Editorial
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My Side of Town
by Yolanda D. White
When my mother moved my brother and me to the 2400 block of Murray Street in 1975, absent were flaming crosses or white-sheeted cone heads greeting us. Surely, there was racism, as there always has been and will be, but my brother and I were blissfully ignorant of its raging effects.
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Commentary & Opinion
Banning Queer Marriage
The Closet Homosexual’s Wet Dream
by Sura Faraj
The morality police are coming!
Shit. Can’t they just stay in Afghanistan and leave us to our separation-of-church-and-state Constitution?
Oh, and what about that pesky Constitution? Is this historical document too old, or is it too modern for America’s Taliban? I just can’t figure it out.
Didn’t they learn anything from Prohibition, when the 20th Century’s Puritans tried to legislate their own rendition of quasi-biblical reality? I mean, exactly how would you, in the name of the guy who changed water into wine, preach that drinking is so sinful it had to be completely forbidden? Of course in the end, the ways of Jesus won out and that messed up amendment was rescinded. Now we can all drink to life!
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What ABB Means to Me
by Jeremy Berg
The first time I saw an ABB bumper sticker, I thought it stood for “Allman Brothers Band.” I had not yet heard the term “Anybody But Bush,” but I was already a part of it.
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Telling Our Stories
My Mystic Mansion
by Carol Rathe
If someone had asked me five years ago if I were a “mystic,” I wouldn’t have understood what they were asking. A mystic! What the heck is that? Would a mystic be someone like that guy Merlin the Magician in Camelot, who performs weird alchemical tricks with batwings and bitter herbs?
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The Curse of Moving
by Yolanda White
A certified mail notice arrived at my door on September 1. Now, usually there are only two reasons that I ever get certified mail: one is for a bill that the collector is finding a hard time collecting, and the other is from my lackadaisical, out-of-touch, out-of-town, first-time landlords. Their reasons for sending me things certified mail is to make sure I got the documents because “their friends, who were in the real estate business before, warned them about people like me.” Needless to say, I didn’t rush to the post office, but perhaps I should have.
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