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

Nowadays, if I eat more than two slices of pizza in front of anyone other than my wife, things get weird.

It's Only Cute When Skinny Girls Eat Pizza

Thin women can overeat, and it is seen as a quirk, or a one-time indulgence they deserve, or even proof that they aren’t anorexic. Fat women though? We are expected to constantly prove that we’re doing our best to not be fat.

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I’m fat in my wedding photos, and I also look damn good. Image: The Clovers.

The Summer I Got Fat: A Love Story

I had always considered myself to be extremely body positive. I loved my body! I had several close friends who were fat activists, and I was working hard to be a good thin ally. But despite all of that, I wasn’t ready for the changes that were happening in myself.

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Despite conservative fears, when many people picture what “marriage” is, marriages like mine simply aren’t a part of it. Image: Thinkstock.

I Challenge You To Love Your Spouse — As Long As He's A Heterosexual Man.

I expected it was only a matter of time until someone sent it my way. I mean... friends have even called my relationship with my wife “inspirational.” [...] [O]nce I noticed that I still hadn’t been invited, I started to notice something else: Everyone that I saw posting “love your spouse” pictures was straight....

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The whole concept of salaries for stay-at-home moms reveals both the classism in parenting culture and what we really think about poor people.

The Problem With Calculating Salaries For Stay-At-Home Moms

The whole concept of salaries for stay-at-home moms reveals both the classism in parenting culture and what we really think about poor people.

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No, My Child Will Not Be Going To The Zoo

No, I’m not a heartless evil mother who never wants her child to have any fun. But he will not be going. Not for a school field trip. Not with grandma. Not for a playdate with a friend. My child is not going to the zoo. Full stop. End of discussion.

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I never expected to struggle like this.

Dancing On The Poverty Line: It Was Never Supposed To Be Like This

Back when we decided to have a baby together, we had a plan. She was never, ever going to have to work full-time. She was going to work part-time, and I was going to work part-time, selling dog food at that cute little store I used to work at. We would have one day off a week in common, and we would be broke, but we would get by. We would be tired, but we would be happy.

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I am an adult woman, and guess how many dollhouses I own? Two.

Tiny Houses, Tiny Things

I am not middle class. Tiny houses are touted as an affordable solution, but they’re still more house than I can afford.

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My epidural made me stop wanting to die. Image: Thinkstock.

Whether Or Not Someone Gets An Epidural Is None Of Your Business

We compare birth stories like war stories. Twelve hours of labor, 32 hours of labor, three hours of pushing, we fall into the trap of trying to one-up each other. So yes, I can see why, to a parent-to-be who is enthusiastically anticipating pain relief, the refusal of an epidural might seem like a bit of a hero complex. And maybe for some people it is! But it’s none of your goddamn business.

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For now, I’m a boy, and I’m a mama, and those seemingly contradictory truths are things I can accept about myself.

When I Realized I Was Trans, I Still Wanted To Be Mama

When I finally realized I was trans, it was after almost a year and a half of therapy, a lot of trauma, and after becoming a parent.

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The baby is on the outside. Image: Thinkstock.

The Shower, PTSD, And My Traumatic Labor

[CN: PTSD, pregnancy, birth] Something snapped inside me and I was transported backwards in time.

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