‘Sometimes I get to use writing to shape other people’s worlds, which is a tremendous privilege. Words, man. They’re a whole thing.’

Stereotypes can be (and usually are) odious, but goddamn if Andrea Grimes doesn’t feel like the very best of the Texan myths. Therein this “Texpat” lies a giant personality—a swaggering, red-lipsticked raconteur unrelenting in her ability to be seen and heard.

But more importantly, Andrea Grimes also defies one of my least favorite stereotypes on the planet—women aren’t funny.

Andrea, in fact, blows that stereotype right the fuck up like one of those circa 1945 photographs of nuclear bombs being tested in the Nevada desert; there ain’t nothing left of that bullshit by the time she is done. Nada.

Her column, “The Bad Advisor,” is funny. Really, really funny.

And you don’t have to believe me — just ask the droves of humans who clamor every Tuesday for the column, demanding, where the hell is it?! if delayed by just a few hours.

And it’s not just funny. Like the very best of satire, it’s also scathing, smart. It takes aim at our pettiness, our ignorance, our shitty, most selfish selves and wraps it all up in a glorious snark-package that will make you a better person.

It’s a kind of alchemy really.

Oh, and she’s also the executive producer of an amazing podcast—”Traitor Radio”—an aural wonderland designed to “engage entry-level social justice warriors, and to mobilize people at their points of privilege,” so we can all feel less hopeless and make our communities bigger, brighter, and more beautiful.

In short? We’re lucky as hell to have her brilliant mind-scrawlings here on The Establishment. This is what she had to say for herself.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Andrea Grimes is going to be reading at our December 14 event in San Francisco — HOLIDAZE! It’s gonna be a-m-a-z-i-n-g.
GET YOUR TICKETS RIGHT THE HELL HERE.]

You can generally find me writing in apocalyptic despair, on a tear on Twitter, while drinking cheap whiskey.

The writers that have most influenced my life are Joan Didion, Ann M. Martin, Abigail Van Buren, Bill Bryson, David Sedaris, Mark Twain, Samantha Irby, Roxane Gay, Mallory Ortberg, and Sarah Vowell.

The TV character I most identify with is Louise Belcher.

I think “paying writers in exposure” is…The answer to this question will cost you $500.

The coolest thing I’ve bought from money made writing is my mortgage. (Runner up: groceries.)

My most listened to song of all time is “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks.

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would be one of my Bad Advice columns, because you know there’s always some worthless ass-bag tottering around wondering if he can disown his gay son or out his trans niece or tell his boss she’s fat or buy his kid a thong and those assholes need to get a what-for, in public.

My 18-year-old self would feel very confused and conflicted about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment because being an advice columnist is real good but getting paid for it is better.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be sushi, all day, every day, please someone make this happen.

If I could give the amazing people who sponsor stories anything in the world to express my gratitude, it would be…another good-ass story. I mean that’s what they want, right?

The story I’m working on now is my NaNoWriMo project about ghosts who are fed up with ghost-hunters.

The story I want to write next is the true tale of two princesses who orchestrated a 5th-century nun revolt in France, joined up with a band of thieves, and took over their own abbey all because they thought the abbess was a complete asshole for making them make their beds and shit.

Writing means this to me: Writing is the one thing I am good at, the thing I can do almost effortlessly even when I hate it and don’t want to do it and can’t really stand to do anything. I can always write. It’s my comfort food, my therapist, my partner, my pet. It is the way I shape myself and my world. Sometimes I get to use writing to shape other people’s worlds, which is a tremendous privilege. Sometimes I just write the word “fuck” a lot and yell about shit that pisses me off. Words, man. They’re a whole thing.

If I could summarize writing in a series of three GIFs, it would be:

Writing to me is a lifestyle, not a profession.

Among the grotesque glut of online clickbait, “how to” stories have come to adopt something of a bad rap. And it’s easy to see why: Often, these pieces are superficial, fluffy, and not actually conducive to helping someone do or be better, which is kind of the entire point.

Dakota Kim’s “how to” stories are the exact opposite of such drivel.

At once searingly personal, thoughtfully nuanced, and productively challenging, Dakota’s pieces for The Establishment — “How To Survive A White Workplace As A Person Of Color” and “How To Talk To Your White Best Friend About Racism” —are “how to” stories at their absolute finest.

Driven by compelling anecdotes and hard-earned acumen, these stories invite readers to live a better life rooted in the principles of intersectional feminism. Consider, for example, this essential insight:

“Readers of color, it’s better to have extremely difficult talks in a real friendship than to ignore the issues and pretend they don’t exist — all the while feeling alone, unhappy, and confused privately. You are actually doing your interracial friendship — and, IMO, the world — a disservice by shielding it from reality.”

Or ponder for a moment this crucial knowledge-drop:

“You owe no one your ‘extracurricular’ self, unless you feel comfortable sharing and want to do so. This Onion article may assist you in faking a really boring weekend watching Scandal when what you really did was stage your own radical musical, attend an anti-ICE protest, party with your favorite band, and throw a food pop-up.”

Dakota, far from adding to a heaping pile of useless nonsense, is making shit better through the power of her wisdom. And when it comes to, well, every type of writing, that’s kind of the entire point.

Read below for Dakota’s thoughts on kimchi, The High Priest of Pop, and writing as a lifestyle.

You can generally find me writing in Hello Kitty pajamas on an Airbnb boat/treehouse/futon while listening to chillwave and house.

The writers that have most influenced my life are Anne Carson, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Octavia Butler, Paul Auster, Rebecca Solnit, and Thich Naht Hanh.

The TV character I most identify with is “Bong-soon” in Strong Woman Do Bong-Soon.

I think paying writers in “exposure” ensures an entry on Who Pays Writers?.

The coolest thing I’ve bought from money made writing is a trip to Korea and Japan for me and my mother.

My most listened to song of all time is “Purple Rain” by Prince.

My 18-year-old self would feel tickled about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment because the editors are supportive and smart, and the community is loud, thoughtful, and critical.

If I could give the amazing people who sponsor stories anything in the world to express my gratitude, it would be jars of my homemade kimchi served by baby kittens on Jeju Island.

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would be “How To Talk To Your White Best Friend About Racism.”

How To Talk To Your White Best Friend About Racism

If I could have one type of food for the rest of the my life, it would be Korean homestyle food.

The story I’m working on now is about native Hawaiians learning leadership and sustainability on an organic farm.

The story I want to write next is an essay about how rollerskating kept me out of teen mischief.

Writing means this to me: a lifestyle, not a profession.

If I could summarize writing in a series of three photos, they would be:

‘I would be the love child of Lisa Simpson and Animal.’

Every once in a while as an editor, you receive an essay in your inbox that knocks the wind out of you. I will never forget receiving one such essay from Ari Honarvar.

In the aftermath of Trump’s Muslim ban, the piece reflected on immigrating from Iran to the U.S., and the striking parallels between both homes. Even in its first raw draft, the story stunned me, coupling raw, vulnerable honesty with deep wisdom and clear-eyed prose. Still to this day, I think about it often.

I’m A Refugee From A Banned Country— This Is My American Story

Since then, I’ve had the honor to work with Ari a few more times, and her work — including the nuanced “What Happened When My Travel-Ban Supporting Neighbor Met With Refugees” and revealing “Poetry Saved Me In Iran — Could It Save Us From War?” — has never lacked the potency or urgency of that first unforgettable piece.

I remain ever-ready for Ari’s next extraordinary story in my inbox…and to have the wind knocked out of me.

Below, Ari shares her thoughts on poetry icons, rice bowls, and the novel she’s working on now.

The writers that have most influenced my life are…Do poets count? Hafez, Rumi, Forough, Gibran. Also Voltaire and Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

The TV character I most identify with is…I would be the love child of Lisa Simpson and Animal.

I think “paying writers in exposure” is tacky.

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would be “What Happened When My Travel Ban-Supporting Neighbor Met With Refugees” (although megaphones aren’t my thing, so it would be a visual equivalent).

What Happened When My Travel Ban-Supporting Neighbor Met With Refugees

My 18-year-old self would feel verklempt about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment because it’s such a clean and professional platform and the editors are wonderful to work with. Plus they have a diverse pool of writers who they treat well.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be a rice bowl with veggies and avocado.

The story I’m working on now is a novel about a 9-year-old girl surviving life in war-torn Iran with the help of a mysterious storyteller.

‘I’ve never been more secure in the knowledge that this is what I was always meant to do.’

It’s a terrible cliche to say a writer is an “editor’s dream,” but, well, here we are saying it — for there is truly no more apt a description for Sam Riedel. It’s not just Sam’s clean, compelling, incisive copy that makes her dreamy — though certainly that helps. It’s also that she’s so damn lovely to work with, responding to edits with thought and care, and just generally coming off like a really cool, thoughtful person.

It’s no wonder that we’ve worked with Sam so frequently over the last year and a half, eagerly accepting her pieces on the ever-fraught fight for trans rights; her critical examinations of pop-culture phenoms like Ghostbusters and It; and her sharp exploration of issues like sex work unionization.

You could call Sam a jack of all trades who few writers can hold a candle to, and who makes editing a piece of cake.

Hey: Sometimes, the cliches are true.

Read below for Sam’s thoughts on her favorite manga, her pasta obsession, and the Nicki Minaj/Beyonce collab she just can’t get enough of.

The writers that have most influenced my life are: K.A. Applegate, Kate Bornstein, and John Keats.

The TV character I most identify with is Sailor Moon.

I think “paying writers in exposure” is predatory capitalism at its pettiest.

The coolest thing I’ve bought from money made writing is my hormones. (Second place: a rad sketch of Tim Drake, the third Robin, by Babs Tarr.)

My most listened to song of all time is “Feelin’ Myself” by Nicki Minaj ft. Beyonce.

My 18-year-old self would feel astonished about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment because my voice is always celebrated, never censored, and I know the editors have my back.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be pasta. Tricolor rotini is like 50% of my diet anyway.

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would be “Why Trans Activists Can’t Trust the Left.”

Why Trans Activists Can’t Trust The Left

Writing means this to me: I’ve wanted to spend my life writing since I was 8 years old. When I go days without writing — due to brain problems or circumstance — I tend to get sad and upset, conscious of the fact that I’m not doing my job. Even when I was writing about things that meant nothing to me, I found comfort in the simple fact that I was writing. Now that I’m building a career based on meaningful work with value for my community, I’ve never been more secure in the knowledge that this is what I was always meant to do.

Tina Horn is one of those humans where you find yourself wondering how the hell she does it.

She is an author—she’s written books on sex work (Love Not Given Lightly) and sexting (A Guide To Dirty Digital Ethics And Etiquette Called Sexting), and of course, she pens a brilliant column here on the Establishment (Why Are People Into that?!), a companion piece to her eponymously named podcast.

She teaches, she makes dirty feminist films, and she spreads the good word on sex worker rights and the glorious joys of kink lifestyles, then wraps it all up in an incredible queer punk aesthetic that leaves your head spinning and your heart racing.

She is relentlessly honest, self-probing, and takes aim at complicated social mores—like the the tangled dialogues between persona and privacy on social media:

“Digital communication has always seemed like the opposite of sex to me. In a room, I feed off the sexual energy of another person. Without that nervous system interaction, I grow exhausted and burn out quickly. Twitter makes me feel that way, too. It doesn’t give me anything I want…

Sometimes I get the impression that people feel entitled to what to say because of what I am — which is a whore — and what I do‚ which is making money by working hard at the words and sex I love. I feel as if the world expects me to outsource my imagination, and every ounce of my gut screams at me to stop. After all, my imagination is my livelihood.”

She takes you on journeys into the hot hearts of marginalized communities—like what it’s like to judge a women’s leather contest:

“For different people I spoke with, leather was a church, a hobby, a sport, a ‘second skin,’ a sexual proclivity, a signal of cultural affiliation, or the only social group they had ever felt a part of.

Yes, Leather is about sex, but it’s also about an expansive idea of intimacy. It’s a tradition that refreshingly undermines the nuclear idea of family values.”

. . . and she weighs-in on socio-cultural stand-offs, leading discussions like “Why Do We Care Whether Trump Is Into Pee? A Sex Workers Roundtable,” essentially eviscerating American hypocrisy around morals, sexuality, shame, and whorephobia.

It’s beautiful to bear witness to her mind at work. And sexy as hell.

Here Tina talks Twin Peaks, tart apples, tawdry poetry, and the glory of intersectionality.

You can generally find me writing in a backyard on a picnic table while drinking a damn fine cup of coffee.

The writers that have most influenced my life are Lester Bangs, Samuel R Delany, Tristan Taormino, Ellen Willis, Gayle Rubin, Grant Morrison, Verlyn Klinkenborg, and Eileen Myles.

The TV character I most identify with is…I’m a Mulder/Scully bisexual switch.

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would be probably the one about how the dichotomy between erotica and porn is classist and fake.

Let’s Dismantle The False Dichotomy Between Porn And Erotica

I like writing for The Establishment because the editors care about craft and content, and they don’t waste my time with edits that are ignorant about sex work, porn, queer identity, or anything else I write about. They provide a platform for a lot of vital sex work discourse to reach intersectional feminist readers and they don’t ask us to shoehorn it into redemption narratives or Happy Hooker cheerleading.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be tart crispy apples right off the tree.

My most listened to song of all time is “Rock & Roll” by The Velvet Underground.

If I could give the amazing people who sponsor stories anything in the world to express my gratitude, it would be custom sex advice.

The story I want to write next is an examination of the difference between the role of power in ethical BDSM compared to cult abuse.

If I could summarize writing in a series of three GIFs, it would be…I’m cheating and including my favorite meme of all time:

‘I don’t think I would be able to process thoughts or feelings without writing.’

Great writers function as guides, taking your hand and gripping it tight as they navigate you through their narrative, even when there are unexpected turns or ventures deep into the woods. If you feel lost while reading, it’s because the writer has released their grip, forgetting to keep you close.

Anne Theriault knows how to never let go.

In part, this is because Anne is so finely skilled; her command of structure and language is superb, ensuring readers stay fully invested in what she writes. But there’s more to it than that — Anne’s stories are also captivating because she writes with such an evident sense of wonder and curiosity.

Don’t believe us? Check out her history-rich treatise on the feminist power of witches, or lengthy and free-ranging dialogue with a Catholic nun, or thoughtful exploration of America’s long legacy of hate through the lens of a road trip.

While you’re at it, go ahead and read this and this and this and this, too. With a guide like Anne, you’re sure to enjoy the journey.

Below, Anne shares her thoughts on ballet, changelings, and Canadian bagels.

You can generally find me writing in a public library on a macbook air while desperately trying not to check Twitter.

The writers that have most influenced my life are Sylvia Plath, Colette, and Rosemary Sutcliff.

I think “paying writers in exposure” is a symptom of how our society undervalues the arts and also just plain unethical.

The coolest thing I’ve bought from money made writing is ballet lessons. Is that cool? I’m not sure. It seems cool to me. [Editor’s note: Yes. It’s cool.]

My most listened to song of all time is “Metal Heart” by Cat Power.

My 18-year-old self would feel pretty ok, I think, about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment because they pay decently and they’re always into my weirdest pitches.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be bagels and lox, but specifically Montreal bagels.

If I could give the amazing people who sponsor stories anything in the world to express my gratitude, it would be a signed first-edition copy of their favorite book.

The story I’m working on now is about reading Girl, Interrupted during my stay in a psychiatric ward. You know, a really light puff piece kinda thing.

The story I want to write next is about changeling mythology.

Writing means this to me: Writing is how I figure things out. It’s like taking a tangled skein of wool and slowly unsnarling it until I can lay it out in one straight line to get from the beginning of a thought to the end of it. I often don’t properly know how I feel about something until I sit down to write about it. I don’t think I would be able to process thoughts or feelings without writing; it’s really that integral to how I interact with the world.

‘Writing is telepathy.’

I n the world of intersectional feminism and social justice, beauty writing must be handled with an extraordinary amount of nuance. On the one hand, people have every right to adorn themselves with whatever they damn well please, be it rouge, neon-blue wigs, spandex pants, or a sequined romper; at its best, “beauty” implies glorious empowerment and fierce identity expression.

On the other hand, the beauty industry is often a heteronormative, whitewashing, fat-shaming, objectifying mess that makes people, on the whole, feel miserable and less than.

Very few people can navigate both these realities at once. Of those who can, few do it better than Jennifer Culp.

Jenn’s “Make Your Face” column, featured biweekly here at The Establishment, is a disarmingly charming, visually stunning reminder that beauty should be an external expression of one’s weird, wonderful, joyous personhood. Moreover, Jenn is careful to remind us that justice and beauty need not be mutually exclusive; sometimes, sparkle is a tool of resistance, and liptstick a powerful way to say “fuck you” to the patriarchy.

Jenn’s catalogue of fabulously freaky columns is long and consistently superb, but here are a few particular favorites:

• Make Your Face Beautiful In The Style Of Bob Ross
• How To Look Like A Reddit Troll’s Worst Nightmare
• How To Look Like Every Sign Of The Zodiac

We can think of just one word to describe Jenn’s work: beautiful.

Read below for Jenn’s thoughts on weird selfies, cheddar cheese, and Nine Inch Nails.

You can generally find me writing in an old recliner on a laptop and/or phone while a dog glares at me. (I’m not supposed to pay so much attention to something other than her, see.)

The writers that have most influenced my life are Jane Marie, Lindy West, Heather Havrilesky, Anne Helen Petersen, and Elaine “Lainey” Lui.

The TV character I most identify with is Lwaxana Troi.

I think “paying writers in exposure” is totally unsustainable from the writer POV. If money is being made, writers need to get paid.

My most listened to song of all time is “Last” by Nine Inch Nails.

The coolest thing I’ve bought from money made writing is a plane ticket to visit friends in Miami!

My 18-year-old self would feel utterly bewildered about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment for so many reasons! I really enjoy communicating with expressions and images, and Make Your Face has given me an opportunity to combine both with words to create this irreverent but also sometimes bone-serious sort of ongoing journal about beauty and society as experienced by me. The ‘Stab allows me huge leeway to play with format, consistently trusts me with out-there ideas, and offers such careful and thoughtful editing! And I’m honored by the company I keep as a byline on the site; I learn so much from other contributors’ work.

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would probably be How to Master the Art of Weird Selfies. Servicey!

How To Master The Art Of Weird Selfies

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be extra sharp cheddar cheese.

If I could give the amazing people who sponsor stories anything in the world to express my gratitude, it would be more stories! More complicated stories!! Weirder stories!!!

The story I’m working on now is about astrology and the comfort of choosing to believe in something you don’t *actually* believe in because you enjoy the way it orders the world.

The story I want to write next is a fun freaky ghost story. I’m ready for Halloween!

Writing means this to me: Writing is telepathy. You look at my words and instantly hear my voice in your head. How cool is that??

If I could summarize writing in a series of three GIFs, it would be:

‘I am more confident when I’m surrounded by other writers who are pushing boundaries.’

When we asked Bellamy to summarize writing in a series of GIFs, the last one she chose was the classic meme of Obama kissing his fingers before dropping the mic.

It was an apt choice — as this is, in fact, exactly what reading a Bellamy piece is like.

When exploring fraught issues surrounding racial justice, Bellamy writes with so much piercing clarity and brazen honesty that when her stories are complete, you can’t help but feel the urge to applaud —as one is wont to do when the mic has been dropped.

At the same time, Bellamy writes with extraordinary nuance and thoughtfulness, meaning her words don’t just create an immediate impact; they stay with you, sometimes days or even weeks later.

Take “Why I Didn’t Call The Cops When I Saw A Teen With A Gun,” a piece that details not wanting to involve law enforcement in a potentially dangerous situation, due to the looming threat of police brutality against black bodies. It’s an essay that demands your attention, then your deepest consideration and thought.

Why I Didn’t Call The Cops When I Saw A Teen With A Gun

Or “When My Cute Black Kid Becomes What You Fear Most,” an essay in which readers are asked to contend with their basest prejudices, turned against the innocent children of loving mothers.

When My Cute Black Kid Becomes What You Fear Most

In these and other pieces, Bellamy drops the mic — but, more importantly, she also asks that you pick the mic back up, and continue the conversation. And that’s the mark of a very worthy Writer of the Week.

Below, read Bellamy’s thoughts on predatory publishers, Charlottesville, and the enduring wonders of pie.

I think “paying writers in exposure” is mostly predatory bullshit, particularly in the case of publications run by large, wealthy corporations.

The coolest thing I’ve bought from money made writing is probably food for my babies’ bellies, because not starving is always in style.

My most listened to song of all time is “I Don’t Want to Be” by Gavin DeGraw.

I like writing for The Establishment because I feel like my stories are understood and valued, not brushed off because an editor can’t relate. Also, I am more confident when I’m surrounded by other writers who are pushing boundaries and when I don’t have to contend with a comments section.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be pie. I’m pretty sure it covers most food groups.

If I could give the amazing people who sponsor stories anything in the world to express my gratitude, it would be a personalized poem…and maybe some pie.

The story I’m working on now is about the role parents play in securing a diverse and harmonious future for their children.

The story I want to write next is about what we can learn about ongoing activism from the organizers here in Charlottesville and avoiding complacency.

If I could summarize writing in a series of three GIFs, it would be:

Beginning:

Middle:

(Oh So Humble) End:

Read about all our amazing Writers of the Week here!

‘I hope my writing will call people to action.’

I n this age where truth has been twisted, resisted, and relentlessly bastardized, Casey Quinlan reminds us of the power of facts. Not “alternative facts.” Not sorta-kinda half-truth facts. Real, cold, hard facts.

A reporter of impeccable integrity, Casey understands how to ground her pivotal stories — be it about faux progressive men, the medical industry’s poor treatment of marginalized groups, or an epidemic of sexual assault against LGBTQ college students — in estimable, vetted research and meticulous interviewing.

It’s no wonder her work has appeared at such illustrious publications as The Atlantic and ThinkProgress — and no wonder why we’re thrilled she’s made a home at The Establishment.

As The Washington Post intones in its tagline, “Democracy dies in darkness.” Journalism — under siege to an astonishing degree — is one of the most powerful bastions we have against the erosion of democratic principles. Thanks to fact-driven, dogged reporters like Casey, there’s hope for us yet.

Below, Casey shares her thoughts on why not paying writers is bunk, her favorite fish and mixed drink, and the Frasier character she feels a special kinship with.

You can generally find me writing in a crowded newsroom or DC restaurant on a laptop while glowering.

The writers that have most influenced my life are Joyce Carol Oates, Rebecca Solnit, Miranda July, Roxane Gay, Rebecca Traister, Jia Tolentino, Nikole Hannah-Jones, and Patricia Engel.

The TV character I most identify with is Lilith from Cheers and Frasier.

I think “paying writers in exposure” is something LGBTQ writers, femme writers, and writers of color are asked to do too much of.

The coolest thing I’ve bought from money made writing is a desk to write on (it’s a beautiful old desk painted turquoise).

My most listened to song of all time is a split between “A Case of You” by Joni Mitchell and “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone.

My 18-year-old self would feel happy about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment because editors are comfortable with LGBTQ issues and sex positivity, and they are always interested in making your pieces the best they can be.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be scallops and risotto.

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would be “Dear Straight Allies, Please Don’t Forget the Harassment of Queer Women.”

Dear Straight Allies, Please Don’t Forget The Harassment Of Queer Women

If I could give the amazing people who sponsor stories anything in the world to express my gratitude, it would be a gin and tonic and conversation about their interests.

The story I’m working on now is about Democrats who are supporting a litmus test for abortion.

The story I want to write next is about what middle and high schools could do to protect students against sexual assault.

Writing means this to me: I write to better understand how our culture and government institutions fail marginalized groups of people and bring attention to people who are working on mitigating these issues and looking for solutions. I hope my writing will call people to action who otherwise wouldn’t be aware of these problems.

If I could summarize writing in a series of three GIFs, it would be:

Looking For A Comments Section? We Don’t Have One.

‘I try to write out of love.’

Our favorite stories at The Establishment are those that linger long past the point of closing a browser. These pieces don’t just exist in the moment — they exist in perpetuity, inspiring further pondering and lengthy conversations days, months, and even years after they’re written.

Imran Siddiquee’s stories are the kind you can’t shake — and that’s a very good thing.

Perhaps this is because Imran is so obviously thoughtful, clearly taking his time to explore every facet of the fraught, nuanced issues he tackles in his pieces. When a writer is so openly reflective, you as a reader are compelled to reflect deeply in turn.

The best pieces don’t just exist in the moment.

Consider, as an example, “How We Learn To Love ‘Good’ White Men With Guns,” a story that uses chilling, compelling facts to make keenly observed points about racist conditioning. “In order to challenge a lifetime of learning to center white lives and seeing violence as good,” Imran writes, “we need to see — recondition ourselves with — images of Black people who are not just killing or being killed.”

Or sit for a while with this paragraph, from “How To Make White Movies”:

“The lives of white men are surely worth representing on screen, but creating the illusion that systems of oppression have no part in those lives is a noticeable mistake — and one which reinforces oppression. In the same way that we acknowledge that the lighting or score can alter a film, so can an ignorance of race and gender.”

Passages like this are designed to stay with you — to enter your very consciousness, helping you to see the world, and your own beliefs, in a new light. If there’s a better writing aim than that, we don’t know what it is.

Below, Imran talks about coffee highs (a conspicuously recurring theme among our writers of the week), Insecure, and the song from Monsoon Wedding that he just can’t get enough of.

You can generally find me writing in short, infrequent bursts on a coffee high while daydreaming about the movies I wish existed.

The writers that have most influenced my life are bell hooks, Virginia Woolf, Arundhati Roy, Junot Diaz, Rabindranath Tagore, this is so hard to answer!

The TV character I most identify with is: the entire staff of “We Got Y’all” on Insecure.

My most listened to song of all time is: Not sure about all time but maybe “Aaj Mausam Bada Beimaan Hai” by Mohammed Rafi (and mostly because of Monsoon Wedding).

My 18-year-old self would feel surprised and confused and maybe excited about where I am today.

I like writing for The Establishment because it’s an openly feminist space, and the editors are passionate, engaged, and always making my writing better.

If I could only have one type of food for the rest of my life it would be Kitchuri (the kind my mom makes).

If I could share one of my stories by yelling it into a megaphone in the middle of Times Square, it would be: “The Truth About the Men Who Riot and Kill.”

The Truth About The Men Who Riot And Kill

Writing means this to me: I try to write out of love, to carry forward the work of those before me, to try and dismantle oppressive systems and build something new — but also maybe out of fear, curiosity, and necessity.