Our 6th reason to give: we want to reclaim the margins, and we are committed to help others do so with words. Check out our Writing in the Margins Workshops.
There are too few spaces that allow writers and artists to grapple with their complex social and political identities, and use that interrogation to expand the scope and relevance of literature. This was the aim of Writing in the Margins, our 8-week writing and critical discussion group in Brooklyn. We demand relevant literature! We are working to create it, are you?
I remember the immediate bond we felt as young widows whose husbands had been taken from us by the AIDS epidemic. Mari’s husband Reinaldo had returned from the war in Angola in 1985, around the same time that my husband Clarence had finally kicked a 13 year heroin habit that started when he served in Vietnam. Different wars, different countries…two women unknowingly at risk. Every time I visited with Mari I had the same unspoken thought––why her, why not me? I was painfully aware of the different route the virus had taken through each of our lives. ~ Elena Schwolsky
Not long ago, during a lost afternoon of internet browsing, I found Morrison again. Across the round, stained oak sat Charlie Rose, misguided, lacking self-awareness, with index cards.
“Well, will you?” he asked in reference to a Bill Moyer question from years before, “Will you write a novel that’s not centered about race?”
I realized then, that when the written world is unfamiliar to the reader, he will assume the author has an agenda. ~ Alejandro Varela
Julia said. “Here we are. Dos señoras serias living a la intemperie.” She took my hand. “Now what do we do?”
I looked at my watch and it was just past four. “The beginning of our new life.” I spoke so that Machi and Taina didn’t hear. “How long can we last here?” ~ Maritza Arrastia
Abigail was born too light. Too light for her momma and aunties. All of them varying shades of deep brown and proud of it.
“I don’t know how that child ended up so light. Everybody say her momma laid down with one of them Proctors over in Birchwood,” said Aunt Millie.
“Just as pale as a ghost. Like a lil white girl,” added Aunt Colleen. ~ Ginger Skinner
I can ride a bicycle and lecture Texans about highways. I can reuse glass jars as travel mugs and minimize the meat I eat. Maybe, as these tiny acts multiply, climate change could slow. But how little control, it seems, I have over what gender information he learns! ~ TK Dalton