Denarii Monroe

Much has already been said about the way the Stanford swimmer's privilege has insulated him from consequence, about the ever-pervasive victim blaming in public discourse, and about the inadequacy of the criminal justice system. But in so many of these conversations, in our rage against the rape culture machine, we forget the survivors — the most important people in the fight against sexual violence.

And when you're multiply marginalized and know how much work there is to be done in the struggle for liberation, how few people are doing it, and that our lives literally depend on it, it can feel like you’re letting your people down.

I did not leave that theater the same way I arrived. It was then, as I walked back to my building and looked up at the night sky, that I knew. I thought to myself, “I want to make movies.”

Does becoming an adult mean you have to give up "childish" things like paralyzing crushes on celebrities? Denarii Monroe thinks not.

In a culture focused on the importance and superiority of romantic attraction and relationships — a culture aromantics might call alloromantic-centric — platonic friendships (another form of relationship) are consistently undervalued.

As storytellers, disabled writers have thousands of stories inside of us, some related to our disabilities and some not. Some of us are lucky enough to have some sort of outlet for our words — in public and/or private spaces — while others still struggle to find the voice that lives within.

Activism can seem intimidating, all the more so for those with accessibility issues of various kinds. There are myriad numbers of disabilities which can affect how we can (or can’t) engage in activism.

You can create boundaries for many things. For example, your communication needs (what works for you, what others need to know, what you can’t tolerate, etc.), your limits in the bedroom, or even when your employer or employee is allowed to call or text you. They can be established for romantic, familial, platonic, and professional relationships.

My therapist of six months — let’s call her L — was letting me go. It was so subtle that I wasn’t even sure what was happening; I had to ask.

It’s like being a deer in the headlights. You’re in imminent danger. You know it. But you can’t move. You can’t speak. No reaction whatsoever. You just stand or sit there, frozen in time, waiting for the crash.