Books
Don’t miss these 2 books from award-winning queer writers
Diaz, Shapland pen unforgettable poetry, nonfiction

‘Postcolonial Love Poem’
By Natalie Diaz
c.2020, Graywolf
$16/105 pages
‘My Autobiography of Carson McCullers’
By Jenn Shapland
c.2020, Tin House
$22.95/288 pages
Often, you enjoy a book. But it’s as ethereal as a lovely snowflake. After a month, you forget about it.
That’s not the case with two unforgettable books by queer authors that are among this year’s National Book Awards finalists. Natalie Diaz, a queer, Native American poet is a finalist in poetry for “Postcolonial Love Poem” and queer writer Jenn Shapland is a finalist in nonfiction for “My Autobiography of Carson McCullers.” The winners of the distinguished award will be announced in a virtual ceremony on Nov. 18. Winners of the prestigious prize will receive $10,000; finalists will receive $1,000.
Neither Diaz’s or Shapland’s book – one a searing volume of poetry, the other an arresting memoir – will slip out of your mind. Each volume will leave you questioning and pondering yourself, identity, erasure and history.
“Postcolonial Love Poem” is Diaz’s second poetry collection. Her first poetry collection “When My Brother Was an Aztec,” was an American Book Award winner. Diaz, who is Mojave and an enrolled member of the Gila River Indian Tribe, has received many honors, including a MacArthur Fellowship. She is the Maxine and Jonathan Marshall Chair in Modern and Contemporary Poetry at Arizona State University.
Poetry is of the body – the body personal, the body political and the body historical. Rarely has this been more true than in “Postcolonial Love Poem.”
Diaz’s poetry speaks eloquently and vividly of desire. “Haven’t they moved like rivers/like glory, like light/over the seven days of your body?” she writes in the poem “These Hands, If Not Gods,” “And wasn’t that good?/Them at your hips/isn’t this what God felt when he pressed together/the first Beloved: Everything.”
The narrator of Diaz’s poems knows that desire is often intermingled with worry, anxiety and sleeplessness. She uses striking imagery to evoke desire and the night. “Insomnia is like spring that way – surprising/and many petaled,” Diaz writes in the poem “From the Desire Field,” “the kick and leap of gold grasshoppers at my brow/I am stuck in the witched hours of want/I want her green life.”
The volume is a stirring indictment of injustice and erasure. “Police kill Native Americans more/than any other race,” Diaz writes in the poem “American Arithmetic.”
“I’m not good at math–can you blame me?/I’ve had an American education,” she adds with incisive irony later in the poem.
“Postcolonial Love Poem” is the most provocative, compelling poetry collection I’ve read in eons. Check it out.
In her memoir “My Autobiography of Carson McCullers,” her first book, writer Jenn Shapland explores erasure and identity. Carson McCullers, who lived from 1917 to 1967 and is best known for her novel “The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter” and her novel (as well as its adaptation for the stage) “The Member of the Wedding,” is an iconic writer, playwright and poet.
Yet, in biographies and literary history, her queerness has been largely erased. In her genre-defying book (part memoir, part biography), Shapland examines and illumines both McCullers’ and her own identity, queerness, memory, obsession and love. Her nonfiction has been published in “Tin House,” “Essay Daily” and other publications. Shapland won the 2019 Rabkin Foundation Award for art journalism, and her essay “Finders, Keepers” won a 2017 Pushcart Prize. She teaches as an adjunct in creative writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe.
When Shapland was a graduate student, she discovered intimate letters that McCullers wrote to a woman named Annemarie. As she uncovers the letters, she becomes obsessed not only with how history has erased McCullers’ queerness but with how queer women’s love stories are told.
In short, evocative, incisive chapters, Shapland questions: Why have queer women had to (even now) tell their stories in a way that fits straight narratives? Why have we had to be ourselves – navigate in hetero spaces? As she struggles with her own sexuality, Shapland wonders what McCullers’ secrets and legacy will reveal to her about herself.
“To tell another person’s story,” Shapland writes, “a writer must make that person some version of herself, must find a way to inhabit her.”
“My Autobiography of Carson McCullers” is an absorbing, revealing story of queer history and identity.
Books
Pioneering gay journalist takes on Trump 2.0 in new book
Nick Benton’s essays appeared in Fall Church News-Press
Nicholas Benton is a well-known local LGBTQ advocate and journalist and the longtime owner and editor of the Falls Church News-Press, a weekly newspaper.
In his eighth book out now, Benton offers a new set of remarkable essays all crafted in the first eight months of Trump 2.0 and its wholesale effort at dismantling democracy and the rule of law. Most were published in the Falls Church News-Press, but he adds a new piece to this volume, as an addendum to his “Cult Century” series, revealing for the first time his experiences from decades ago in the political cult of Lyndon LaRouche, aimed at providing a clearer grasp of today’s Cult of Trump.
His “Please Don’t Eat Your Children” set takes off from the satire of Jonathan Swift to explore society’s critical role of drumming creativity out of the young.

Below is an excerpt from “Please Don’t Eat Your Children, Cult Century, and other 2025 Essays.”
Please Don’t Eat Your Children
In his famous short essay, “A Modest Proposal: For Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland From Being a Burden to Their Parents or Country and for Making Them Beneficial to the Public,” author and Anglican priest Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) uses cutting satire to suggest that cannibalism of the young might help solve a battery of social ills.
As we examine our broken society today, it seems to me that reflecting on Swift’s social critique can be quite useful. Now we face a nation filled with anger and division and there is little to suggest any real solutions other than insisting people “don’t do that!” We can start out with the observation that young children, left to their own, are neither hateful nor cruel. How do they get that way later on in their lives? What drives them toward such emotional states and behaviors? It is not a problem only for the margins of society, for the extreme misfits or troubled. It is defining the very center of our culture today. Our divisions are not the cause, but the result of something, and nobody is saying what that is.
Swift doesn’t say what it is in his biting little essay. But it is implied by a context of a lack of bounty, or poverty, on the one hand, and an approach to it characterized by obscenely cruel indifference, on the other. He coined the phrase “useless eaters” in defining his radical solution. In Hitler’s Germany, that term resonated through the death camps and some in our present situation are daring to evoke it again as the current administration pushes radical cuts in Medicaid funding.
But while that refers to the old and infirm, mostly, it is the young we are talking about here. The problem is that our society is structured to devour our young and as they begin to find that out, they rebel. Not in all cases is this the practice, of course. Where there is little or no lack, things are different. We nurture our young, as we should, and we love them. Lucky is the child who is born to parents who are of means, and in a community where nurture is possible and valued. But even such children are ultimately not immune from facing a destiny of pale conformity battered by tightly delimited social expectations and debt slavery. If they have enough ambition, education and doors opened for them, some can run the gauntlet with relative effectiveness. Otherwise, our young are raised to die on battlefields, or to struggle in myriad other painful social conflicts aimed at advancing the world of their elders. In the Bible, there is a great admonition against this process that comes at the very precondition for the tradition it represents that begins with Abraham.
It is in the book of Genesis at the beginning of the Biblical story when, as that story goes, God commanded Abraham to kill his son, Isaac, as a sacrifice. As Abraham is about to obey, God steps in and says no. The entire subsequent eons-long struggle to realize Abraham’s commission by God to make a great nation that would be a light to the world would have been cut short right then if Abraham had slain his own son. The message is that all of the Abrahamic traditions, Judaism, Islam and Christianity, owe their source, and in fact are rooted, in God’s command to reject the sacrifice of children to the whims of their elders. The last thousands of years can be best defined in these terms, where nurture is pitted against exploitation of our young with, at best, vastly mixed results. Scenes like that at the opening of “All Quiet on the Western Front,” the World War I novel and film where a teacher rallies a classroom full of boys to enlist in the war, is bone chilling. Or, the lyric in Pink Floyd’s iconic song, Comfortably Numb, “When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone. I cannot put my finger on it now. The child is grown, the dream is gone.”
Nick Benton’s new book is available now at Amazon.
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Books
New book highlights long history of LGBTQ oppression
‘Queer Enlightenments’ a reminder that inequality is nothing new
‘Queer Enlightenments: A Hidden History of Lovers, Lawbreakers, and Homemakers’
By Anthony Delaney
c.2025, Atlantic Monthly Press
$30/352 pages
It had to start somewhere.
The discrimination, the persecution, the inequality, it had a launching point. Can you put your finger on that date? Was it DADT, the 1950s scare, the Kinsey report? Certainly not Stonewall, or the Marriage Act, so where did it come from? In “Queer Enlightenments: A Hidden History of Lovers, Lawbreakers, and Homemakers” by Anthony Delaney, the story of queer oppression goes back so much farther.

The first recorded instance of the word “homosexual” arrived loudly in the spring of 1868: Hungarian journalist Károly Mária Kerthbeny wrote a letter to German activist Karl Heinrich Ulrichs referring to “same-sex-attracted men” with that new term. Many people believe that this was the “invention” of homosexuality, but Delaney begs to differ.
“Queer histories run much deeper than this…” he says.
Take, for instance, the delightfully named Mrs. Clap, who ran a “House” in London in which men often met other men for “marriage.” On a February night in 1726, Mrs. Clap’s House was raided and 40 men were taken to jail, where they were put in filthy, dank confines until the courts could get to them. One of the men was ultimately hanged for the crime of sodomy. Mrs. Clap was pilloried, and then disappeared from history.
William Pulteney had a duel with John, Lord Hervey, over insults flung at the latter man. The truth: Hervey was, in fact, openly a “sodomite.” He and his companion, Ste Fox had even set up a home together.
Adopting your lover was common in 18th century London, in order to make him a legal heir. In about 1769, rumors spread that the lovely female spy, the Chevalier d’Éon, was actually Charles d’Éon de Beaumont, a man who had been dressing in feminine attire for much longer than his espionage career. Anne Lister’s masculine demeanor often left her an “outcast.” And as George Wilson brought his bride to North American in 1821, he confessed to loving men, thus becoming North America’s first official “female husband.”
Sometimes, history can be quite dry. So can author Anthony Delaney’s wit. Together, though, they work well inside “Queer Enlightenments.”
Undoubtedly, you well know that inequality and persecution aren’t new things – which Delaney underscores here – and queer ancestors faced them head-on, just as people do today. The twist, in this often-chilling narrative, is that punishments levied on 18th- and 19th-century queer folk was harsher and Delaney doesn’t soften those accounts for readers. Read this book, and you’re platform-side at a hanging, in jail with an ally, at a duel with a complicated basis, embedded in a King’s court, and on a ship with a man whose new wife generously ignored his secret. Most of these tales are set in Great Britain and Europe, but North America features some, and Delaney wraps up thing nicely for today’s relevance.
While there’s some amusing side-eyeing in this book, “Queer Enlightenments” is a bit on the heavy side, so give yourself time with it. Pick it up, though, and you’ll love it til the end.
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Books
A history of lesbian workarounds to build family
Fighting for the right to have and raise kids
‘Radical Family: Trailblazing Lesbian Moms Tell Their Stories’
Edited by Margaret Mooney
c.2025, Wisconsin Historical Society Press
$20/150 pages
You don’t have a white picket fence with an adorable gate.
The other parts of the American Dream – the house in the suburbs, a minivan, and a big backyard – may also be beyond your reach. You’ve never wanted the joyous husband-wife union, but the two-point-five kids? Yeah, maybe that’s possible. As in the new book “Radical Family,” edited by Margaret Mooney, it’s surely more so than it was in the past.

Once upon a time, if a lesbian wanted to raise a family, she had two basic options: pregnancy or adoption. That is, says Mooney, if she was willing to buck a hetero-centric society that said the former was “selfish, unnatural and radical” and the latter was often just simply not possible or even legal.
Undaunted, and very much wanting kids, many lesbians ignored the rules. They built “chains” of women who handed off sperm from donor to doctor to potential mother. They demanded that fertility clinics allow single women as customers. They wrote pamphlets and publications aimed to help others become pregnant by themselves or with partners. They carefully sought lesbian-friendly obstetricians and nurses.
Over time, lesbians who wanted kids were “emboldened by the feminist movement and the gay and lesbian rights movement” and did what they had to do, omitted facts when needed, traveled abroad when they could, and found workarounds to build a family.
This book tells nine stories of everyday lesbians who succeeded.
Denise Matyka and Margaret McMurray went to Russia to adopt. Martha Dixon Popp and Alix Olson raised their family, in part and for awhile in conjunction with Popp’s husband. Gail Hirn learned from an agriculture publication how to inseminate herself. MC Reisdorf literally stood on her head to get pregnant. Mooney says that, like most lesbian parents then, she became a mother “without any safety nets…”
Such “struggles likely will feel familiar as you read about [the] desire to become parents…” says Mooney. “In short, these families are ordinary and extraordinary all at once.”
In her introduction, editor Margaret Mooney points out that the stories in this book generally take place in the latter part of the last century, but that their relevance is in the struggles that could happen tomorrow. There’s urgency in those words, absolutely, and they’re tinged with fear, but don’t let them keep you from “Radical Family.”
What you’ll see inside these nine tales is mostly happy, mostly triumphant – and mostly Wisconsin-centric, though the variety in dream-fulfillment is wide enough that the book is appropriate anywhere. The determination leaps out of the pages here, and the storytellers don’t hide their struggles, not with former partners, bureaucracy, or with roadblocks. Reading this book is like attending a conference and hearing attendees tell their tales. Bonus: photos and advice for any lesbian thinking of parenthood, single or partnered.
If you’re in search of positive stories from lesbian mothers and the wall-busting they did, or if you’ve lived the same tales, this slim book is a joy to read. For you, “Radical Family” may open some gates.
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