David Minerva Clover

David Minerva Clover

Bio

David Minerva Clover is a queer and transgender writer, covering everything from parenting to why dinosaurs are awesome. His work has appeared in The Washington Post, New York Mag, The Establishment, and many other places. He lives in beautiful Detroit Michigan with his spouse, one child, and an embarrassment of animals. Check out his blog at Postnuclear Era or follow him on twitter at @dm_clover.

David Minerva Clover Articles

Once I realized that I could embrace the parts of femme that I liked (lipstick! frilly skirts!) and reject the ones that didn’t work for me (shaving! heels!) things got a hell of a lot easier.

I'm A Queer Femme — And It Only Took Me 30 Years To Embrace It

Faced by the extreme pressure to conform to impossible beauty ideals, I followed my instincts (and my budding feminism) and rejected them wholesale. I wasn’t going to play like that; I wasn’t going to let my gender require that I wear makeup or perform a certain way.

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My family relies on having our food delivered specifically because of our less-than-ideal financial situation. We don't do this because we're rich.

Why Grocery Delivery Service Is The "Luxury" My Low-Income Family Relies On

My family relies on having our food delivered specifically because of our less-than-ideal financial situation. We don't do this because we're rich.

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When you hold travel up on some kind of pedestal, you sound classist as hell. Image: Joshua Earle/Unsplash.

Your Obsession With Travel Sure Feels Classist To Me

I don’t get out much — and it’s not because I don’t have a sense of adventure or don’t care about learning about the larger world: It’s because I’m broke.

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Candles Or Candies? Celebrating Halloween As A Mom — And A Witch

I don’t want to deprive my child of these magical Halloween memories, I just also want to light candles and talk about our ancestors.

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Photo by Dan Smedley on Unsplash

Stop Blaming Parents For Our Lack Of Self-Care

When I have to pick between doing what’s best for my kid and doing what’s best for me, most of the time, I’m going to pick my child. Read...
Think about it.

On Silence As A Tool For Queer Families

People see a baby and immediately imagine that the kid must have a mother and a father, who are probably married, who made that baby with good ol’ fashioned P-in-V sexual intercourse, most likely in the missionary position.

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He's a baby, not a "man."

Please Stop Calling My Child 'Little Man'

We’re trying to raise him with a lot of options and very few assumptions, but I won’t be mad at you if you call my kid “handsome little boy” or something. It’s fine. People have a hard time talking about babies without gendered labels. Even I have a hard time with it, and I’ve put a kind of ridiculous amount of energy into analyzing this stuff.

However, I do have one favor to ask. Please, for the love of everything that is good in this world, stop calling him “little man.”

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The reality is that I did not become poor because I ate a meal in a restaurant one too many times.

Yes, Poor People Eat Out Sometimes, Deal With It

I’m a poor person. I live below the U.S. poverty line. And yeah, I deserve to make my own financial decisions. The reality is that I did not become poor because I ate a meal in a restaurant one too many times, and while it’s true that eating out less can affect one’s budget, refusing to ever eat out again won’t make me not poor.

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Yule is a promise: winter sucks, but spring will come again.

Centering Yule During A Month Full Of Christmas

After the solstice, the light very slowly begins to return, and every day is a little longer. Yule is a promise: winter sucks, but spring will come again.

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Breastfeeding saved my life.

Breastfeeding Literally Saved My Life

Breastfeeding brought me back. It kept me in my body, forced me to hold my son’s body, and helped me stay connected to the physical reality of everything. What I remember are flashes of joy in the darkness, his tiny hands clenched in determined fists. His feet curled against my soft stomach. The release of the milk starting to flow. My arms wrapped up around him.

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