A Feminist Review

Departments

“Liberation,” Roundabout Theatre Company, New York, NY
“Free to Be . . . You and Me: 50 Years of Stories and Songs,” The Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art, Amherst, MA
“Macbeth in Stride,” Brooklyn Academy of Music, Brooklyn, NY

Along with the National Organization for Women and the American Association of University Women (AAUW), Ms. magazine was feminism when I was a kid. I grew up in 1970s Fargo, where my mom subscribed to Ms. and was a member of AAUW. A Ms. mom was different than a mom who read Ladies’ Home Journal, less likely to sew clothes for your Barbie doll or make bread-dough ornaments (though my mom baked her own bread).

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Sandwiches

Many times, on studio visits to friends, when I didn’t entirely love the work,I would exclaim, “Beautiful loft.” After, when we had left the neighborhood forever and life had become quiet and difficult, I thought about the parties. Every day in SoHo was the same: you worked, drank, stayed up late. Weekends didn’t matter. So parties came on Tuesday or Thursday, after openings. The whole pregame ritual of it—pulling on jeans and a sweater, doing

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“Ash November” & “Minimalism”

Ash November They are saying AI is a poet now, that you are ashes now. That the drink killed you. They are saying that the “working class” has united against itself.I am taking this personally. The poor have “decision fatigue” and now we all do, unfortunate revision of solidarity. You dodged this by dying, soft hair pressed to the pillow, now: the Worldwide Wrestling Regime. Like a cartoon dog hit on the head with a

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“Apprehension,” “Admission” & “Would Have”

Apprehension How can what I know nowthat came as a shock thenfeel like a secret I kept from you?How can my knowing, nowthat I would wake up and youwould not, feel like I amkeeping it from you still?Is it because of time, what happens to timewhen one heart stops and one heartgoes on? Is it because it will always be the night before,and I will always know how it will end? Admission You die, and

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Editor’s Letter 3.2

Dear Readers, This is the long-awaited “Fall 2024” issue arriving in January 2025. Here is part of the reason why—in addition to the arbitrariness of print publishing deadlines in the current era, the second half of 2024 contained more panic, rupture, and change than any previous year of my life: a sudden divorce, urgent move, dropping off son at college, overseeing son’s leaving said college, spending half the week as writer-in-residence at Smith and the

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Poetry Comment 3.2

I love it when a poem teaches me something I didn’t know about the endless strangeness of our human past. I had never heard of chicken skin gloves before reading Evangeline Riddiford Graham’s wonderful poem about them. All the rage in Europe from the eighteenth century to the mid-nineteenth, the gloves were intended to soften and whiten the hands of aristocratic ladies, and were made not out of actual chicken skin (phew—that does sound rather gross)

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Letter to the Editor 3.2

To the editor of LIBER, I knew I was gonna love Jessica Baumgardner’s piece about Catherine Newman’s novel Sandwich (“Flesh and Blood,” volume 3, issue 1), and then I loved it even way more than that. The writing about Jessica’s inner life and relationship to her family is so vivid—it all resonates and shows me things I might have missed otherwise. (Like, a 4:30 p.m. rage hour is a thing?!) I loved what she says

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Words Fail: An Interview with JinJin Xu

JinJin Xu. What Would You Hear If You Could? #8: Against This Earth, We Knock. Site-specific installation. Old pots (collected in JiangYong), coal ashes (collected in JiangYong), resin, mechanical installation, 2024. Photo courtesy of How Art Museum. Since 2017 JinJin Xu’s head has been full of voices. What the voices are saying is impossible to summarize. Here are some fragments: I tried to feel this is my home.I don’t think I am a foreigner.I hope she’s

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Thoughts on the Long Road to Regaining Abortion Rights

On June 26, 2024, a group of feminists whose work focuses on all things reproductive gathered to begin strategizing for the long term about how to regain the rights lost by the Dobbs decision. Our group ranged in age from seventeen to seventy-eight and included a journalist, a playwright, three actors, a novelist, two lawyers, a doctor, and the founder of a women’s health clinic. We started the meeting with a scene from Rose of

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A Feminist Ethic of Silence

During the twelve-month gap between undergrad at Penn and postgraduate studies at Harvard Divinity School, one year into my Buddhist practice, I felt it was the right time for a five-day silent meditation retreat. I had heard from other practitioners how transformational sustained silence could be, although more seasoned enlightenment seekers cautioned me to go into the experience with as few expectations as possible.  The retreat center in western Massachusetts implored us to put away

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