I also go by my middle name, Renee, but you can call me about anything
Rich White Feminism
About six months ago, I wrote a short confessional article about a friend I drove to the grocery store, and I missed the point of that entire experience. Recently, I've started reading Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendall, and I achieved some clarity about where the feminist movement really needs to divert its attention.
Somebody on the street is playing the familiar solemn cords of “The House of the Rising Sun” on a scratchy guitar. The sound floats through the trundling cars and to the beat of pedestrian footsteps, wavering and soulful. I am hanging laundry on the clothesline above on the second floor of my apartment, and Claire is talking to me from the next apartment over, leaning out the window like she is searching for the guitar player. She is a year older than me, but no one on the street would notice. Maybe that is why she cakes on lipstick like it is as common as dandelions.
My friend lives alone in an apartment a block from where she works. She’s a single mother, freshly separated from her husband, and she struggles to find a babysitter, to quit smoking, to pay her bills. It’s a common story: a young woman trying with bitten-to-the-nub fingernails to scrape out a living.