February 2020

Episode 2 amplifies and deepens the conversation hosts Lizz and Marwah had with activist and author Zyahna Bryant in episode 1. In this episode, Lizz and Marwah hear from two UVA undergraduate women of color, Caroline and Lauren, as they discuss what it means to belong—and not belong—at a predominantly white institution, and how they both advocate for shared spaces.

When I was younger, my best friend and I would beg my mom to play The Dixie Chicks’ Home album in the car, just to hear “Travelin’ Soldier”. We sat in the backseat, belting out the lyrics of a love story that traversed an entire litany of emotions in a mere 5 minutes and 43 seconds. The song felt like the embodiment of lyrical and storytelling genius. We were simply obsessed. 

I spent 20 days alone while abroad this summer, during which time I had ample opportunity to think about reading; I spent more time thinking about reading than actually reading. I read a lot, between 75 and 100 books per year. I also perform reading a lot, posting almost as many pictures of books on Snapchat and Instagram for no discernible reason. My obsession with books peaked in my first and second years of college, during which time I authorized that vacuum of a non-narrative (girl: reading) to define me. I used excessive reading as a crutch to avoid writing.

The first time I saw my Dad cry

We were standing in a raspberry field.

My fingers were covered in crimson juice, 

fresh and sweet and slightly sticky.

That morning the TV wouldn’t stop repeating

Pictures of smoke, planes flying into the towers.

At the time I did not pay much attention to the news,

But I wanted nothing more than to make my Dad smile.

I proudly showed him the carton, fruit overflowing. 

That night we made raspberry shortcake. 

The first time I got my period 

In the era of body positivity and radical self-love, the notion that “no one can love you until you love yourself” is, for many of us who struggle deeply to love ourselves by virtue of depression, anxiety, or the various other forms of mental illness, an unjust sentencing. At its core, the intention is pure. The modern-day proverb is a call to demand that the love we receive from others is of equal or greater value to the love that we give ourselves.

JUST GIRLY THINGS: a Horror Checklist of Real and Surreal Thoughts from Poetic Hell

Here lies a body of words which arrived at my window one night in jagged fragments and forced me to make their cacophony into a less than sophisticated arrangement of reverbs: 

In this February season of saccharine serenades and pink paper hearts, the term “love language” seems to pop up everywhere. Just as banner ads dare you to discover your own love language through quizzes, media organizations dissect the theory in articles about millennial dating. I’ve taken time to consider what my own love language might be. After all, it wouldn’t be Valentine’s Day without chocolate, candy grams, and existential contemplation. Prompted by the seasonal disappointment of tasteless candy hearts and their robotically-written, HUG MEs, I finally reached a conclusion.