The Daring Opinion columnists, editorials, analysis, and guest essays
Opinion
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
