unworthy of God’s love and salvation. I was unclean. I said the words because it was what I was supposed to do. I felt like my entire life was living up to others’ expectations of me: my parents, my family, my teachers, my friends.     

Why I Do Not Love Travel
Jennifer Koiter

The first time I got sick in India, I refused to believe that all I had was a case of common Delhi belly. I was certain something in my body had gone horribly wrong. The spasms of vomiting, the diarrhea, the waves of exhaustion that grounded me in my body and made it impossible to hold a thought in my head: how could all that come from a dollop of coconut chutney on my lunchtime dosa, or a plate of cut cucumbers at a five-star hotel, the one place where raw food is supposed to be safe? 

Bless Your Little Ole’ Heart, You’re an Idiot: A Liberal Southern Woman’s Perspective on Donald Trump
Kim Bailey Deal

You read that correctly. I am a liberal southern woman. No, it’s not an oxymoron, but some believe it to be, especially in my age group of fifty and older. I’m a minority in these parts where most southerners are taught to be seen and not heard, especially southern women. Tennessee is a conservative and primarily Republican state, and I’m smack dab in the middle of all the outraged upper class who have too much to lose, and the poor who have nothing to lose, but will lose it anyway.