All posts tagged: June 2026

Freedom

By ZINZI CLEMMONS

Excerpted from the essay collection FREEDOM

I arrive in Johannesburg, South Africa, on December 2, 2013. My father will join me in two weeks, with my brother to follow a week later. In one month, we will unveil my mother’s headstone in the township where she grew up, one year after her death. Weeks before my arrival, a report detailing unlawful expenditure of taxpayer money in the form of $20 million of “security improvements” to President Jacob Zuma’s lavish compound, is leaked to the press. Nine years ago, the country’s first all-race elections were held and South Africa finally regained freedom from apartheid rule.

Freedom
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Mother is a Kind of Holding: Jenny Qi interviews Preeti Vangani

PREETI VANGANI and JENNY QI first met as inaugural Rooted and Written Fellows at the San Francisco Writers Grotto in 2019, the same year that Preeti published her debut poetry collection, Mother Tongue Apologize. Their shared experience of writing through grief after mother-loss as young women bonded them, and they became close friends. Both were subsequently awarded a Brown Handler Residency and a McCormack Writing Center Fellowship (formerly Tin House)

Mother is a Kind of Holding: Jenny Qi interviews Preeti Vangani
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Loons in Strandir

By JEFFREY WOLF

Hólmavík, Iceland, 2023

 

The Westfjords. Iceland’s necrotic hand. Gnarled fingers reaching for the icy water. This is my interlude. A day between artist residencies, a rental car from Hertz. Just a short detour off my route. I may never have the chance again.

The fjords sit back and cast their spell. They rise from the ocean like the backs of sleeping beasts. For eons, they’ve waited. Layer after layer, gray upon gray, so deep and infinite that I start to feel afraid. Surely this is where the darkness lives.

A short detour isn’t so short. The land wanders, the roads double back. Time warps in the hypnosis. I’ve driven for hours and made no progress. Suddenly I’ve crested a mountain, and I’m staring down like a king. Then I’m low along the beach, small and insignificant. Then the mist rolls in, and it’s anybody’s guess.

Loons in Strandir
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