I’ll be listening to Christmas carols, slowly unpacking our decorations, making gingerbread houses, and snuggling in with blankets and tea for those nights that start at 5:45 these days to watch some old classics for the next 8 weeks, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
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How many people have I written about in a spat of scorched earth? How many memories have I molded, twisted, and tossed into a work barely disguised to fit my narrative? Could I risk that, with my spouse, now, our little life together, my healing so important to me?
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As I write this, there’s a gas shortage in North Carolina. Maybe you’ve heard about it. A pipeline hack led to panic buying and hoarding. Tonight, someone tweeted that 78% of gas stations in North Carolina are out of gas, the worst of any state right now.
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Taylor Swift taught me how to talk about differing-gender relationships long enough to get out of my hometown, and later, my college town, a script that allowed me to appear authentic even as I was struggling to articulate, internally, what I wanted out of my life. And for that, I love her.
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Whenever students get too close to me, I flinch. We leave the doors open for airflow because of COVID and I think of my training for active shooters, but you notice there’s no such thing as an inactive shooter?
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My crisis of writing and publishing stems from writing the darkest and most horrific parts of my life, without having processed them, publishing in soon-defunct literary magazines with little to no audience, and getting eight likes on social media as payment. Is this what I should turn myself inside out for?
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We eloped. The pandemic helped me justify the wedding I wanted.
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I’m uncomfortable with how Appalachian identity works in the media and in academia, both because I think it’s a problematic identity that I hold too dearly and because I think I’m faking it.
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Scientists can talk to me about lumens and refractions, about reflections and lightwaves, and I won’t understand any of it, no matter how much you try, but I think I can say something about the night sky, if you give me a chance. Shouldn’t a poet do it?
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The Quarantine Poems is a series of poetry written durning the Covid-19 pandemic lockdown, available in text and in audio.
The second instalment, 'from heaven’, is authored by Emily Blair.
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Here’s how you survive those two to four days at a academic conference, especially as a woman, a femme, or a queer person.
Read More![The Professor is Out: When did you know you[r professors] were queer?](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5c59688992441bdac11d6ffb/1580750205932-5D724Q0I1T1WDKNY37C6/image-asset.jpeg)
When did you know you[r professors] were queer?
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Columnist Emily Blair brings you her hottest takes on queer identity in 2019.
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With the false veil of oppression starkly lifted by our parents’ easy love and acceptance, I am forced to confront my perceived identity as a marginalized person.
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Can any of us eat intuitively in a society in which nothing about a woman’s natural body is respected, honored, or trusted?
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Queering the classroom can be nothing more or less than an act of existence that does not necessitate a certain mode, reaction, or action toward or against a gender presentation binary, or an understood queer normativity.
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