Personal Essays

A meditation on the paintings of the late Jesse Murry

I kept thinking about the Celebration Gator.

You’ll understand why it confused me when, upon accepting his invitation to meet up with him the following night, he raped me.

This week, Tasteful Rude publishes a pair of reflections that explore the aftermath of gender-based violence. Tasteful Rude is doing so to counter the continued erasure of survivor-centered narratives, especially those concerning life after harm. We also publish these essays in response to the continued glorification of “cancelled celebrities,” in particular men reported for persistent engagement in gender-based violence and harm.

a winter in the Dolomites with my father-in-law

Organizers of Giovanni's Room unite to honor literary ancestors

For Nigerians seeking therapy, two options exist: IRL and URL. Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu describes her experiences with both.

I thought about “domestic violence” going “on vacation” as I learned about the Petito case. I remembered trips I took with a patriarch whom I’ll refer to as F. The month before I escaped from F, we went on a road trip.

Throughout my life, I’ve been collecting literature, poetry, and essays that shape my worldview. This personal canon is not carved into stone, but rather it’s fluid, evolving. For myself, I declare these texts important, and so, for me, they are.

Before I left home, my daughter packed the bag with food, snacks, a picture she’d colored in the car and a stuffed blue “Pete the Cat” doll. My wife told her to do this as a way to comfort Dodge, our cat, while she went to the vet.

A few weeks ago I spent a weekend in the South of France and I felt socially obliged to learn how to surf

“They just don’t know…I talked to God about, you know, about what happened,” she sobbed. “It wasn’t an easy choice. People just, they hate you for it, like, the ones that protest outside Hilltop, they don’t know what it’s like, or why. I did what I had to do, dude,” she cried. “Only you know why.”

I started hating this tradition. In doing so, I ran from myself, more worried about whether my authentic self was acceptable. I would make faces and moan about how annoying the process of applying and removing Mehndi is – just like my British friends do now – while also secretly loving how beautiful and elegant my hands looked.