Innholdsfortegnelse for Aug-25-14 i The New Yorker

A WOMAN’S WORLD Michelle Goldberg’s piece about radical-feminist views on transgender identity and rights accurately portrays the trans-exclusionary radical feminist movement as fringe (“What Is a Woman?” August 4th). However, as the executive director of Feministing.com, I want to underscore that complaints about lost venues and critical Tumblr posts cannot be adequately understood without hearing from a category of people at the center of the conflict, whose identity is systemically denied. While the trans-rights movement has indeed seen gains in recent years, transgender people, as Goldberg notes, still face disproportional and soaring rates of discrimination and violence, with lowincome women and women of color particularly affected. In the first four months of this year, more than a hundred trans people were murdered, according to data compiled by the Transgender…

Like tent caterpillars, we cover the landscape with meshbecause of the deer, the ravenous deer.They enter the yard with the footworkof cartoon thieves—the stags wear preposterousinverse chandeliers, the does bearing fetusesvisibly kicking inside of their cage. And whocan not-think of that crazy what-if: what ifa hoof tears through? Would you callthe dogcatcher or an ambulance? The problem’s their scale—you might as well parka Cadillac in the house. Or go be a hunterinside a big plastic goose, a fibreglass burgeron top of a hamburger stand. The way they tiptoepast the bird feeder, rattling the seedthe squirrels have spilled. Then they eatsomething outrageous, like the pansyall the way up on the stoop. Before they leapinto the ravine with a noise like cymbals! But isn’t that how things end, with a cymbal crash?…

The ratio of daylight to handwritingWas the same as lacemaking to eyesight.The paper was so thin it skinned air. The hand was fire and the page tinder.Everything burned away except the onePlace they singled out between fingers Held over a letter pad they set asideFor the long evenings of their leave-takings,Always asking after what they kept losing, Always performing—even when a shadowFell across the page and they knew the answerWas not forthcoming—the same action: First the leaning down, the pen becomingA staff to walk fields with as they vanishedUnderfoot into memory. Then the letting up, The lighter stroke, which brought backCranesbill and thistle, a bicycle wheelRusting: an iron circle hurting the grass Again and the hedges veiled in hawthornAgain just in time for the May NovenasRecited in sweet air on…