Several times a week, my mother shows up at my door, often with a problematic electronic device, sometimes with a bag full of leftovers or a few groceries, and occasionally, inexplicably, bearing a single sweet potato: “in case you wanted to cook it with something.”
June 13 marks the twentieth anniversary of the release of Alanis Morissette’s “Jagged Little Pill”, and like many thirtyish year-old women, I wouldn’t have made it through without the rock star my mother used to say sounded like a yodeling hippie. But Alanis taught us it was okay to be angry, information that got […]
I’m so comfortable in my whiteness that I can afford to mock my race because I don’t stand to lose anything by it. I have de facto respect that I don’t have to fight for. Meanwhile, Native Americans still struggle for a modicum of the inherent respect I take for granted.