“Now, staring down the oft-invoked ‘return to normalcy,’ I don’t know how to metabolize such a towering sense of collective grief, and one that’s infused practically everything I’ve ever known.”
Surely, there is a happy medium between “delightful” concierge healthcare and no healthcare at all that we as a society are smart enough to figure out. (Also, no one ever had a delightful pap smear, no matter how tasty the infused water in the waiting room was.)
What happens when you live in the U.S., you get pregnant, and you’re uninsured? Bills. Big ones. Lots of them.
Molly Osberg’s harrowing essay—a mysterious illness that wastes away her body in days and nearly threatens her life—outlines in painstaking detail how (or if) she would have survived and recovered from her ordeal without medical insurance or a safety net.
Giving up the middle-class dream for communal living and sharing “the political and economic realities of a household.”
A former barista examines service work and the difficult transition into the creative class:
My kind of service work is not the kind of service work that puts you in the back room washing dishes for 12-hour shifts for dollars because you are considered completely expendable. But my kind of service work is part of the same logic that indiscriminately razes neighborhoods. It outsources the emotional and practical needs of the oft-fetishized, urban-renewing “creative” workforce to a downwardly mobile middle class, reducing workers’ personality traits and educations to a series of plot points intended to telegraph a zombified bohemianism for the benefit of the rich.