Aja Barber

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 love my husband President Barack Obama and our children, Sasha and Malia,” ”

I first met Darlene Howell McNerney through my sister.

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.

How does one advertisement go so magnificently wrong, managing to center whiteness in the story of the battles of marginalized people, while playing down the horrific effects of police brutality and concluding in a white savior grand finale?

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

I may not be thrilled to vote for her, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the misogyny and toxic masculinity we fight so hard against control the campaign narrative of the first major woman presidential candidate.

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

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