Reina A.E. Gattuso
There are a lot of bars in Harvard Square that serve decent glasses of prosecco and interesting cocktails for around ten bucks a pop, which is cute, considering I’ll have to start repaying student loans in a year if I don’t get into grad school. For this reason, FM is giving the people what they want: the best cheap wines of Harvard Square, reviewed by a seasoned early twenty-something casual drinker with no specialty knowledge of alcohol whatsoever. Have at me.
Travellers are too often tricked into thinking that the authentic of a place its in its orthodox, its normative.
There is the harsh pleasure of rain, and that of almost raining.
The heat is the third party in every love affair this summer, the dark horse candidate in all politics.
By now even the literature professors are hoping the humanities will just kick the bucket already so we can finish talking about them.
If I want to be a serious lady power player, I’m going to need to purchase a blazer. It’s going to be black or navy blue, it’s going to cinch at the waist and flair at the hips, and, damn it, it’s going to get me taken seriously.
Ironically, the urge to find a “lesbian” voice in the debate can lead to the marginalization of those who don’t fit normative images, leaving them outside whatever ends up being the community standard of legitimacy.
It’s been a big year for organizing by students of color, and particularly black students, on college campuses. And as it so often does, Harvard has become part of the discussion.
“Tradition” is a slippery talking point.
Princeton Mom is back, and we didn’t miss her.
There is a house in an imaginary Newark, in a row of red brick buildings between the highway and the sun.
I am too old for this. Last week I arrived at a house party only to spend the first 20 minutes putting the finishing touches on my gender studies junior tutorial syllabus. Tonight is squishy, slushy, miserable, the kind of night that will leave the streets shiny, lethal disco floors by morning. It’s 11:30 p.m. on Saturday, I’m trudging alone down Mass Ave on the way to Eliot Street, and I have never more deeply regretted the existence of New England.