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    [post_date] => 2026-01-07 07:35:47
    [post_date_gmt] => 2026-01-07 07:35:47
    [post_content] => 

Why Ireland's Basic Income for the Arts program is just the first step in better supporting the country's artists.

In 2022, visual artist Elinor O’Donovan was working as a receptionist in Cork, Ireland, when she began to receive the Basic Income for the Arts (BIA) stipend. The Irish government had launched the program that year as a way to address the country’s unstable arts sector, which had left many artists without job security and consistent financial earnings—O’Donovan included. At the time she applied, she'd just graduated from university and was living with her parents as she tried to figure out the next steps for her career. When she found out she’d been selected from a pool of over 9,000 other applicants for the BIA, it was life-changing. As one of 2,000 artists receiving a weekly income of €325 over a three-year period, O’Donovan was able to quit her job and move to Dublin to make art full-time. 

“The BIA has allowed me to be a bit more brave with the stuff that I make,” she tells The Conversationalist. “It allowed me to make whatever I want, and not feel as if I have to justify why it's important to a funding body.” 

According to a cost-benefit analysis published by the Department of Culture, Communications and Sport last September, the BIA has been a resounding success for beneficiaries, and Irish society at large. The report revealed that recipients were able to dedicate an additional four hours per week to art-making, and that the program “strengthened artists’ professional autonomy, capacity for creative work, and attachment to the arts sector.” Moreover, for every €1 of public money invested in the pilot, the country received €1.39 in return—a value that accounts for an increase in earnings generated from art-making as well as an increase in public engagement with the arts. In short: Giving money to artists, with no strings attached, was demonstrably profitable.  

For O’Donovan, income from the BIA not only gave her more time to make art, but provided her with newfound financial stability, something that affected every part of her life. She had more time to cook for herself, joined a gym, and for the first time, was able to afford to go to therapy. She was also finally able to plan for the future. 

“I was 26 when I started receiving [the BIA], and I was able to start a pension fund,” she says. “Just having that fallback [was a relief], knowing that I would receive an income no matter what happened; if I got sick, I would still be able to pay my bills, pay my rent. It has really been transformative for my well-being.”

Importantly, the BIA has also allowed her to create opportunities for other artists: O’Donovan’s ability to explore filmmaking, something she was afforded because of the stipend, meant she could create new jobs in the field. “Having financial stability from the basic income means that I've been able to hire other people to work with me,” O’Donovan says. “So there's even been a kind of trickle down of the basic income to other artists and other creatives in Ireland.” 

For artists around the world, the program has also offered one hopeful potential solution for a global arts sector severely hit with funding cuts and political uncertainties over the last few years. But while things have taken a recent downturn, the financial instability of the arts has been a major problem for decades, if not centuries, something that likely explains the growing admiration for the BIA around the world.

In a capitalist society, creative work is not valued as a productive or profitable field, which often means that artists are being underpaid for their work, if they’re paid at all. Creativity and art-making require passion and time, two resources that are generally scarce in an economic system more concerned with profit than beauty. Often, this forces workers to abandon or sideline their creative work in favor of taking a non-creative job that will provide financial stability. But a program like the BIA provides an alternative model, giving artists the financial foundation to create without the stress of figuring out how they will pay their rent or bills. 

Joining other basic income pilot programs around the world, the BIA demonstrates that providing workers with financial stability first allows them to thrive, increasing a country’s worker satisfaction, contributing to better mental health, and resulting in higher housing stability, by supporting people pursuing their preferred fields of work

Even the program’s most ardent supporters, however, argue that the BIA is only the start of a more stable arts field. In Ireland, the arts generate €1.5 billion in income each year, but according to Praxis, the artists’ union of Ireland, artists still face “extremely challenging economic conditions.” In an open letter published in September, the group cited that 50.7% of artists in Ireland still live in Enforced Deprivation, compared to 15.7% of the general population. (The Irish Central Statistics Office defines Enforced Deprivation as when a household experiences two or more of 11 national deprivation items, such as being unable to replace worn out furniture, or being unable to afford a drink or a meal with friends once a month.) The BIA, then, should be seen as just the first step in a bigger effort to make the industry more sustainable. 

“It has always been precarious,” writer, editor, and Praxis policy director Michaele Cutaya tells The Conversationalist. “I've never managed to make a living off just my art income, [and] my situation, my difficulties, are not isolated instances.” As a union representative, Cutaya helped advise the government on the BIA’s design; but despite its success, she emphasizes that the country still has a long way to go. 

“Quite a large part of the economy relies on the work of artists,” she says, citing the profit the arts brings to the hospitality sector in Dublin as one example. But very little money generated by the arts sector actually goes to artists, a discrepancy that continues to grow despite the BIA. In the last three years, work opportunities have diminished throughout the sector, a trend worrying to union leadership and artists alike. “Access to public funding remains the main source of income for artists, mainly through the Arts Council,” Cutaya continues. “[But] I find that the number of chances of getting your work selected has gone down because essentially there seems to be a lot more people applying [to public funding].”

This may explain why some are concerned that the BIA will become “the shiny object” of policies, while other issues in the sector go ignored, like unregulated pay, the use of AI, and the still-growing lack of opportunities.

“There's a lot of issues and they’re not doing much about it,” says actor Christophe Lombardi, who was in the control group of the BIA pilot program, where he received one yearly payment of €650 as compensation for participating, rather than the weekly stipend of €325. (The results of Lombardi’s control group were used so researchers could better understand how the BIA helps artists over a longer period of time, in comparison with those not receiving it.)  

Emphasizing other issues he would like to see addressed, Lombardi points to Gayanne Potter, a voice actor whose voice was used without permission by ScotRail to create AI-generated platform announcements in Scotland. “We are facing all the [same] problems [in Ireland]. So I don't want [the government] to use the BIA as an excuse to pretend to help the artists, but behind the scenes, not [do] anything about the rest of the issues.” 

Last April, the Irish Creative Industries Forum (ICIF) wrote to the Irish government requesting measures for the protection of artists from AI, and the enforcement of copyright infringement laws against the misuse of the technology. As of yet, however, the government has yet to implement any AI regulation policies in response. 

Still, there is a widespread recognition that the BIA is a net positive, and can and should be used to help address many of the existing issues in the industry. In its letter, the ICIF requested that the BIA be extended to artists affected by job loss caused by AI. Across Ireland, unionized artists are currently campaigning for the BIA’s permanent expansion. “It does make a difference, obviously,” Lombardi says. “Because it's hard to stay creative, to keep things going, while you can't keep a roof over your head. There was [an] upswing in mental health—everything's better.”

In Praxis’ open letter, the union demanded for the program’s extension for an indefinite period of time, and for the income to be indexed to inflation. Additionally, the union urged the government to expand eligibility to include previously omitted art forms, like performance artists, socially-engaged artists, craftspeople, and designers. 

Arguing that the BIA pays for itself in economic returns, Praxis warns this expansion should not come at the expense of other arts agencies, which also deserve resources, attention, and support. “The arts sector needs more funding, not less,” the letter reads. 

O’Donovan agrees. Given her experience, she says the BIA should be one part of a “bigger ecosystem” that helps the arts sector thrive, and allows artists to be fairly compensated for their work. “I think what people don't understand about being an artist is how much work you do that goes unpaid,” she says. “Having the basic income means that I'm still able to live and I'm still able to work.” 

The pilot program was originally set to end in December 2025, but has now been extended to February 2026. From September 2026, it will be a permanent program in the country, although the government has not defined eligibility criteria or the number of recipients moving forward. In an email to The Conversationalist, a spokesperson for the Department of Culture, Communications and Sport writes that “details such as the duration, eligibility and selection method… have not yet been decided.” 

Cutaya says, so far, they’ve also been left in the dark about the expanded program’s specifics, something especially concerning because, while the program was initially launched under a progressive coalition government, the current government is conservative. “We know very little at this stage,” Cutaya says, but adds that Praxis is holding out hope their input will be taken into consideration as the program evolves. 

This lack of transparency has also left current BIA recipients in the dark, unsure of how they will support themselves in the gap between February and September. “Realistically I'll just have to start working again,” O’Donovan says. “It feels like a shame. I'm really grateful to have had these three years where I've been able to work full-time as an artist because very few people who aren't on the basic income can afford that.” 

Reflecting on how public arts funding is the first to be cut during economic hardship, Lombardi wishes that society at large would recognize the inherent value of artists’ labor for the mental health and wellbeing of the general population. “Imagine life without art,” Lombardi says, pointing to how artists played a key role in keeping people sane during the pandemic. “Imagine for six months, there is no art. You can't watch stuff, you can't read stuff, you can't go out and see stuff. You can't sing, there's no music, there's nothing. The only thing is work and sports. That's it. The decrease in mental health would be astounding, people would go around the bend.” 

Having access to the most basic resources to be able to live while working in your preferred profession shouldn’t be a privilege for the few: Everyone deserves what the BIA has provided to artists for the last three years. But as too many places proverbially edge closer to the dystopia Lombardi describes, the BIA might be seen as a place to begin to reimagine how we value and fund the arts moving forward. Whether it’s an album, a painting, a play, a movie, a live band—whatever your preferred mode of expression—the arts remind us of the wonders of life, forcing us to see the beauty in between work shifts and growth indicators. Fair pay to the workers who deliver those reminders to the general population, then, is urgent; otherwise, we risk a world without fascination. The findings of the BIA pilot reveal the systemic flaws of how society treats its artists, and beyond the stipend, point to more hopeful solutions on the path to a world where art and artists are truly valued.

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A two-panel illustration of a person with a flower head; in the first, the bud is closed, and in the second, the flower is in bloom.

Painting a More Hopeful Future

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    [post_author] => 15
    [post_date] => 2026-01-06 06:39:32
    [post_date_gmt] => 2026-01-06 06:39:32
    [post_content] => 

How committing to a weekly neighborhood potluck has both fed and strengthened my community.

There’s a certain serendipity that happens at a potluck. Foods that have never mingled together find themselves side by side: jambalaya in a crockpot, a cardboard pizza box, a plastic tub of Trader Joe’s hummus, a platter of gluten-free brownies. None of it really makes sense when scooped together onto a plate, but all of the flavors blend like fast friends—and if you’re lucky, oftentimes, the people do, too.

It’s another Monday night, which for me, means another neighborhood potluck. Every week, a group of us meets in the same grassy area by the bay in our neighborhood outside of Providence, Rhode Island. This week, I brought a pesto pasta salad with random veggies I found in our fridge; last week, it was leftover ribs my husband made over the weekend; the week before, a bag of chips and salsa. As we set up shop on a foldout table, I can see the curious faces of people driving and biking by, wondering what the heck is going on. But for us, it’s just another Monday night. People start trickling in around 5:30pm and stay until the sun goes down. We catch up on each other’s lives, and watch the kids run around while helping ourselves to a second plate. Then, we pack up our things and say our goodbyes, knowing we’ll see each other again next week.

While these gatherings now feel like a staple in my life, I first learned the magic of weekly potlucks a few years ago, in my old neighborhood in New Orleans, Louisiana. It was 2022, and we were still feeling a bit socially raw, fresh out of our Covid bubbles. A neighbor friend started a group text, inviting us to gather every Monday at the playground for a whatever-you-have-lying-around potluck dinner and a good hang.  

At first, the weekly cadence sounded like… a lot. Weekly? Really? Could my social battery handle it? 

Yet after the first few months, it started feeling like an important ritual, and after the first year, it felt like a sacred space. The regular cadence was key. It allowed us to check in on each other and get to know our week-to-week rhythms. I could ask how Jen’s doctor’s appointment went last week, or if Joel had recipe-tested the chicken and dumplings he was planning for his upcoming popup restaurant. When I wanted someone to be my accountability-buddy to do that yoga class I kept swearing I’d do, I could ask if anyone else had been looking for an accountability-buddy, too. And with the standing weekly gatherings, all of this could happen in an intentional way, our commitment to a weekly meal slowly blossoming into something more. 

After spending a couple of years social-distancing and mostly avoiding group gatherings, our neighborhood potlucks also felt like a joyful and much-needed form of social fitness, something scientifically proven to be just as important to our well-being as physical exercise. Maybe you’ve heard of Harvard's 85-year happiness study? It started in 1938 and followed 724 participants from their teens to old age. The participants regularly answered questions about their health and habits, their income and relationships, their joys and disappointments. The study also incorporated insights from their spouses and 1,300 of their descendants. 

What did the study find to be the most important factor in determining a long and happy life? Strong, supportive relationships. Not cholesterol levels, or how many kettlebells you’ve lifted (although those things are important, too!)—but genuine human connection. It was a stronger indicator for happiness than even genetic predispositions, social class, or IQ. 

This was also precisely what many of us were so starved for back in 2022. As the weeks went by, it felt like we had cracked the code to maintaining a genuine closeness with our neighbors. I also realized it wasn’t just the shared meal that was feeding us and allowing for deeper relationships to grow: It was our commitment to having it in the first place. 

In New Orleans, I experienced the fruits of this firsthand. A group of us kept showing up, kept checking in on each other, kept extending the invite to other neighbor friends, and kept feeling the goodness of our Monday merriment spilling into the rest of the week. It was something to look forward to, something that consistently got our weeks started on a hopeful note. The Sunday scaries felt almost cured by the Monday potluck magic. 

It was also a weekly reminder that, no matter what else was happening in the world, we were all still here, still showing up, and still feeding each other—with food, with friendship, with community, with care. 

This commitment never felt burdensome, but instead, like a newfound necessity. In the age of TikToking your way down the street and scrolling in bed until you fall asleep, people are overconnected but undercommitted. Relationships, however, are built on commitment—and at least according to the Harvard study’s findings, that means our happiness is built on commitment, too. It’s a muscle to exercise like any other, and when we allow it to atrophy, our communities tend to suffer. But when we put the effort into consistently exercising it, our relationships and our communities begin to bloom.

It still impresses me that we managed to meet up every week for over a year, even with small kids and busy jobs and all the rest. I believe a big part of this was probably the fact that we met in a public space (the neighborhood playground), that was walking distance for all of us (no driving required), which also meant that nobody had to host (no need to clean your house).

The not-hosting part felt especially important. Nobody had to stress about people coming over and nobody had to deal with washing the dishes since we BYO’d our own plates and cutlery. We also never felt the pressure to bring anything fancy, a rule we established early on. One week it might be a bag of chips and the next it might be leftover birthday cake and maybe the next it would be homemade enchiladas if you had a little more time to cook. It all evens out in the potluck wash. And when everyone brings something, everyone leaves full. 

When I moved to Rhode Island in 2024, I knew I had to keep my potluck muscles active in order to keep this little bit of magic alive, too.

I started a Whatsapp group and kept adding new neighbor friends to join as I met them. I scheduled the first potluck as a test run, just a couple months after we’d moved into our house. Given the big turnout (close to 40 people), I knew it could be a regular thing, so we started it up in earnest in the summer when the weather was more reliably outdoor-friendly. My husband and I began sending out a reminder on Monday mornings. And for the regular crew that started showing up each week, and telling other people to join, the potluck magic alchemized just as it had in New Orleans. I felt especially proud when I started seeing people I didn’t recognize who had heard about it through the neighborhood grapevine.

Every Monday, we’d arrive at the park with our foldout table and gingham tablecloth (adding a tablecloth instantly makes any gathering feel more special). For a quick second, I’d worry that nobody would show up. I’d feel a bit self-conscious, then I’d remember that even if nobody came, I’d still be outside eating with my family, which is a gift on its own. 

I wouldn’t take it personally if people couldn’t make it (although a younger version of myself probably would have). But sure enough, people always did, and a mishmash of dishes would start appearing on the table. Hot dogs and mini quiche? Sure, why not! Barbecue ribs and a mountain of edamame? I mean, yeah, let’s do this! The neighborhood kids would run around on the grass and inevitably start piling on top of each other, like a Polaroid snapshot from 1995. No iPads or AI or any other tech-y shenanigans. Just some good ole wholesome potluck fun.

After a full summer of weekly potlucks, however, it became clear that one major difference between New Orleans and New England is, well, winter. In New Orleans, we could keep the weekly cadence humming along for most of the year. The summer heat and storm season did force some cancelations, but in Rhode Island, the days started growing dark by 6 p.m. and it was puffy coat season by Halloween, so we had to “close for the season” in October. 

“I really miss our Monday potlucks,” neighbor friends have told me recently. Some have even offered to host in their homes, but this feels like breaking a key tenet. Removing the hosting pressure is a big part of what keeps our potlucks running so smoothly and solidly, so inclusively and so stress-freely. 

While I know it’ll come back in full force once the weather warms up and the sunlight stretches back into dinner hours, I can still feel my potluck muscle craving exercise. We’ve been looking into community spaces that might be willing to host us during the winter, such as the library or the masonic center a few blocks away. Or the old-school bowling alley, which has some tables in the back. We’ve also been brainstorming other ways to stay connected during the colder, darker months. Perhaps a weekly walking club around the neighborhood? Or a soup swap (like a cookie swap, but for soup)? 

But I also know that rest is important when it comes to exercise, too. And it’s during this wintry off-season that I’m discovering how much the seedlings of our summer potluck friendships have sprouted. People are still texting each other to check in, still asking each other for HVAC repair advice and babysitter recommendations. And thankfully I still have my accountability buddy checking in on how we might move our bodies this winter — she just suggested a 30-day “gentle burn workout” with short daily videos, asking if we could text each other once we’ve finished each as motivation and a healthy bit of peer pressure.   

A potluck, of course, isn’t the only way to nurture and maintain our relationships, but it’s one that’s made me feel particularly hopeful. Commitment begets commitment, and makes the muscle stronger, something we can feel even when it’s not in use. 

Bringing people together on a regular basis is also a reminder that small rituals can add up to something much bigger. In the months since our last potluck, our Providence community has been deeply hurting following the horrific mass shooting that took place at Brown University in December. We’ve been checking in on our neighbors, and feeling a wide range of emotions: grief, sadness, anger, anxiety, and heartbreak. But as we continue to grieve, our commitment to holding space for each other gives me hope that we’ll live another day, and share another meal, and continue to show up for each other, again and again.  

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An illustration of six pairs of hands holding out various dishes of food over a grassy expanse.

A Helping of Something Hopeful

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    [post_date] => 2026-01-05 08:02:34
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    [post_content] => 

How door-knocking for Mayor Mamdani restored my faith in the power of organized people to defeat organized money.

The thought of knocking on a stranger’s door once filled me with dread. It sounded uncomfortable at best, and potentially humiliating, or dangerous, at worst. What if someone slammed the door in my face or said something memorably vicious? I’m a 43-year-old white woman, raised in an upper-middle-class home in Buffalo, New York. My parents, respectively descended from Eastern European Jews and Sicilian Catholics, discussed politics and occasionally attended protests, but knocking on strangers’ doors wasn’t a big part of my childhood. 

Yet in the last eight years, as I’ve gotten older and more politically active, I've begun to grasp the value of pushing through that discomfort. In April, before the summer’s Democratic primary, I started knocking on doors for then-New York City mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani, and continued through Election Day in November. Altogether, I knocked on approximately 2,000 doors, usually with a partner, which was more fun and comfortable, if less efficient, than going alone.

Door-knocking shifts for Mamdani regularly drew dozens of New Yorkers, even in terrible weather, and on Monday and Tuesday nights, when fewer people are motivated to go out after work. I mostly knocked on doors in Brooklyn, where I live, but my fellow canvassers came from all over the city. Some were ideologically motivated, while others had concrete, pragmatic reasons for showing up, like the woman I met who joined a canvass because “the bus I took to get here took 40 minutes to make two stops.” (Making buses fast and free was one of Mamdani’s signature campaign promises.) Or the 40-something Afro-Latino couple who said they came out for the sake of their children’s future, because “right now, things aren’t looking so good.” Other first-time canvassers I encountered included a soft-spoken young woman named Fatima, a heavily tattooed, outgoing 20-something Asian-American guy, a shy middle schooler with her immigrant dad, and a young white man who praised the campaign's “immaculate vibes.”

Together, we reportedly knocked on over 3 million doors

One reason Mamdani means so much to so many New Yorkers is that he assembled a 100,000-person volunteer army—the largest in municipal history, and one of the most diverse. His volunteer base included young and middle-aged progressives of all stripes, and a substantial subset of Jewish New Yorkers, South Asians, and Muslims. Getting to know my fellow canvassers for hours and months at a time as we worked to expand that coalition was an extraordinary project in a perilous time for democracy. It demonstrated the hope that tens of thousands of us still feel, and how hard we are willing to work to make life better for ourselves and our neighbors. 

Given how many doors we knocked throughout the city's five boroughs, the New Yorkers we reached were even more varied than the volunteers. During one general election canvassing shift in Kensington, a young Black woman opened the door to me and my friend Tania, who is Jewish. Although she didn’t initially recognize Mamdani’s name, as we went into our spiel, she realized he was the candidate her boyfriend had urged her to vote for. “Normally I wouldn’t tell a woman to do what her boyfriend says, but in this case, he’s right!” Tania said. (Our new friend smiled.) 

Another striking moment came when an older man in South Brooklyn’s Sunset Park unsmilingly asked if I were Mamdani’s daughter. He seemed to be trying to determine why I was volunteering for a man to whom I had no apparent ethnic or religious ties. Why else would I be doing this? Mamdani was not, in fact, my father, I explained, but I believed so strongly in his agenda that I was volunteering anyway. The man kept his face blank. I wondered when someone had last knocked on his door. 

Another day in Sunset Park, an older Spanish-speaking woman thanked me and my partner, who also spoke Spanish, for volunteering. She invited us into her home, where she and a small circle of relatives were celebrating her 90-year-old father’s birthday with balloons and cake. I’ll never forget the warmth and intimacy she offered us as total strangers.

In the last eight months, I’ve met Mamdani fans from Ireland, Germany, Sweden, Australia, and Canada. None could vote or contribute to the campaign, but some shadowed canvassers and interviewed volunteers, most commonly because they belonged to left-wing political parties and hoped to reproduce his success at home. Although he often emphasized that he was running a local race to benefit New Yorkers, it was clear Mamdani was also inspiring admirers around the world.

In addition to many happy, surprising, and rewarding encounters, I had my share of the awkward, unsettling, and agitating. There was the woman who saw my “New York Jews for Zohran” shirt and pretended to retch; when I moved toward her, thinking she might need help, she screamed, “That was about you, because you want my children dead!” There was the super who ordered us out of his building because we were supporting a candidate who, he falsely believes, “wants to kill all the Jews.” Another woman called my friend Allie “Nazi scum” and said she should just “put on the burqa [Mamdani will require] right now.”

Moments like these were reminders of the ugly racism our politics so often exposes. They shook me: I am rarely around people who would speak this way to anyone, let alone a stranger. But they also strengthened my resolve to work for and with people who lead with love, respect, and decency, and model those traits for others.

As of last week, New Yorkers have made one such person our mayor.

Just before the polls closed on Election Night, Tania and I met a man with two little girls with him on the street in Park Slope. He hadn’t planned to vote and realized he couldn’t make it to his polling site in time with the kids. After he left, I joked that we should have offered to babysit: “We can start delivering on Mamdani’s promise of free child care right away!” We were giddy with pre-election anxiety, and desperate to turn out every last vote.

A short time later, once it was clear Mamdani had won, my friends and I experienced one of the happiest moments of our lives. We were weeping and hugging and singing and cheering at what we’d accomplished together. All the neighbors we’d met on the ground were reflected in the voting blocs he’d won: older, moderate Black voters; young voters, including but not limited to white socialists; and immigrants, Muslim and non-Muslim alike. I’d knocked on doors before, but Mamdani’s campaign showed me just how powerful it could be.

Later, I wondered if we’d ever find a way to recapture that feeling and use it to drive ourselves forward in less happy and hopeful times. Could we love each other enough to keep doing the work that only occasionally produces such moments, even in times when there’s no end, and no payoff, in sight?

I’m still not sure how we’ll navigate this fundamental challenge of organizing. But being part of a political project that attracted the passionate support of New Yorkers in all five boroughs, and sympathizers around the world, has restored my faith in the power of organized people to defeat organized money. And although a huge part of Mamdani's appeal is that he ran on improving New Yorkers' daily lives, he also showed that grassroots campaigning works—and that contemporary politics can be a joyful and loving project that brings people together, rather than an ugly spectacle that thrives on negative attention, exploits our fears, fills us with anxiety, turns neighbors against each other, and leaves us feeling empty, sad, bitter, and alone.

In canvassing for Mamdani and other DSA-backed candidates, I saw how much people are craving community, connection, and fun. We need to create more opportunities like this—to move joyfully toward something, rather than slogging through a sales pitch for a mediocre candidate who’s better than their opponent in hopes of slowing what feels like an endless parade of horrors. In the last year—still emerging from the long shadow of a global pandemic—I’ve embraced more near-strangers than I had in the previous five. Now, there’s a bracing sense of possibility in the air—the unfamiliar feeling that good things can still happen, and we can make them.

[post_title] => Knocking On Hope's Door [post_excerpt] => How door-knocking for Mayor Mamdani restored my faith in the power of organized people to defeat organized money. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => hope-week-door-knocking-new-york-city-mayor-zohran-mamdani-politics-election [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2026-01-13 18:46:44 [post_modified_gmt] => 2026-01-13 18:46:44 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://conversationalist.org/?p=9905 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )
An illustration of a woman facing a man and opening a door where the front of his face should be.

Knocking On Hope’s Door

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    [post_date] => 2025-12-29 23:35:11
    [post_date_gmt] => 2025-12-29 23:35:11
    [post_content] => 

From new releases to new translations, everything worth adding to your TBR pile next year.

Book cover for The Emperor of Gladness by Ocean Vuong.

The Emperor of Gladness
by Ocean Vuong

My favorite book of the year was The Emperor of Gladness by Ocean Vuong, which lived up to its hype. It features Hai, a dropout and addict who is saved from jumping off a bridge by Grazina, an elderly woman with dementia. He becomes her caretaker and roommate, and they develop an odd, moving relationship that reaches across generations and connects their shared immigrant experience. It’s also a story about getting by in a backwater town (East Gladness, Connecticut), and the found family Hai makes working at a Boston Market type chain. I loved Vuong’s poetic sensibilities in his last novel, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, and his latest felt like the author stretching his wings.

Anna Lind-Guzik, Founder

Book cover for No Fault by Haley Mlotek.

No Fault: A Memoir of Romance and Divorce
by Haley Mlotek

I loved No Fault, writer Haley Mlotek's cultural history of divorce, for the way it combines historical research with literary analysis, and for how Mlotek weaves the story of her own divorce through it all. It's a moving inquiry into big topics (love, marriage, family, partnership, community, autonomy) that feels like an honest conversation with a trusted friend. I came away from this book thinking differently about our cultural scripts for romance and separation, but also about the various couplings and splits that have shaped my life and those of the people I love.

Marissa Lorusso, Newsletter Editor

The Obscene Madame D
by Hilda Hilst, translated by Nathanaël

I've long been curious about Brazilian writer Hilda Hilst, whose work was only translated into English for the first time in 2012, nearly a decade after her death. The Obscene Madame D—a slim and profane novella about a 60-year-old woman named Hillé who goes "insane" following the death of her lover—did not disappoint. I read it in one sitting, allowing myself to be carried along the current of Hilst's existential contemplations about grief and God and sex and sanity. I've since learned fellow Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector was a friend and fan, and I can see it. But having read (and loved) both, I think Hilst is more absurd; more corporeal. This book felt like sinking into a fever dream, and achieved the rare feat of both making me laugh out loud and sending me into a philosophical spiral. (Note: A new edition of The Obscene Madame D was released earlier this year by Pushkin Press, but I nabbed myself a secondhand copy from Nightboat, Hilst's original U.S. publisher, which is the edition included here.)

Gina Mei, Executive Editor

Airplane Mode: An Irreverent History of Travel
by Shahnaz Habib

I'm obsessed with Airplane Mode: An Irreverent History of Travel by Shahnaz Habib. For the factoid or wanderlust lover, this book explains the modern history of travel and explores the theme of colonization through a traveler mindset. Most travel books are written by white authors, so I also found it extremely refreshing to see travel from Shahnaz's perspective. This book opened my eyes to topics like passport privilege and even how Thai food's popularity in the U.S. began. If you've ever said, "I love to travel," Airplane Mode is essential reading.

Kiera Wright-Ruiz, Social Media Manager

Little Witch Hazel
by Phoebe Wahl

As a mom of two young kids, I read a lot of children's books, and one that I keep coming back to is Little Witch Hazel by Phoebe Wahl. The book is divided into four seasons, and during each season—in the blossom-filled spring, in the carefree summer, during spooky season, and in the snow—the kind witch makes house calls throughout the forest to help her animal neighbors and deepen her community. Hazel is a midwife, a mystery solver, and an always kind-hearted friend. Each time we read it together, my daughter and I discover new details in the illustrations that we hadn't noticed before. It's a delightful escape to another world and reminds me how important it is to show up for our neighbors throughout the seasons.

Erin Zimmer Strenio, Executive Director

Cursed Daughters
by Oyinkan Braithwaite

When I picked up Oyinkan Braithwaite's Cursed Daughters at the Lagos airport in November, my flight had been delayed. It was a happy coincidence to be able to start reading it when I had some unexpected free time, as I'd been meaning to get it since its September release. The problem came days after, when between some busy reporting days and visiting family I don't get to see very often, I found it difficult to put the book down. 

Braithwaite's Cursed Daughters is an intergenerational story about Nigerian (Yoruba) women in a family, the Faloduns, who are quite literally cursed in their love lives. The story oscillates between different time periods and marks how culture and tradition can evolve—or not—in different eras we think of as contemporary. Aside from the witty writing and plot, what I loved most about it was its mix of originality while also exploring a familiar subject that I think anyone from anywhere can relate to. Without giving too much away, I think what impresses me most about Braithwaite's writing is that she manages to avoid obvious clichés about Nigerian sensibilities and how family obligations work, and instead offers the nuance so many of us observe and live in.

Before I'd finished, while still in Nigeria, one of my aunts managed to convince me to leave the book behind for her to read. Reluctantly, I did, then almost immediately ordered another copy so I could pick up from where I left off as soon as I got home. 

Kovie Biakolo, Contributing Editor

Mỹ Documents
by Kevin Nguyen

Months after finishing this book, I'm still baffled at how Kevin managed to write something so eerily prophetic. Mỹ Documents takes place in a not-really-that-dystopian timeline where, following a slate of domestic terrorist attacks, the U.S. begins rounding up Vietnamese Americans and sending them to internment camps. The book centers on four "cousins" from the same family, and their vastly different experiences of survival over the years the order is in effect. Mỹ Documents doesn't shy away from the obvious parallels to the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II (and, in fact, specifically admonishes one of the characters for not knowing their Asian American history), but instead shows how easily history can and does repeat itself. Somehow, Kevin handles this with both the weight it deserves, and a good sense of humor, the moments of levity so necessary, and so human, they make the rest of the book feel like a punch to the face.

G.M.

Underland: A Deep Time Journey
by Robert MacFarlane

This book came to me as a recommendation from a friend, who highly encouraged me to read it because of our shared love of nature, adventure, and musings on the great unknown. MacFarlane is an explorer who writes in a captivating, vivid way about his experiences and interactions with some of the most interesting environments and people on the planet. He hones in on the idea of "deep time" and how there is a relativity to experience depending on where and how we live. Underland is filled with wonderful explorations of caverns, catacombs, glaciers, mountains, and more...all with insightful history of both the places and people who dare to explore them to their fullest (or "deepest"). 

Jessica Granato, Executive Assistant

Lili is Crying
by Hélène Bessette, translated by Kate Briggs

A cult classic when it came out in France in the 1950s, Lili is Crying was translated into English for the first time this year, and is the most "holy shit"-worthy cautionary tale against codependency I've ever read. With sparse language, and stylistic choices that blur the lines between narration and inner monologue, Lili is Crying is a book about a mother and daughter's increasingly unhinged relationship, told over the course of the daughter's lifetime. Charlotte (the mother) emerges as an all-time literary villain, insidious and manipulative and cruel. Lili (the daughter), meanwhile, more than lives up to the title: She spends most of the book in tears. Despite multiple attempts at detangling herself from her mother, she just can't seem to leave her behind. While definitively a work of literary fiction, after finishing it, I texted a friend who works in film and TV that it would make a hell of a horror movie. This is my official plea for someone to please make it.

G.M.

[post_title] => The Best Books We Read in 2025 [post_excerpt] => From new releases to new translations, everything worth adding to your TBR pile next year. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => best-books-2025-reads-tbr-ocean-vuong-oyinkan-braithwaite-haley-mlotek-hilda-hilst-shahnaz-habib-phoebe-wahl-robert-macfarlane-kevin-nguyen-helene-bessette [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2026-01-15 21:43:21 [post_modified_gmt] => 2026-01-15 21:43:21 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://conversationalist.org/?p=9866 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )
The oil painting "Reading" by Georges Croegaert, depicting a woman lying back on a couch and reading a book.

The Best Books We Read in 2025

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    [post_content] => 

How women crab farmers along India's coast have linked their livelihoods to environmental conservation.

A soft current ripples near Jamdulwadi Island as 15-year-old Prachi Santosh Acharekar guides her canoe through the gnarled trunks of a mangrove forest.

The afternoon sun warms the surface of the water, revealing a familiar scene to local communities around India’s Konkan coast: clusters of mud-covered crabs, basking on branches.

As she approaches them, she slows her boat. Prachi, a 10th-standard student, doesn’t just see mud crabs: She sees her future. Her focused gaze and deft handling of the boat are part of her autodidactic training, a testament to a burgeoning passion that runs deep within the Acharekar family. 

Prachi Santosh Acharekar navigating her canoe through the mangroves, a part of her crab farming training.

Champions of the Mangroves

In Achara village, where she lives, crab farming season typically runs from October to May. When Prachi is fully inducted into her family’s business in about three years, during this time, she’ll be busy with preparations, stocking seed, feeding the crabs, and folding boxes to safely transport them once they’ve been harvested. 

All of it will also formalize her role in a grassroots movement, led by women from India’s coastal belt: In Sindhudurg, women fisherfolk have become champions in linking their livelihoods with environmental conservation. Through crab farming, they’ve created a strong incentive to protect local mangroves, which serve as critical nursery habitats for mangrove crabs. The benefits of this are both economical and ecological: Alongside generating sustainable income for the women, the mangroves’ preservation stabilizes shorelines and mitigates erosion, enhancing coastal resilience against the impacts of climate change. 

At the heart of this enterprise is Prachi’s aunt, 55-year-old Sonali Sunil Acharekar, a proud entrepreneur and leading member of Konkansparsh, one of Maharashtra’s pioneering women-led self-help groups (SHGs). Like all women of this SHG, for her, the mangrove is not just an ecosystem, but a dynamic marketplace.

“Be it dolphin safari, trekking, birdwatching, or traditional fishing, we do it all at Konkansparsh,” says Sonali, sitting in a charpoy at her home, surrounded by a vast area of mangroves. “But crab farming is our speciality. It is something we feel deeply attached to.”

Sonali and other leaders manage the entire crab farming supply chain, from feeding and harvesting the crabs to selling them. The process is meticulous but straightforward. Crab seeds are carefully placed one-by-one into fiber boxes. Each box is then deployed within the protected mangrove territories of Sindhudurg district, which boasts 6,940 hectares of mangroves perfectly suited for farming. Sonali also feeds the small raw fish stock twice daily, in the morning and evening. Then, once the crabs are ready, they’re harvested, boxed, and sold. 

Sonali Sunil Acharekar in the backyard of her home in Achara village.

Overseeing the entire operation in this way has significantly enhanced the women’s access to resources, as well as to the market. The payoff is also demonstrable, including as a sustainable model: Last year, the Acharekar family, a seven-member unit that works in tandem, generated an impressive 150,000 INR ($1,706 USD) from the sale of 180 crabs. They also earned an additional 130,000 INR ($1,466 USD) from running mangrove safaris. 

“It feels so good to partake in the process,” says Sonali. “This year, we intend to maintain 200 boxes fully. More boxes mean more business and more business means more prosperity.”

Their success also reinforces a crucial ecological benefit: According to research published in the Marine Biological Association of India, mud crab farming is not only a sustainable—and profitable—livelihood, but an essential strategy for mangrove conservation, supporting the region’s climate resilience through ecosystem protection. The mangroves provide a conducive natural habitat for raising mud crabs, or green crabs, commonly from the species Scylla serrata, which are indigenous to the region. By breeding and harvesting crabs, and building and tending to crabs pens in mangrove creeks, the women have both created a financial incentive for the mangroves' protection and helped to increase the local crab population.

In coastal areas, crabs are considered an economically significant species due to their huge demand. The crabs themselves can also tolerate a wide range of temperatures and salinities without destroying local ecosystems. But over the years, sand mining, saltwater intrusion, and rising water temperatures have contributed to a declining mud crab population, and are just a few of the ongoing stresses and trends that fisher communities have dealt with, and that local SHGs hope to tackle. 

A wild baby crab crawls on the trunk of a mangrove tree.

In other coastal communities like Kerala, Maharashtra’s neighboring state, crab farmers who once caught wild juvenile crabs and had plentiful stock are grappling with rising costs and dwindling returns, as crabs have become scarce and stressed. Their annual incomes have dropped by 50,000 INR to 100,000 INR (around $600 USD to $1,200 USD) due to poor water quality, causing frequent disease outbreaks, pushing many farmers to downsize or cease operations altogether, largely due to reduced harvests linked to environmental degradation.

Sustainable crab models in coastal communities in Maharashtra aim to address the pressing problems of overfishing, habitat loss, and food insecurity through long-term economic stability. But without such practices, crab harvesting may yield fleeting profits, triggering ecological collapse and harm to a region’s inhabitants.

In addition to boosting the economy, this is part of why the SHG’s endeavors have been such a great boon to the area.

According to Kedar Palav, Livelihood Specialist at Sindhudurg’s Mangrove Foundation, women-led groups comprising 40 women have been active in Sindhudurg district during the 2024-25 crab farming season. “Our aim,” he notes, “is to facilitate strong livelihood opportunities for the women.”

Sonali Sunil Acharekar (left) and her niece Prachi Santosh Acharekar (center) in conversation with Mayur Pansare (right), a Project Assistant for the Mangrove Foundation.

But even those with formal careers are drawn to the potential. Sonali’s 32-year-old son, Omprakash Sunil Achrekar, an engineering graduate, has embraced crab farming full-time; and Manish Tari, 22, an undergraduate in fisheries science, launched Manish Agro & Seafood with his father during the Covid-19 pandemic, specializing in vertical crab farming.

“We deal in red and green crabs,” says Tari. “A single piece per kilo can go up to 2,400 INR. It’s very lucrative.”

Navigating the Tides

Despite the economic potential, the journey is not without profound risks and hurdles. The most immediate occupational hazard, however, is theft.

“Theft of crabs is a big problem here,” says Sonali. “Sometimes diseases can spread in the backwaters, as well…A mortality rate of 20 percent is considered normal.”

It’s a challenge that has historically forced some farmers out of business. Samiksha Gaonkar, 50, from Pirawadi village, recalls being part of Sindhudurg’s very first crab culture group, which operated between 2014 to 2019. Despite each group member earning around 5000 INR per month, they were forced to shut down.

“Our crabs got suddenly stolen,” says Samiksha. “We could not keep a check on the thefts and then we had to pull out.”

Anagarajan Joshi, 58, a former crab farmer, at her friend’s home in Pirawadi village.

Another hurdle is the scarcity of crab seed. According to Palav, there is only one hatchery in India: the Rajiv Gandhi Centre for Aquaculture (RGCA) in the southernmost state of Tamil Nadu. 

Sanjeevni Santosh Mithbavker, 43, a member of the Vedoleshwar SHG, says crab farming has become more difficult as a result. “We lack seed,” she says. “If the supply of seed becomes easy, we can take this business forward.” 

Despite the scarcity, Sanjeevni sold crabs worth 60,000 INR last season. But while business is “great,” seed still costs 25 to 30 INR for a single piece—makings it an expensive venture for the average crab farmer.

A Wave of Resilience 

To counter these challenges, government and non-governmental efforts have actively focused their support on the most vulnerable communities, placing women at the forefront.

Government initiatives such as the Mangrove Conservation and Livelihood Generation Scheme, alongside international projects like Enhancing Climate Resilience of India’s Coastal Communities (ECRICC), have been instrumental in fostering local interest in Sindhudurg’s coastal villages, including Achara and Hadi. As part of the Mangrove Foundation’s intervention, women’s groups also receive substantial training and support, including expert talks, presentations, and hands-on workshops that offer extensive practical training. 

On the ground, additional support comes from 34 Sagar Mitras—fisheries graduates who act as vital resources for the women. Mayur Vinayak Pansare, Project Assistant with the Mangrove Foundation, sees themselves in a family-like role. While they occasionally help fix issues, like crabs breaking through fiber boxes, he says, “It’s heartwarming to see these women coming forward and taking steps towards self-reliance.”

Sanjeevni Santosh Mithbavker, 43, mends nets at her home in Hadi village.

The financial assistance is also significant: The Achrekar family, for instance, received a substantial 90 percent subsidy from the Department of Fisheries and the Mangrove Foundation. Between 2021 and 2025, larger initiatives like the Pradhan Mantri Machi Sampada have backed an additional 124 fisheries projects, with women as a remarkable 60 percent of beneficiaries between 2021 and 2025, says Bahar Vithala Mahakal, Sindhudurg District Program Manager at the Fisheries Department.

This focus is clear across other programs, too: The Sindu Ratna Samrudhi Scheme saw a 70 percent rise in female beneficiaries in a single year, between 2022 and 2023.

Planting the Future

Women’s presence as crab sellers in Sindhudurg’s main fish market signals a generational shift in the industry: They’re taking center stage in an otherwise male-dominated marketplace. For Dakshita (who asked we only use her first name), her presence here is about more than selling her own yield—she’s also reclaiming a little more of herself. 

“What is the need for middlemen when I can run my own business?” she says, waiting for customers.

Dakshita, 50, sells green crabs at the Malvan fish market in Sindhudurg.

In Prachi’s case, the journey towards self-reliance began slowly. She initially “harbored no interest in crab farming.” But witnessing her family’s dedication and serving as a guide for tourists through the vibrant backwaters transformed her perspective, converting her initial disinterest into a passion.

In the shifting tides of the Maharashtra coast, Prachi represents the strong voice of a younger generation, seamlessly blending tradition with science to carve a new path forward. For them, crabs are the ‘green gold,’ promising economic returns.

While elder members strengthen their place in the market, Prachi is now articulating a dream that links her environment to her education, which she plans to pursue further by studying Marine Science.

“By protecting the mangroves, my crabs thrive,” she says. “The mangroves in return protect my family from storms, erosion, and the rising sea.”

A view of a mountain village in Sindhudurg.

In the nearby pond, Prachi and Sonali have also started to plant new mangrove saplings. Other efforts at sustainability have only grown. In 2017, scientists visited the area and told local crab farmers that in order to have a better catch, they needed to maintain cleaner water. To boost women’s participation in local water and pond management, women farmers are now being trained to regularly flush water through the crab ponds for freshness, monitor water quality, and prevent overcrowding. Since then, they’ve seen the return of many new birds in the area, from cattle egret to common sandpiper and Indian pond heron.

The tides speak louder than people in Sindhudurg’s coastal communities, and for these powerful women, mangroves stand like guardians along the coast. The more they nurture the mangroves, the more the mangroves give back to them, too. It’s a quiet partnership in nature, this connection between crab farmers and the mangrove forests, and a small step in healing the Earth.

[post_title] => Guardians of the Mangroves [post_excerpt] => How women crab farmers along India's coast have linked their livelihoods to environmental conservation. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => crab-farmers-farming-aquaculture-india-mangroves-conservation-climate-change-ecosystem [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2025-12-17 18:26:06 [post_modified_gmt] => 2025-12-17 18:26:06 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://conversationalist.org/?p=9839 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )

Guardians of the Mangroves

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An essay about fibroids, and the time I bled on the floor at work.

Several years ago, I had an operation to remove eight uterine fibroids. One was roughly the size of a grapefruit; another, an orange.

Despite the hour-long cardio kickboxing class I was then taking five times a week, I had been putting on weight—probably just muscle mass, I’d deludedly thought at the time. But my abdomen was noticeably protruding, and I had gone from having heavy periods to bleeding uncontrollably at times that were unconnected to my usual menstrual cycle. I looked and felt like I was four months pregnant, minus the motherly glow: all of the eerie, alien sensations of pregnancy with none of the compensations of a yearned-for baby. I could feel the fibroids’ taut mass when I woke up in the morning, like a brick in my belly, and I had to pee constantly—so much and so often that I was afraid to go anywhere without knowing where the nearest bathroom was. I knew, as you often do, that something was wrong.

Fibroids are uterine muscle cells that grow in a ball or clump. They can be as small as a pea, or as large as a full-term baby. They can grow inside or outside of the uterus, directly on the uterine wall, or from a “stalk” made of smooth muscle cells.

They’re also incredibly common: Many women have them, but you wouldn’t necessarily know unless you had symptoms. Black women are more likely than other women to get them, and more likely to need treatment. Larger fibroids and those that grow at the end of the vaginal tract can make penetrative sex painful—something I never experienced, though they did shrink my once prodigious libido, as neither the word “fibroids” nor the thing itself is a known aphrodisiac.

In rare cases, fibroids can resolve on their own. Mine had to be surgically removed because they were causing me to bleed as suddenly and copiously as if I’d been stabbed—including one time when I bled through a super-plus tampon onto the floor at work. A male coworker had pointed out the small puddle of blood forming beneath my desk, wondering aloud where it had come from: Was the ceiling weeping blood, like something out of a horror movie? I pretended I had cut my leg and fled to the ladies’ room, eventually returning, mortified, to mop up the blood with a Lysol wipe. My coworkers were kind enough to accept, and even pretend to believe, the bizarre claim that I had somehow injured my leg, when both were visibly bare and intact.

It wasn’t the first time my fibroids had made themselves known. Several months earlier, I’d bled through an ultra-absorbent tampon at a movie theater while watching a documentary about Ruth Bader Ginsburg. It was summer; I was wearing pale green shorts. When I stood up, rivulets of blood poured down the backs of my legs and pooled in my sneakers.

Another time, despite the presence of another super-plus tampon and a gigantic, diaper-like maxi pad, I ruined a set of white sheets on a bed in a house my parents were renting. My sister-in-law—a social worker who’s seen worse—helped me change the sheets.

Then there was the time I started bleeding heavily while waiting in line for an international flight. The floodgates opened just after an airline employee summoned me, by name, to the check-in desk, where I was asked to produce my passport for a random extra security check. As I boarded the flight, I squeezed my legs together and prayed. During takeoff, I pressed a scratchy airplane blanket into my lap like a tourniquet.

It was in a period of painful transitions that my symptoms were most acute: six failed job interviews and three funerals, two for grandparents and one for my parents’ oldest and closest friend. All the black clothes came in handy. When it got hot again, I bought a hideous, tent-like maxi dress made of thick black cotton. I hated how it looked—too funereal for summer—but loved that it was ankle-length and absorptive. 

After months of heavy bleeding and diagnostic tests—CT scans and ultrasounds and endless consultations—I had a myomectomy. At some point I started looking into what causes fibroids; as with so many medical problems women suffer, the answer was a combination of, “We don’t know” and “Try losing some weight.” Being overweight or obese is a risk factor, as is consuming red meat and alcohol, especially beer. Nulliparity, or never having given birth, is another. I am neither sylphlike nor fat. My weight has fluctuated over the years, but rarely by more than 15 pounds. As far as I know, I have never been pregnant. I have often consumed red meat and alcohol, including beer, though I’ve attempted to rein in these vices as I’ve gotten older. While I don’t blame my love of beer and bacon for my fibroids, it was hard to read about the risk factors without feeling indicted—and, in my case, mulish and defiant. (“Especially beer?” I muttered to myself while researching. “Who came up with this list, my mom?”)

Thinking it might shrink my fibroids to a manageable size or keep them from growing back, and liking the idea of grandkids, my sweet-natured, supportive dad once gently floated pregnancy as a possible solution. I’ve always been ambivalent about motherhood and resent pressure and unsolicited advice of any kind. But it wasn’t a crazy suggestion. I am in a stable and happy long-term relationship with a man who is also ambivalent about parenthood, but would have done his best to knock me up if I’d asked.

Getting pregnant wouldn’t necessarily have solved the problem, either. Pregnancy, with its wild hormone fluctuations and variable uterine blood flow, can shrink fibroids, but it can also cause them to grow. Fibroids can also increase the risk of a miscarriage, premature birth, breech birth, or placental abruption, a serious condition in which the placenta separates from the inner wall of the uterus, potentially causing the person giving birth to bleed heavily and/or cutting off the baby's supply of oxygen and nutrients. In other words, an unexpected pregnancy could shrink my fibroids—or kill me and my baby. And regardless of what I want, part of being a woman is knowing that millions of people around the world would find either scenario acceptable.

After the surgery, I was out of commission for six weeks. It took me a week to have a normal bowel movement again, and more for my energy and strength to return. I was forbidden to engage in any physical activity more strenuous than walking. Just out of the operating room and still doped up, I’d slurred that I was from a family of nurses and social workers (I didn’t mention the lawyers), and that I thought that nurses were underpaid saints. The nurse on duty said, “I like you! I’m gonna put you in one of the good rooms.” It was a private room on a high floor with a stunning view of the East River. My partner folded his large frame onto a tiny couch-bed in the corner and slept there for several nights.

On the first night, two nurses helped me drag my body out of the hospital bed so I could pee. One of the incisions opened up, sending a hefty splash of pooled blood shooting out of my side. It wasn’t painful and I was too out of it to be frightened, but my partner looked like he’d seen a baby get hit by a car. The nurses muscled me back into bed. It turned out I needed a transfusion, which meant lying still for several hours while feeling the prickly, itchy, ghostly sensation of being pumped full of a stranger’s blood. When I moved the wrong way, I’d inadvertently tug on the IV catheter, sending a hot, throbbing ache skittering across the surface of the skin where they’d stuck the needle.

When I was discharged, a kind but stern nurse with a mellifluous Caribbean accent told me not to do any heavy lifting for at least three weeks. “That means no housework—no mopping or vacuuming, nothing like that,” she said. My partner and I grinned at each other. “I mean it, now!” said the nurse, misinterpreting our amusement and sending us into a fit of laughter. She seemed to think I was the kind of woman who can’t stand to keep a filthy house no matter what the doctor says, rather than the kind who lived, for years, alone and happy in a tiny, dusty, book-filled bachelor pad I almost never cleaned.

Fibroids can grow back, and mine did, necessitating another procedure just one year after the first, and another one after that. Each time, I was newly amazed by my body’s fragility and resilience: the skin, so easily pierced, slowly knitting itself back together again; the scars, so angry and ropy and red, fading to pale pink, sliver-like threads over time.

Harder to quantify was the return of my strength and confidence after years of feeling conspicuous and out of control. The fibroids heightened my anxiety—unless or until I get a hysterectomy or undergo menopause, they can always recur. Not knowing how my own body is going to behave at any given moment makes it difficult to stay sanguine. But maybe because I am close to a number of women who regard their own bodies with shame and ambivalence, I’m determined not to be ashamed of mine. I take a certain amount of perverse satisfaction in telling the story of the Time I Bled on the Floor at Work. When it happened, I was profoundly embarrassed but not ashamed, and I still find the whole episode deeply, darkly funny.

A friend once said that he hates bodies and wishes we could exist as pure spirits, free from the constant, undignified labor of keeping our corporeal forms healthy and strong. I often feel this way. At the same time, I am in awe of my body and consider its restoration a minor miracle. I may never be able to master it fully, but I’m grateful I could rebuild and transcend it.

[post_title] => Female Trouble [post_excerpt] => An essay about fibroids, and the time I bled on the floor at work. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => uterine-fibroids-myomectomy-personal-essay-womens-health-bodies [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2025-12-14 00:58:10 [post_modified_gmt] => 2025-12-14 00:58:10 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://conversationalist.org/?p=9828 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )
An illustration of a woman's lower legs. She's wearing black heels and blood is dripping down her leg, forming a puddle on the floor beneath her.

Female Trouble

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    [post_date] => 2025-12-03 18:41:15
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    [post_content] => 

How women play a crucial role in the country's struggle against dictatorship.

Andreina Baduel, a 39-year-old activist from Caracas, Venezuela, had a happy childhood. Growing up with 11 brothers and sisters, she fondly remembers the love and support she received from her parents—how her father frequently took all his children to the beach, or out to dinner at their favorite restaurant. From an early age, she says, her father also instilled in them an appreciation for education, allowing her, in her own words, to "cultivate an intellect and become a better human being.” But at 23, life as Baduel knew it came to an abrupt end when her father was sent to prison. 

“My life came to a standstill,” she recalls. “It was a turning point in our lives that affected so many things.”

Baduel is the daughter of Raúl Isaías Baduel, a retired general of the Venezuelan armed forces and former defense minister under former President Hugo Chávez’s regime. In 2009, he publicly broke with Chávez over constitutional disagreements, and accused the then-president of becoming “increasingly authoritarian.” For his dissent, he was sent to prison for the majority of his remaining life, until his death in 2021. 

After her father’s imprisonment, Baduel became her family’s main source of moral support. The Baduel family has now been considered dissidents for nearly 17 years, and she also acts as their public mouthpiece—speaking out on their behalf, and ensuring their stories continue to be heard, both in their country and beyond. This has included aiding two of her brothers over the years, who were respectively detained, arrested, and subjected to torture and ill-treatment in prison, under both Chávez’s and current President Nicolás Maduro’s regimes. 

“We have been persecuted, harassed, silenced,” Baduel says. “[But] the truth cannot be killed, [and] faith cannot be extinguished. My father’s voice lives in every word we speak.”

Baduel’s story is not uncommon. Like many women in Venezuela, she is known both as the relative of a high profile political prisoner, and as an outspoken activist. Her advocacy on her family’s behalf also exemplifies how Venezuelan women play a crucial role in fighting against the country’s dictatorship, amid Maduro’s human rights violations and in the face of his “reelection” last year. (The win was deemed fraudulent by election watchdogs such as Transparencia Electoral, as well as the international community, including the U.S. and some of the country’s Latin American neighbors, like Brazil and Colombia.)

“Women have a very important role in the opposition movement; but also in sounding the alarm after last year’s election,” says a leader of a Venezuelan women’s rights organization, who asked to remain anonymous for safety reasons. Referencing María Corina Machado—one of the country’s main opposition leaders, who recently won a Nobel Peace Prize for her democratic struggle against the country’s dictatorship—the organizer says Venezuelan women have long “been a leading force and a leading voice” in speaking out about the government’s infractions, both at home and abroad. “[Many] women in exile and in the diaspora are also playing a key role,” she says.

This includes women like Violeta Santiago, a Venezuelan human rights activist and journalist who was forced to flee the country after receiving death threats by government-led armed groups. She now continues to write about injustice and the state of human rights in Venezuela from Chile. 

But at home, the risks are higher, both for those who speak out and those who don’t. Because of this, everyday women like Baduel have been forced to partake in this fight for their entire adult lives, defining the parameters of their existence from within the nation they call home.

First Arrest 

On the day Baduel’s father was arrested by the Venezuelan military, he was shopping with his family. None of them could have known that, except for a brief period of house arrest in 2017, he’d languish in prisons for the rest of his life. This included spending time in La Tumba, or The Tomb, a prison infamous for inflicting white torture on its prisoners. This torture is comprised of, but not limited to, isolation, a lack of access to natural light, constant freezing temperatures, no access to water, and nearly no food. 

In 2021, while detained in El Helicoide, one of Caracas’ most notorious penitentiary facilities, Baduel’s father died at 66, over a decade after his initial arrest. According to the official report, he died from “cardiac-respiratory failure” after contracting COVID-19. But his family believes his death was actually caused by neglect, torture, and ongoing health conditions sustained after years of imprisonment without medical care. Juan Guaidó, the main opposition leader at the time, publicly supported this claim on social media, and the United Nations called for an independent investigation. A separate UN fact-finding mission has since concluded that crimes against humanity have been perpetrated in the country, particularly in relation to political persecution and prison conditions. 

Through all of it, the Baduel family has remained steadfast.

“We knew our father’s imprisonment and death would change us from within,” Baduel says, wearing a t-shirt that reads “Ser Baduel No Es un Delito (“Being a Baduel Is Not a Crime”). “We understood it would either bring up the best of us, or the worst of us. And we decided to confront it with faith and hope.” 

Brutal Torture

Years before Baduel’s death, two of his sons—Raúl Emilio Baduel and Josnars Adolfo Baduel—were also imprisoned over conspiracy charges. Raúl Emilio, now 45, was detained while attending a peaceful protest in 2014, and released four years later. Josnars Adolfo, now 37, was detained in 2020 and sentenced to 30 years in prison, which he’s currently serving at Rodeo Uno, also known for its brutal torture of prisoners.

“He is imprisoned in a cell of two square meters, where he only has a cement bed and a latrine,” Baduel says. “They physically torture [him]—they beat him, suffocate him, and use electric [torture] on him.” She also says she’s only able to speak to Josnars for 15 minutes each week, from behind a glass wall. “They want to annihilate him, and make other prisoners scared of what awaits them,” she says.

Despite facing an onslaught of harassment, death threats, and government surveillance, Baduel plans to keep fighting. Recently, she received support from The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, who granted her precautionary measures “in the belief that she faces a serious, urgent risk of suffering irreparable harm to her rights to life and personal integrity.” But while there is still no guarantee that her rights will be respected under the current regime, Baduel believes that she and the many other women stuck in the same fight as her are “a fundamental pillar” in defending human rights in Venezuela. “I am the voice of my family,” she reiterates, ”and of all the victims of this regime who are in prison, and who cannot speak for themselves.” 

Constant Fear

Sairam Rivas, 32, is another Venezuelan activist fighting for a loved one who she says was unjustly imprisoned by the regime: Her partner, Jesús Armas, 38, has been imprisoned since December 2024. 

Rivas is also a former political prisoner herself. In May 2014, while attending Caracas’ Central University of Venezuela for social work, Rivas, then a leading student organizer, was a part of a public camping protest in the capital’s streets. They were speaking out against the militarization of public space, and protesting the recent deaths of multiple young protestors at previous demonstrations. Along with 200 other young people, Rivas was arrested and later incarcerated at El Helicoide, the same prison as Raúl Baduel. With support from her university and international NGOs like PROVEA, Amnesty International, and Foro Penal, she was released after five months, unlike other young people detained that day, some of whom she says were imprisoned for up to three years. 

“But the [political] situation then was different to what it is now,” Rivas says. “Back then, we could hire private lawyers, and there were no forced disappearances of dissidents.” 

A photo of Sairam Rivas standing in front of a glass wall. She is wearing a white t-shirt with black text that reads, "Liberen a todos los presos políticos."
Sairam Rivas. (Photo courtesy of Sara Cincurova.)

She also says she believes the only reason she was not subjected to sexual violence and torture is because her imprisonment was “very famous.” “As a student leader, my case had a lot of visibility on social media among young people,” she explained. The notoriety of her case did not avert all ill-treatment, however. “We had to sleep handcuffed on the floor,” she says. “We were threatened to be transferred to harsher prisons and face torture if we continued to protest in the future.” 

A decade later, on June 10, 2024, Rivas would experience a new horror: Her partner, Jesús Armas, was nowhere to be found. Neither she nor his family had received any information about him for seven days, only to discover he’d been “kidnapped” by the government. 

Armas had been a part of María Corina Machado’s campaign team, and as punishment following the 2024 election, he was detained, interrogated, imprisoned, and then tortured by Maduro’s regime.

“At this moment, Jesús is still isolated in El Helicoide, and doesn’t have any contact with me or his family,” she says. “The feeling of fear is [constant] in Venezuela, but you cannot think about it because then you become paralyzed.” 

Rivas is acutely aware of the pain many Venezuelan women experience, not only as prisoners, but often, as the caretakers and public resistors on their family’s behalf. But she also notes that many Venezuelan women are transforming this pain into action. As she sees it, beyond activism, women must also take on key roles in the opposition, as Machado has, and lead movements that will restructure the civil and political order destroyed by the dictatorship. “Women have a crucial role to play in the construction of a movement of families of political prisoners—a movement that not only fights for their freedom, but also for the creation of historical memory, so that justice can be done and [similar] crimes are never repeated,” she says.

A Venezuelan university professor of social sciences, who also requested anonymity for fear of retaliation, echoes Rivas’ assessment that it is a particularly scary time. She tells The Conversationalist that “every [new] day has become a possibility of chaos.” But despite the enormous risks, women across the country continue to fight however they can. 

“After having spent my entire active life as a professor at the Central University of Venezuela, it is very difficult to keep my mouth shut when I see how [our] country is being destroyed,” she says. “But when you open your mouth, [the government] can come and look for you—regardless of whether you are young or old, or whether you live in a middle class or lower class area.”

According to the professor, women’s rights violations have a long, multifaceted history in Venezuela. “More covert at one time, more open at another, more hidden in some places, more open in others—it is permanent and constant,” she says, adding that political prisoners are always treated worse than other prisoners, especially those detained for democratic activism.

Still, fear of imprisonment has not silenced opposition to the government for some, despite the potential cost. As Machado recently wrote on X—while still living in hiding within the country's borders––in the face of a brutal dictatorship and the suffering, torture, and extrajudicial killings it has caused, Venezuelans have continued bravely forging a “formidable civic movement,” overcoming the barriers “the regime built to divide us.”

For Baduel, the years of persecution, and witnessing her family members being tortured, also forced her to confront a personal choice: “to become the best version of myself, or the worst.” 

Despite her suffering, she says she deliberately chose to cultivate her humanity, something necessary in the continued fight. “I decided to transform my life for the better, not for the worse,” she says. “To fight for justice in Venezuela; to demand accountability, and to build a historical memory for my family and all those who were tortured.”

[post_title] => The Fight to Free Venezuela's Political Prisoners [post_excerpt] => How women play a crucial role in the country's struggle against dictatorship. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => venezuela-dictatorship-activist-adreina-baduel-raul-isaias-caracas-prison-political-persecution-sairam-rivas-jesus-armas [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2025-12-16 08:26:28 [post_modified_gmt] => 2025-12-16 08:26:28 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://conversationalist.org/?p=9814 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )
Venezuelan activist Andreina Baduel talks upon arrival at the headquarters of the Scientific, Penal, and Criminalistic Investigation Service Corps (CICPC) in Caracas on December 16, 2024. Andreina is the daughter of General Raul Baduel, an old ally and former minister of Hugo Chavez, who died in prison in 2021 after breaking with the government. She has dark brown hair, parted to the side, and is looking above the camera, with one hand raised as she gestures while speaking.

The Fight to Free Venezuela’s Political Prisoners

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    [post_date] => 2025-11-25 20:22:14
    [post_date_gmt] => 2025-11-25 20:22:14
    [post_content] => 

For these five artists, creation is an act of resistance, and anti-colonialism is the methodology.

Ask any serious artist about their methodologies, and you’ll likely learn about the techniques they employ in their work, as well as their daily routines and training regimens; about what inspires and motivates them to create the work they do. Ask these five musicians that same question, and you’ll recognize a pattern in their responses: For Anaís Azul, AV María, slic, Dania, and Amita Vempati, anti-colonialism is the methodology.

Since colonialism itself is actions-based, anti-colonialism is also very much about what one does, not simply what one believes. These artists are all politically outspoken. All come from cultures that have been colonized, but they are also citizens of the world’s most powerful imperial machine: the United States. To oppose colonialism can never just be ideological or intellectual, although those components are foundational. In their art and in their lives, these five musicians contend with that duality, and create as an act of resistance—against their oppression, and against the systems that make them oppressors, contrary to their will. 

Anaís Azul

A portrait photo of Anaís Azul, smiling and looking off-camera. They have long, dark brown hair with bangs, and are wearing red lipstick, dangly earrings, and a gray vest over a patterned shirt. Their hands are crossed in front of their body, fingers intertwined.
(Photo by Joma Geneciran, courtesy of Anaís Azul.)

Anaís Azul is a queer, nonbinary, Peruvian American vocalist, composer, educator, and activist based in Los Angeles, California. They speak three languages and write music in all of them: Spanish, English, and Quechua, the language of their indigenous Andean lineage. They have a B.A. in music composition and theory, a master’s in performance and composition, and are now pursuing a doctorate in digital composition. With a background rooted in academia, and a socio-political praxis rooted in an amalgam of leftist, populist ideologies, Anaís has developed a clear-eyed vision of who they are: someone who uses their gifts, talents, education, and connections to deliberately subvert the culture of fascism that has come to define the United States, both locally and abroad.

Anaís sings and writes about healing and resistance, and they emphasize the importance of tapping into one’s feelings, especially during bleak times such as the ones we live in. They described playing a recent Pride show, and being the first performer of the day to talk about Gaza on stage. 

“It feels weird to just sit here and smile and pretend everything's okay at this sunny Pride celebration,” Anaís said to the crowd. “But there is no pride in genocide. I really hope that my music can bring people into their bodies; into the complexity of reality and into their emotions.” 

Anaís believes their acknowledgement of the current genocide helped the audience engage with the layered nuance of the moment: A crowd formed around them in response, and after the show, a line of concertgoers stood waiting to chat with them offstage. 

Over the past several years, through their reclamation of Quechua, as well as their learning to play charango, which they describe as “a colonial instrument with an indigenous twist,” the gravitational pull of Anaís’s music has become more and more explicitly oriented towards antifascism. Recently, they started a collective with some friends called RAWR (Rapid Arts Workers Response). The group takes vital information, such as migrant resources or local jail support numbers, and turns them into easy-to-remember musical jingles, which they then spread on social media.They describe their determination to use social media as a tool for subversion, rather than ego.

“In the music industry at this point, even in the indie music world, the obligation to use social media makes me feel like colonialism is at my throat,” they say. “I don't want to feel like I'm aspiring towards viral reels. I want my music to touch people. I want my music to be heard, because I do believe in the healing powers of it, because it has healing for me, and I believe that that will have healing for others.” 

AV María

A black and white photo of AV María, seemingly mid-word. Her hair is tied back in a high, messy bun; she's wearing earrings, a choker, and a slightly longer necklace.
(Photo by Alana Serbiá, courtesy of AV María.)

An indigenous Puerto Rican trans woman, AV María spent her early adulthood studying photography in New York before returning to Puerto Rico in the devastating aftermath of Hurricane María in 2017.

“I was just really disturbed the whole event,” she says. “It was hard to see my family struggle, queer folk struggling on the island, and I chose to come back. I've been here for seven years now.” 

Hurricane María’s aftereffects were horrendously compounded by the supreme neglect of the colonizing U.S. government, both in Washington, DC, and through locally installed politicians; some of which the island still deals with today. Once home, AV María began to pursue music, in part with the goal of lyrically confronting these same oppressive power regimes. In 2020, she worked with renowned reggaeton producer, Eduardo Cabra, to release her first single, “Casablanca,” which is an indictment of colonial government structures as a whole. She was invited in 2024 to perform “Casablanca” at Transmission, which is New York City’s premiere trans music fest.

Since then, AV María has become known for her catchy, feminist, political music and videos, such as the sapphic anthem, “TOTONKA!" She’s now working on an album that focuses on her internal landscape, which, she says, these days, often looks like rage, depression, and sadness, largely due to the state of the world. 

“It's very hard to feel helpless when such brute power is in control,” she says. “I have my own personal powers, you know, but as a Puerto Rican trans woman I feel like I don’t have any real systemic power. That's been really, really, really hard; to balance out hopelessness and hope. Sometimes it's difficult to imagine a future in which we all still exist.”

To cope with these feelings, she communes with nature, and with other trans and non-binary people, something essential to her well-being.

“I also feel like having a non-binary philosophy is very important in decolonizing our systems, so I definitely try and really embed it into my music and my writing,” she says.

slic

A portrait of slic, sitting in a folding chair in front of a white brick wall. They have a greige blazer with a fishnet insert draped over one shoulder, and are wearing what appears to be a long skirt/pants with slits throughout. They're looking at the camera.
(Photo by Corey Jermaine, courtesy of slic.)

Originally from Caracas, Venezuela, slic grew up in Florida before attending Amherst College in Massachusetts. At school, they had a political awakening while participating in student protests during the Black Lives Matter uprisings of 2014, and after graduating, moved to New York City, where they’ve remained politically active ever since.

“In 2020, between COVID and the uprisings, I shifted what matters to me, what I pay attention to, and what kinds of relationships I have with people,” slic says.

These days, slic is a hyperpop musician, producer, DJ, and video editor. They spend a large amount of their time organizing for tenants’ rights in New York City, as well as using their performances and social media platforms  to draw attention to Israel’s U.S.-funded genocide of Palestinians and to raise money for their friend in Gaza. They say that, both as an artist and a person, community is what keeps them going.

“I have a lot more people in my life now than I did in 2019 who share my values; share my politics,” slic says. “Now, if I see an opportunity to act on something politically, I have the ability to do something about it because I've built relationships with people who will join me.”

Lately, slic has been turning to traditional Venezuelan music as blueprints for both communal creativity and strength. They are drawing inspiration from Afro-Venezuelan tambores, which arrived to the Americas with enslaved Africans and is used as a tool for communication, community, and spirituality; and tonadas de ordeño, a style of Venezuelan “work songs,” which are traditionally sung communally to calm cows during the milking process.  

“I was always looking for a way to feel less alienated. The way that we organize life [in America]—the individualism of it, the commodification—I think art can do things to break that,” says slic.

Dania

A portrait of Dania. She is leaning on a stool with a vase holding yellow flowers atop it. She's wearing gold earrings and a dark green long-sleeved top, and is looking off-camera.
(Photo by Adam Ginsberg, courtesy of Dania.)

Based in New York City, Syrian/Croatian American singer/songwriter Dania used to spend her summers in Syria before the war. But ever since the fall of Bashar al-Assad’s regime last year, she’s been feeling a lot of mixed emotions about what the future holds for Syrians, as a whole. 

“I don't think anyone truly understands what Syrians went through over the last…however many years,” she says. “I’m happy Assad is gone. He destroyed so many families, including my own; so I feel a cautious hope, [but] then also worry. ‘Tumultuous’ is the best word to describe what I’m feeling.”

To counter feelings of hopelessness, Dania uses her growing career and platform to amplify the causes that matter to her. She prefers to perform at community events, including solidarity and aid fundraising efforts for places like Palestine and Syria. But, beyond that, she says that her music helps her cope with her feelings about the world; it also helps her process her emotions and contextualize them, and herself, within her various cultural identities. 

Arab femininity factors heavily into Dania’s highly aestheticized music, videos, and performances. Influenced by the 1970s, she makes use of rich, traditional color palettes and vintage fashion motifs from throughout the Arab world. On her Instagram, she talks about being a curvy woman, and the importance of valuing cultural beauty standards beyond Eurocentric thinness. In 2024, she released a song called “Listen,” whose main refrain contains the line,Arab girls always pretty. She performed “Listen” at a recent block party in Queens, and was overjoyed at the response from the crowd.

“There were these young Arab girls there. And when I performed the song, I got to see them dance around to, Arab girls always pretty,’ and it was so affirming,” she says. “I was like, ‘This is what I want to do. This is the moment that I'm working for.’”

Amita Vempati

A photo of Amita Vempati, mid-performance. She is in profile, on her knees, with her head thrown back; wrapped in fabric, a sheer panel covering her face.
(Photo by Benjamin Loveless, courtesy of Amita Vempati.)

Amita Vempati is an Indian American singer and the Development Manager for Artistic Freedom Initiative, which is a nonprofit that helps refugee artists throughout the world in their relocation efforts. 

For several years prior, she worked as a program coordinator for the Brooklyn Raga Massive, a collective of musicians focused on creating events, albums, and education within classical South Asian music. Through her recent work with the collective, Amita helped produce several series showcasing artists from marginalized South Asian communities, an experience that she says helped her understand her own identity as a descendent of a more privileged Indian caste. 

“I think many people don't know this, but the dynamics of castes, and the system of socioeconomic segregation, really follow people into the diaspora and become trends here, too,” she says.

In addition to her community work, Amita describes undergoing a personal evolution rooted in music. Born with a natural love of performing, she was raised to believe that in order to be worthy of getting on stage, she had to be a nearly “perfect” musician. They were also confronted with devaluations of non-Western art. 

She recalls a time when her parents encouraged her to quit Indian classical music. “They said that colleges would prefer [if I played] Western classical violin,” Amita says.

Amita says that she internalized capitalist and colonialist standards of perfection that hindered her from being able to see their true artistic potential.

Now in her thirties, Amita is a very serious student of folkloric musical traditions from the Balkans, Turkey, and India, and travels the world to perform in various festivals and choirs. She is passionate about advocating for folkloric art as an incredibly valuable human asset: a site of both cultural preservation, and an opportunity for cross-cultural connection. As an artist and someone who works in the industry of folkloric performance arts, Amita stresses the need for both individual artists, and arts institutions, to be consciously anti-colonial.

“It’s really critical that when you engage in an art form, you strive to become aware of everything that that art form brings in its practice,” she says. “That can include anything, down to the composition, the form, the space that you're performing in, the audience that you're performing for.”

[post_title] => How to Be an Anti-Colonial Musician [post_excerpt] => For these five artists, creation is an act of resistance, and anti-colonialism is the methodology. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => anti-colonialism-musicians-artists-anais-azul-av-maria-slic-dania-amita-vempati-music [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2025-11-25 23:14:23 [post_modified_gmt] => 2025-11-25 23:14:23 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://conversationalist.org/?p=9778 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )
An illustration of a trumpet on a blue background. The bell is replaced with the end of a speakerphone.

How to Be an Anti-Colonial Musician

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    [post_author] => 15
    [post_date] => 2025-11-18 21:59:25
    [post_date_gmt] => 2025-11-18 21:59:25
    [post_content] => 

I've gotten exhausted with the ways that convenience culture has shifted what we find acceptable when it comes to waste.

Soapbox is a series where people make the case for the sometimes surprising things they feel strongly about.

On the streets near my house, there are lines of tree stumps, left over from diseased elms that had to be cut down. Some people have made the most of these hollowed out stumps by planting flowers inside them, or scattering seashells around the base. Some have even used them to create elaborate shrines for their dead loved ones. Others, meanwhile, have taken a different approach, filling the hole in the center of the stumps with beer cans, cigarette ends, and banana skins, treating the stumps like organic trash cans. 

Randa l. Kachef and Michael A. Chadwick, researchers at King’s College London, have coined a term for this phenomenon: polite littering. Other examples include a person placing their litter on a wall or in a hedge, or somewhere almost near a trash can, but not quite in one. I know about this phenomenon, and this term, because I have thought a lot about the psychology of people who litter in recent years, and what, if anything, can be done to change it, both on a local and global scale.

There is a certain type of person who sees a hole and perceives it to be a trash can, where others have seen the potential for a garden. But having spent the last couple of years campaigning with my local councillors to tackle litter in my immediate area, I know that the issue isn’t unique to either my three-block radius or even my (unfortunately pretty filthy) country. Human beings and the things they dump are having a devastating impact on the planet. Where infrastructure cannot keep up with increasing numbers of people and waste, trash cans overflow. The rate at which we produce plastic, and waste more generally, means that a great deal of it will escape our hands and end up in nature or creating garbage islands. Litter and plastic waste have been found in the deepest parts of the ocean and on the tallest mountains. Litter has even been found in places humans have never been

While daunting, this doesn’t mean that the issue is out of our individual hands. On the contrary, it only makes our individual efforts all the more important. I live near the beach, and in the summer, we get a lot of tourists. Many of them are respectful and take their waste to the trash cans just a few meters away from the shore. A few, however, will litter in the most egregious way, leaving inflatable boats, bottles, and even the waste from an entire picnic rotting in the sun behind them. This summer, over 24 tons of trash was cleared from our beach over just two weekends

Of course, not everyone who litters is so flagrant. But every day, people who consider themselves to be polite, upstanding citizens will leave napkins, banana skins, or orange peels on our pebble beach, and when confronted, will use nonsense words like “biodegradable” instead of the most fitting one, “lazy.” I’ve often had to make several trips back and forth with someone else’s sandwich wrappers, drink cans, and dirty napkins while sunbathers sit and watch. I’ve even fished band-aids, croissant wrappers, and takeout packaging out of the sea from a paddleboard. 

I won’t bore you with tales of every dirty diaper I have found in a beach parking lot. But suffice to say, I have gotten pretty exhausted with the ways that convenience culture and our incessant waste seem to have shifted what we find acceptable. There is a cognitive dissonance inherent to littering, a short-sightedness wherein a person cannot think more than a few minutes into the future. Littering, and convenience culture overall, affects all of us in the longterm, and yet many people still choose the instant gratification of no longer having a Big Mac wrapper in their car over waiting to throw it away once they reach their destination. 

There are places I have visited and loved that seem to sadly be crumbling under the weight of their own litter and waste: Paris, Los Angeles, New York, London, Athens. It isn’t only major cities, either. On Crete, an island in Greece, the first thing I saw when I arrived at the airport was trash. Everywhere. That continued: at the side of the road, in the ocean, on the beaches. Some places were untouched, but only because they were in the middle of nowhere. I couldn’t believe it. Crete was, in many ways, the most beautiful place I had ever seen, and I wanted everyone else to have the reverence and respect for it that I did, so that others could enjoy it, too. But when I looked down from a sunset mountain view to the streets of the small village I was staying in, all I saw was trash. 

The consequences of throwaway culture are also rarely felt by the people who most egregiously participate in it. Beyond litter in our streets, the countries who produce the most devastating volumes of waste are often not the ones who feel its true impact. In much of the western world, our waste is shipped to other countries, creating an overwhelming crisis in places like Indonesia, Vietnam, Ghana, and Kenya—destroying the environments of countries that simply do not have the infrastructure to handle our onslaught.

I have been trying to understand why litter is so out of control and why so many people do it, and my only answer is convenience and laziness, combined with the fact that we just have so much more waste and single-use plastic than ever before. Yet an abundance of litter is as much a cultural problem as it is an environmental one: There are also major cities that manage to keep their trash under control. In Tokyo, there are very few public bins, due to the 1995 sarin gas attack. Instead, people simply carry their litter around until they find one, or even bag up their waste throughout the day and take it home. This diligence, this refusal to give up and just put down a Pocari Sweat bottle because they’d been holding it for a few minutes, was a welcome reprieve. This isn’t to say I didn’t see any litter in all of Tokyo. But overall, I believe most of us have much to learn from the city and its people.

Other countries have also made similar strides in their relationships to litter. Sweden sends just 1% of its waste to landfill, using half of its garbage to create energy. When I visited Las Canarias, in Tenerife and Lanzarote, I saw city workers out every single day cleaning trash from the side of the road. Hoping to deter foreigners from contributing more, signs begged tourists not to litter and to respect the islands’ unique volcanic environment. Tenerife even has fines of up to 3,000 euros for littering. 

I would hope that seeing people take such great pride in their home would deter even the most ardent litterbug. But maybe that’s part of the problem: I’ve never found that same pride when I come home. The answers are there, but countries like the US and UK are just not prioritizing solving the problem—or sometimes, even asking the right questions.

Litter has been found in 90% of the UK. We are a small island, but we still can’t manage to keep it clean. Our roadsides, waterways, and countrysides are filthy, particularly compared to neighbouring countries, and there is no motivation to change it at either a government or local level. It also seems like nobody really cares to. When I look at other countries and wonder why they’re cleaner, I know that no small part of it comes down to better infrastructure, organization, and funding for waste clearance and street cleaning. But a lot of it is pride, too—and with it, genuine care. 

There isn’t a straightforward answer to fixing our monumental global litter problem, particularly when we only keep creating and wasting more. But to start, we need our governments to invest in better waste management, to prioritize circularity, and to devote infrastructure and resources to tackling waste, not only on our streets, but throughout every country. We need corporations who relentlessly produce single-use crap to be held to account and restrained. 

Sadly, we can’t make someone care about something that just isn’t a priority for them, and the same is true of our governments. But beyond lobbying and campaigning and voting tactically, we can all make a small difference at home. If more of us took control of our own waste and took pride in our own small parts of the world and the ones that we visit, perhaps we might actually begin to make some difference in cleaning up our mess.

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A bright, colorful illustration of a woman in a chartreuse pant suit and hiking boots, running through the forest with a hiking stick towards a body of water on the other side of a fence. Next to her is a spotted dog. She's surrounded by trees, a stag, and an old man lounging up against a hill. All around them are balanced pieces of trash: on the branches, on each person/creature, on the fence.

There’s No Such Thing as Polite Littering

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Three trans service members speak out on the military ban, and the rise of transphobia in the United States.

I met Commander Emily Shilling in April 2024 during a Lesbian Visibility Week panel celebrating LGBTQ+ women in leadership. I immediately found her both warm and intriguingly different. When I asked if she had ever flown upside down, the absurdity of posing such a question to a Navy test pilot sparked laughter, and a friendship.

After Trump’s reelection and his vow to reinstate a ban on transgender military service, my filmmaking partner Rivkah Beth Medow and I knew we had to respond. The growing anti-trans narrative wasn’t just a culture war skirmish, it was a symptom of something deeper and more dangerous: a coordinated effort to undermine democratic norms by turning vulnerable groups into political targets. We reached out to Emily, who saw our project as a way to turn a dark moment into a new mission: protecting her troops. When she shared that she’d voted for Trump in 2016 before coming out as trans, we all recognized how potent—and powerful—her story arc could be. 

We initially intended to make a short film centered on Emily’s experience, but it became clear that there was a bigger story to be told. Emily has always understood the power of storytelling, and through her leadership role and deep respect in the trans military community, she connected us with several compelling voices across all branches of service. 

Alongside Emily, we cast Navy Petty Officer Paulo Batista and Army National Guard Chief Warrant Officer Jo Ellis for a feature documentary, Fighting Forward. The film follows these three trailblazing transgender service members as they continue to navigate career threats, legal battles, and rising political hostility. And yet, despite this constant onslaught, one of our most interesting discoveries as the project has progressed is that each of our heroes remains completely committed to serving their country. Each, too, has taken a completely unique path in moving forward. 

This kind of service—steadfast, principled, and often invisible—is precisely what democracy requires to survive. But the attacks on LGBTQ+ rights, especially within government institutions like the military, are not isolated. They are part of a broader attempt to consolidate power by eroding the rights of those who don’t conform to a narrow, exclusionary vision of America. Efforts to push trans people out of public life, out of service, and out of legal recognition are not just discriminatory—they are anti-democratic. They chip away at the very idea of equal citizenship.

Equally chilling is the growing political rhetoric around using the U.S. military to "fight crime" in so-called "Democrat-run cities." Deploying the military against our own citizens, especially in diverse urban areas that overwhelmingly vote for progressive policies, is a direct threat to democratic governance. It weaponizes fear to justify the erosion of civil liberties and the silencing of dissent. This is precisely why it matters who serves in the military, who leads it, and whether or not they believe in the rights of all Americans: When the military is redirected to silence dissent at home, it stops defending democracy, and starts dismantling it.

Rivkah and I believe wholeheartedly in everyone’s right to belong. While we chafe at the military’s hierarchical system, feel appalled by their budget allocations, and are devastated by the environmental and human cost of war, if we have a military, then we want it to be representative of the country that military is fighting for. Not because of “woke ideology,” but because inclusion reflects democracy; and without it, we risk losing the very principles this country claims to defend.

The best way we know to shift culture is through telling nuanced stories amplified through impact campaigns that spark transformative conversations, policy change, and solidarity. While making this film, we’ve been surprised to find a strain of patriotism rising in us. It’s of an abolitionist and civil rights provenance, aligned with hope of what our democracy can possibly be. With the world around us on fire, both literally and figuratively, Fighting Forward has offered us a concrete way to challenge stereotypes, clarify misconceptions, and seed the culture we want for the United States.

~

Disclaimer: These interviews have been edited and condensed for length and clarity. The opinions expressed reflect the personal views of those interviewed, and do not necessarily reflect those of the U.S. Military or Department of Defense.

Navy Commander Emily "Hawking" Shilling

Photo courtesy of Emily Shilling.

Why did you first enlist?

The Navy’s motto at the time was “A Global Force for Good,” and I believed it, wholeheartedly. I believed in service, in being part of something bigger than myself. I couldn’t imagine sitting on the sidelines when I had the ability and the drive to make a difference. So I chose adventure, to stand and fight for all those who couldn’t. Maybe it was naive, or self-aggrandizing for the scrawny nerd I was, but I believed the worst sin of all is to do nothing in the face of evil.

What does it signal more broadly that trans people are now banned from joining the military?

It’s a betrayal of the very ideals the military claims to uphold. We say we’re a merit-based force, one where what matters is your capability, your integrity, your commitment. When we start disqualifying people simply because of who they are, we’ve abandoned that principle. If identity, not performance, is grounds for exclusion, where does that line stop? It's not just unjust. It's dangerous. The military must be made up of the people it swears to protect; otherwise, those that are different tend to become the unprotected.

What do you want people to know about the ban, how it’s impacting you, and what it means for the U.S.?

I want America to understand this isn’t abstract, it’s affecting real people, with real lives, families, and responsibilities. I’ve worn the uniform for over two decades. I’ve deployed in combat. I’ve led teams and flown missions that mattered. And now, people like me—qualified, capable Americans, patriots—are being told we’re not welcome, not because of performance, but because we were brave enough to say who we are. That should alarm every citizen. This ban doesn’t just hurt trans people, it undermines the strength of our military and the values we claim to defend. A country that believes in liberty and justice for all shouldn’t be in the business of telling patriots they’re not allowed to serve if they don’t match the reigning political party’s “perfect mold”.

Emily (foreground) with her wife, Amanda. Photo courtesy of Emily Shilling.

What, if anything, is giving you hope right now?

I find hope in those who refuse to accept silence as safety. People are organizing, speaking out, pushing back against the narrative that some of us are less worthy of dignity or service. Your voice matters.

I find hope in my fellow service members and veterans, who are standing together in solidarity. Many of them have seen what leadership really means, and they know it has nothing to do with gender or politics and everything to do with integrity, skill, and trust.

I find hope in how many people outside of uniform are waking up to what’s happening. They’re realizing this isn’t just about trans people, it’s about whether we will be a nation that honors its promises, and continues to fight for the dream of a more perfect union. 

And personally, I find hope in simply still being here, able to speak the truth out loud, to show up for others, and to remind people that we’ve been through dark times before and when we have organized, when we have stayed loud and connected and human, we have never lost. And, if we have the moral courage to fight, we will win this time, and every time.

What can readers do to support trans service members?

1. Raise your voice. Contact your elected officials. Let them know you oppose discrimination in the military and support open service. They do pay attention to public sentiment, and silence helps no one.

2. Challenge misinformation. Whether at your dinner table or your workplace, don’t let transphobia or fear-mongering go unchecked. Educate yourself, then share accurate, humanizing stories, especially about those who serve.

3. Support organizations doing the work. Groups like SPARTA, Modern Military Association of America (MMAA), and Minority Veterans of America (MVA) are fighting daily for the rights, recognition, and safety of LGBTQ+ service members and veterans. Donations, signal-boosting, and volunteering all help.

4. Connect and care. If you know a trans service member, reach out. Let them know you see them, support them, and appreciate their service. It’s not always about grand gestures; sometimes, the quiet affirmation that we’re not alone gets us through.

Army National Guard Chief Warrant Officer Jo Ellis

Photo courtesy of Jo Ellis.

Why did you first enlist?

I wanted to serve my country. Service is in my blood. I’m a patriot and I come from a family of military service.

What does it signal more broadly that trans people are now banned from joining the military?

It means our country will lose out on patriots like me who volunteered to sacrifice for the country. It means instead of a military based on meritocracy, it’s now a military based on political ideology. Instead of selecting the best person for the job, we are excluding an entire category of people for no justified reason. It’s pure animus. Service members were told they could serve openly and now we are being punished for coming out under a previous administration. 

What do you want people to know about the ban, how it’s impacting you, and what it means for the U.S.?

Thousands of deployable service members are being purged from the military without regard to readiness, cost, or experience. Service members are being sent home from deployments, command positions vacated without replacements, and no plan to recoup qualified personnel. We can’t shortcut a decade-plus of military experience.

Photo courtesy of Jo Ellis.

What, if anything, is giving you hope right now?

I believe in the great experiment that is the United States. We can be better. It’s not big percentages that make the difference in this country. It’s in the margins. 1%. 1% better each day. It’s the aggregation of marginal gains that lead to exponential results. Maybe that’s quixotic, maybe I’m the greater fool. I’ll wear those as a badge of honor. This country was founded by greater fools.

Navy Petty Officer 2nd Class Paulo Batista

Photo courtesy of Paulo Batista.

Why did you first enlist?

I enlisted because it was a dream since high school to serve in the military, inspired my by older brother who served for 20 years in the Air Force. Due to the "Don't Ask, Dont Tell" policy and me becoming my father's caretaker after high school, I could not join right away and had to wait until later in life. 

What does it signal more broadly that trans people are now banned from joining the military?

It means military readiness will be affected. Many transgender military service members play a vital role in all branches. We are enlisted to officers, and removing us from our jobs will leave gaps in many areas, including deployments. The military will lose great leaders with experience in their areas of expertise that cannot be replaced easily. 

What do you want people to know about the ban, how it’s impacting you, and what it means for the U.S.?

That being transgender in the military does not affect military readiness. We meet the requirements and standards implemented to service our country. However, more importantly, transgender service members have been serving for decades in the military, making our military more effective.

Unfortunately, per the new policy, thousands of effective service members, including non-transgender members, will be affected. It's a domino effect when the gap is created. Pulling a transgender service member from their job means that other service members will have to cover down for that unmanned position, ultimately causing more stress on the other service members by making them work longer or go on longer deployments, thus taking service members away from their families and causing more strain on other service members and their families, declining military readiness instead of increasing it.

Furthermore, the ban causes harm to all the transgender service members due to the DD214 [Certificate of Release or Discharge from Active Duty] rating that the policy implements, giving a rating that ultimately labels transgender service members a national security threat, thus affecting our futures and ability to continue our careers, even though we all served our country with honor, courage, and true bravery.

Photo courtesy of Paulo Batista.

What, if anything, is giving you hope right now?

The one thing that gives me the greatest hope is my community and trans siblings. Seeing others standing tall and seeing the ones who tell me they get hope from seeing me stand loud and proud against the current environment instead of going quiet. 

What can readers do to support trans service members and veterans?

If allies and friends are looking to help, the best ways start with reaching out to their representatives and congressional offices. Helping influence their decisions is vital, as that is the way to make the changes we need. Otherwise, I would say be a voice for transgender service members when we cannot speak. We are a limited number of voices, and need a vast audience to spread the correct information and hopefully educate the ones who are willing to listen.

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Photographs of Emily Shilling, Paulo Batista, and Jo Ellis.

“I Find Hope in Simply Still Being Here”

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Queer relationship visibility isn’t good enough if all it does is replicate heteronormative approaches.

Soapbox is a series where people make the case for the sometimes surprising things they feel strongly about.

Like any faithful reality TV fangirly, I dutifully invest many hours of my brief and precious human life into my little shows. I dwell unabashedly in the cult of reality standom: My housecleaning rituals include day-long marathons of shows like Vanderpump Rules or 90 Day Fiancé, where I empty my closets and scrub my floorboards to the tune of a full season, filling my home with the sounds of strangers’ arguments, diary cam thoughts, and curated confessionals. 

For me, this isn’t just entertainment. I am endlessly fascinated by human relationship dynamics, and the belief systems that shape them. Much of reality television serves as my personal laboratory for examining these phenomena in action—and I absorb every minute with rapture. This is especially true within my favorite subgenre of all, reality romance, which I find particularly compelling because of the ways it reveals the ubiquity of heteronormativity in our collective consciousness. It’s also why I think we are long overdue for more queer reality romance—including shows that actually explore queer relationship frameworks, rather than just LGBTQ+ casting.

From classics like The Bachelor and Rock of Love to contemporary hits like Love is Blind, shows where total strangers form attachments to one another and make legally binding commitments in intense, pressurized, and unnatural situations are canonical. They’re also historically very heterosexual, something that hasn’t changed even as casting has diversified. 

Accurate, dynamic queer representation across all media is essential, and desperately overdue. Thanks to LGBTQ+ reality shows like Tampa Baes, The Real L Word, and the I Kissed a Boy franchise, we’ve finally been able to see a variety of sexualities and genders normalized in a dating context. And thank goodness! But as entertaining as these programs might be, queer relationship visibility isn’t good enough if all it does is replicate heteronormative approaches—and when it comes to relationships where personal autonomy and romantic intimacy are successfully balanced, these shows are falling short. 

With its second season out last summer, breakout hit The Ultimatum: Queer Love might be the most popular of the LGBTQ+ reality romance genre, both for queer and straight viewers alike. It’s also a strong (and, for better or worse, incredibly entertaining) case study in the pitfalls of dropping queer contestants into heterosexual dating frameworks, especially on a global stage. The plot features five couples on the lesbian spectrum who have reached an impasse in their relationships—one partner wants to get married, the other does not, and the former has issued the latter an ultimatum: Marry me, or we’re breaking up. 

The show aims to “help” castmates gain clarity about their present dilemma by presenting them with an opportunity to explore partnership with someone new. But not just anyone new: Castmates date each other. 

In front of the partners they arrived with. 

Participants have one week to select a new partner, and then immediately move in with that person for a three week “trial marriage,” which some of the new couples consummate. They then each move back in with their original partner for another three week “trial marriage” before decision day. 

The end goal is either for castmates to leave the show engaged—whether to their original partner, or to someone they just met under fast, furious, and fantastical circumstances—or, if they’re still not ready to commit, to walk away single. And of course, things go off without a hitch, everyone is super mature about everything, and no one ends up brokenhearted or publicly humiliated.

Now, maybe this plotline conjures images of the chaotic, toxic, and mysteriously elusive “U-Haul lesbian”. Yet that instinct would be misguided: In reality, The Ultimatum: Queer Love is a spin-off of The Ultimatum: Marry or Move On, a pre-existing show with the exact same premise, but a heterosexual cast. 

When the main focus of a show is for participants to “find love,” however, especially when the premise pressures them into making quick decisions about marriage or monogamy, the ghastly, unflattering light of patriarchy spares no one—something the landscape of LGBTQ+ reality romance makes clear. This is also one reason why copy-pasting heteronormative relationship frameworks onto a queer cast is particularly dangerous. On the whole, as a society, we are not trained to recognize misogyny when it doesn’t come from cis men, something that can quickly translate into queerphobia: When queer folks embody patriarchal values, people around them may be tempted to blame queerness, rather than patriarchy, for any ensuing problematic behavior. Queer people struggle enough with this inside our own communities already; something that compounds when media about us continuously reiterates stereotypes about gender, power, and control. This is particularly visible in reality television, from the lesbian sex scenes that border on soft porn, to the queer fuckbros whose predatory behavior towards femmes goes largely unconfronted, to cis women whose emotional abuse of their femme, masc, and genderqueer partners does not ring alarm bells the way it would if a cis man were behaving the same way.

The entire Ultimatum franchise is part of a robust and patriarchal legacy within the genre, where marriage is treated as an achievement, especially for women and femmes, and prioritized over everything, even at the expense of healthy bonds and connections. But to simply recycle the plotlines of heteronormative reality shows and transpose them onto a queer cast is not only creatively lazy; it exposes the errors of these shows’ premises at their core. 

“[R]eality television…has created a falsified account of how certain people are meant to behave, communicate and love, and the majority of the victims to these production tactics are women,” wrote Lindsey Spencer in a 2022 article for the Michigan Daily.

Where patriarchal marriage is the prize, women and LGBTQ+ folks will always get the short end of the stick, even when they “win.” I’m not knocking marriage as an institution—big fan, actually—but patriarchal marriage? One where gender is, whether consciously or unconsciously, viewed as binary, and where partners and/or traits perceived as “feminine” are subjugated to partners viewed as “masculine”? Where the praxis of the relationship itself eliminates the possibility of true intimacy? Where my partner and I are beholden to monogamy, rather than deciding whether we want to choose it anew, as the seasons of our lives unfold? 

Ew, no.

This is also precisely why I believe we’d all benefit from some more queering of reality romance. What if, instead of watching people wrestle their partners into making high-stakes commitments, audiences were offered a window into a cast of queers exploring alternative frameworks and modalities for love and connection? Reality fans would still get to absorb all the juicy human drama we hold so dear, but we’d also get to witness people grow and change in ways for which current plotlines don’t allow. 

In the current season of The Ultimatum: Queer Love, for example, an interesting situation cropped up during the initial re-shuffling of couples that might have played out very differently outside of the show’s rigid framework. A mutual attraction developed between one participant, Pilar, and both halves of one original couple, Kyle and Bridget. When, independently of one another, the pair learned that Pilar was interested in them both, they each encouraged her to explore the other, vouching for each other’s radness.

The show’s most visibly genderqueer couple so far, Kyle and Bridget already stood out from the pack. But they were also, in my opinion, the most mutually respectful couple the show has seen—something made clear throughout the season. Eventually, Pilar and Kyle selected one another for the trial marriage, and Bridget ended up with someone else. After Pilar and Kyle shared a kiss during their time together, Kyle quickly disclosed it to Bridget once they were reunited for their own “trial marriage.” While Bridget was visibly miffed, she and Kyle continued to have productive, open, and tender communication as they worked through a difficult conversation. 

It was an intriguing plot line, for sure, and played out as healthily as it could have within the scope of the show. But how much more interesting would it have been to watch Pilar, Kyle, and Bridget explore what it might be like to date as a trio? Or to watch them even have that discussion? I wonder how they may have all impacted each other’s lives differently, and whether stronger friendships or romances could have blossomed if they hadn’t been confined to the show’s rules.

Something as simple as that could have changed not only the trajectory of the contestants’ lives but, arguably, perhaps the trajectory of a viewer’s life, too. Witnessing couples undertake that type of exploration, safely and from a place of mutual trust, could be the very representation that some viewers need, queer or straight. It could also be a gateway for them to learn about their own relationship preferences, or even expose them to the fact that alternatives are possible. 

Beyond that, this more expansive approach would bring us closer to true representation, not just its bare minimum. The reality romance industry profits greatly from our identities, and queer viewers deserve something beyond an “LGBTQ+” label on the dropdown menu of our favorite streaming sites. After decades of witnessing countless reality stars run the hamster wheel of heteropatriarchy, I, personally, am ready for something a bit more nuanced—and, frankly, a lot more queer.

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An illustration of a wedding cake with a rainbow of colors in the background. At the top of the cake is a cake topper with a queer couple, both wearing suits, leaning towards one another for a kiss; both holding bouquets behind their back. In their shadow, we see a heteronormative couple, with one wearing a wedding dress.

Why Isn’t LGBTQ+ Reality TV More… Queer?

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About the Show 

Hosted by founder Anna Lind-Guzik, The Conversationalist Podcast features candid conversations with folks on the frontlines of the issues we care about, along with some of our favorite articles read by our writers themselves. Covering reproductive health, climate justice, the fight against kleptocracy, and more, this is feminist storytelling from a global perspective, highlighting solutions rooted in empathy, justice, equity, and care. 

The Conversationalist is truly independent, nonprofit media, with no overlords and no corporate agenda. We prioritize public good over profit, and aim to spark conversations that inform and empower people to foster hope, kindness, and impact in their communities.

Special thanks to our friends at Cosmic Standard for producing our podcast, our audio engineer Dan Thorn for making it sound great, and the amazingly talented María Medem for our beautiful cover art. 

Listen and Subscribe

Latest Episodes

How Global Nonprofits Are Fighting Systemic Gender Inequality
with Judith Dembetembe and Chandy Eng

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We're kicking off a new season of The Conversationalist Podcast! In this episode, founder Anna Lind-Guzik sits down with Judith Dembetembe of Zimbabwe's The Girls' Legacy and Chandy Eng of Gender and Development for Cambodia for a hopeful conversation about how global nonprofits are combatting gender inequality around the world. (March 24, 2026)

"Why Do So Many Men Destroy What They Can't Control?"
with Anna Lind-Guzik

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Our host and founder Anna Lind-Guzik reads her essay "Why Do So Many Men Destroy What They Can't Control?”, mapping the direct connection between domestic and authoritarian violence, and why we will never be able to have equality so long as violence at home is ignored. (December 16, 2025)

The State of Reproductive Healthcare
with Dr. Sophia Yen, Carey Jones, and Nikki Muller

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Anna sits down with Dr. Sophia Yen (co-founder of Pandia Health), Carey Jones (writer, editor, and fundraiser), and Nikki Muller (writer and multi-disciplinary performer) for a panel discussion on reproductive healthcare, covering everything from contraception to abortion rights to promising research on morning sickness. (December 9, 2025)

"The Healing Power of the Friendship Retreat"
with Alanna Bennett

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Author and screenwriter Alanna Bennett reads her essay "The Healing Power of the Friendship Retreat”, making the case for why a group trip might just be the cure for the ache of long distance friendships. (December 2, 2025)

"We Need to Talk About Our Miscarriages”
with Nikki Muller

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Writer, performer, and storyteller Nikki Muller discusses the importance of destigmatizing miscarriage, and reads her Conversationalist essay, "We Need to Talk About Our Miscarriages”. (November 25, 2025)

"The 'Monsters' Behind the Wall”
with Dalia Hatuqa

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Palestinian multimedia journalist Dalia Hatuqa reads "The 'Monsters' Behind the Wall”, an essay by writer Lailah Radhiya reflecting on her experience growing up in the West Bank.

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