The Daring Opinion columnists, editorials, analysis, and guest essays
A commander-in-chief who’d lost his bid to a second term, a lame duck waddling to the finish line between election day, November 3, 2020, and the joint session of Congress’s certification of state electors on January 6, 2021, could have done serious damage to a republic knocked down, sucker punched, blindsided by unexpected blows caused by a conspiracy to defraud the American electorate.
Once, being a tomboy was a way to gain male validation. When adolescence brought on emotion and curves that were harder to hide, an expanded view of what womanhood could look like also flourished.
I long to see my childhood on screen. No one is steeped in poverty and crime, or so bougie and disconnected they can’t kiki at the cookout.
Near the House of Pot, sandwiched between an electric power station and a direct path to the local airport, the neighborhood I live in is a mix of working-class Asian immigrants, mostly Cambodian and Vietnamese, and long-time African American denizens. The only prophet to ever come out of this northwestern hub, Jimi Hendrix, shuffled through these parts as a latchkey kid.
There are these standards of friendship applied to kids that I think should be eradicated.
Black men are supposed to be the ultimate image of strength and sex appeal. Linebackers and the Sexiest Man Alive. But, when is the linebacker allowed to cry? How does the Sexiest Man Alive express his honest insecurities about his image? For so many Black men, there’s no safe space to express this level of vulnerability.
On almost every TV show I watched growing up, the mother was always too tired for sex. Mothers would constantly shoo away their husbands’ flirts and affections. I am determined to understand the absurdity of the sexless mom.
Black women have always fought for women’s liberation. As far back as the Suffragist movement, Black women have always rallied for equality of the sexes. But, Black feminists have always had to consider their plight in the fight, the intersection of their blackness and their womanness.
You won’t be our priority.
I am a card-carrying member of the worry club. But I’m showing up in relationships as my whole self, flaws and all, and evolving outside the narrow margins of perfectionism brought on by the patriarchy.
With music—as with many crafts—once you experience that first tremendously powerful time when something really clicks, the intrinsic and dynamic reward system can become intoxicating.
A story about tapping into who you are and where you come from. What happens after we uproot? I was one of the 300,000 Romanians who emigrated in a wave following the political regime change in 1989.
At eight years old, everything is alive, and everything deserves love and companionship, which, come to think of it, even at 37 years of age, still makes sense.
Is it possible to be delighted, almost mesmerized, by a red carton containing scoops and scoops of my favorite chocolate peanut butter dessert, Oregon’s very own Umpqua ice cream, and not feel as though the burden of guilt—maybe the most wasted emotion of all—has flipped into hyper gear?
When empathy is lost, what follows? What is the agenda? Perhaps, a steady march toward denigration and solidly placing the foot? The assumption of power surely is an unapologetic aphrodisiac.
We sat on the edge of the bed, in darkness, unsure of ourselves or how to proceed. I looked at him, and he looked back. Moments later, my face was wet. It was over. I was confused. Had I been kissed?
Journalists are telling story after story about the COVID crisis and the devastating government policies of the past four years. This media coverage is vital. And yet, we’re more than pain. The part of us that feels joy also needs representation. Space to grow. Here are essays and meditations about delight that are moving, vibrant, and necessary.
Findings and observations from someone without a green thumb.
As I listen to very well-meaning white people discuss white supremacy and the reckoning they are having with their own bias, they often forget to mention the work they’re doing with their children.
I hopped on the cheapest flight from Los Angeles, California, to New York City, New York. I arrived with my Walkman, Simon and Garfunkel tapes, one suitcase, an old Apple computer tower, about $1,500 in cash, a place to crash, and a pocket full of promises and recommendations. All I needed.
The other night I sat with my guy and had the talk. The talk you never want to have. That final talk. That talk where he is no longer my guy and I am no longer his girl.
I am a woman who was married to a woman. I am a divorced woman. I married a woman only my friends liked. I am a woman who spent five years in a marriage I thought would last a lifetime.
A quest for creative autonomy and community in Israel.
A designer born in Seoul and raised in the United States unpacks the cultural tensions she’s meeting as she settles back in Korea as a young adult.
Dispatches from an awake past.
I walked outside and the summer air kissed my face like the greatest lover. Like it loved me the most. I closed my eyes and kissed it back. I loved how I felt on drugs.
The economics of creativity, resources, and energy.