In a provocative, groundbreaking work, National Magazine Award finalist Rebecca Traister, "the most brilliant voice on feminism in this country" (Anne Lamott), traces the history of unmarried women in America who, through social, political, and economic means, have radically shaped our nation.
"Excellent book, destroyed by narration"
In the last two years, the United States - its history, assumptions, prejudices, and vocabulary - have all cracked open. A woman won a state presidential primary contest (quite a few of them, actually) for the first time in this country's history. Less than a year later, a vice-presidential candidate concluded her appearance in a national debate and immediately reached for her newborn baby. A few months after that, an African American woman moved into the White House - not as an employee but as the First Lady.
"Perfect refresher course in feminism and the media"
When I was in my twenties and worked as a secretary - a job that had then recently been rebranded “assistant” - my female colleagues and I used to go out drinking at a dive bar with a jukebox that was heavily stocked with country music. Just about every week, we women - overworked, underpaid, and thoroughly fried by our comparatively cushy yet still pretty thankless jobs - would end the night practically standing on the bar for one song: Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.”
When, on Wednesday night, a 21-year-old white man named Dylann Roof entered the Charleston church founded by former slave Denmark Vesey on the anniversary of Vesey’s planned 1822 slave rebellion and shot and killed nine people, he provided the United States with the latest installment of a history lesson we adamantly refuse to learn: that our racist past is not past. It is present.
Hillary Clinton has officially announced her candidacy for the presidency of the United States. There is no breaking news here.
The best thing Hillary could do for her campaign? Ditch her husband.
The day that Hillary conceded the 2008 primaries, I rode the train back from Washington to New York with another political journalist. We wondered, then, about the possibility that Clinton might someday run for president again. At that moment, with tempers in the Democratic Party still blazing, it seemed awfully remote. But, we agreed, we could both picture it. There was just one big piece of baggage she’d need to lose first: Bill.
In May of last year, I took a trip to Nevada to report a profile of a political candidate. After a three-hour interview with my subject, a member of her communications team suggested we go to lunch. Midway through, I jumped up from the table and ran toward the restaurants bathroom. I was unable to make it all the way to the toilet and ended up retching on the oor of the stall. After cleaning up as best I could and shamefacedly informing the manager about the remaining mess, I was spent.