Words are my tools. I grasp the universe in sentences and paragraphs, like laying bricks. A writer’s brain—or, at least, this writer’s brain—is a warehouse of language, the sounds and shapes of words piled high, shifting and moving and filling empty spaces, pulled as from catalog drawers. When words fail …
Long before the pandemic hit, we were already a country in mourning.
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Islamophia is alive and well in the heartless heartland
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An important point when arguing against “Racism Light”
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