On Fridays in the church basement, I see glimpses of something precarious and beautiful.
It doesn’t matter what genre Translating Myself and Others is. What matters is that it is irresistibly immersive.
When Frank Bruni suffered permanent vision damage, he embarked on a philosophical quest.
“My mama was womanist. My grandma is womanist. Just because they don’t have the language or the identifier doesn’t make them less womanist.”
People fear the impact of difficult books. They aren’t entirely wrong.
And she does it in an unmistakable Caribbean accent that embraces, hugs, kisses, dances, cries, and rumbles out laughter.
Reading Art Spiegelman’s Holocaust graphic novel with Christian eyes
Baltimore—from Frederick Douglass to Freddie Gray—informs his whole journey.
The translators hope that “the colonial language that was forced upon us can now serve our people in a good way.”
This acknowledgment is at the heart of Christianity.