Aja Barber

Aja Barber gives us her first-hand account of the Women's March — the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Recently I went through another round of unfriending on Facebook. It keeps things tidy, the arguments thoughtful and my head from exploding. This time around I just got rid of any white person that felt passionate about "certain political topics," but wasn't showing up for people of color, as we watch the meteoric rise of fascism in America and police violence. I’m not obligated to educate anyone for free, especially if they don’t appear to be absorbing what I’m saying or having the tough conversations on their wall with their peers.

“She did and does not present herself as a Mother in America. That performance was nothing but skanky weird. Get over yourself.” Signed, jerk on the Internet.

I first met Darlene Howell McNerney through my sister.

I refuse to write some sort of inane rubbish about how sweatshirts are the new sweatshirt.

I watched again and again, as reporters asked President Trump news related questions, and repeatedly rephrased their questions, in hopes of receiving anything close to a credible answer. As he continued to discredit the press by telling them their questions weren’t “nice,” I felt more and more as if I was living in some bizarro universe where the President is actually a huge baby.

I am shocked, perplexed and a little bit dismayed over the amount of “good liberals” who have pushed my friendship to the point of no return over the term “white feminism." As a matter of fact, I would go so far as to say the cries over white feminism vs. intersectional feminism is the new #BlackLivesMatter vs #AllLivesMatter. You might not see it that way now but you will by next year. Trust me. I’ve been through this before and damn, am I tired.

It’s going to be a very frugal holiday season in 2017. Let’s get crafting and make homemade holiday presents for everyone!

Whenever Lena Dunham starts trending on Facebook or Twitter, it’s become this thing where I suddenly morph into Angry Tyra.

In 2015, to be a woman (and a black woman at that) among the general public means having to keep your defenses up.