Most days, I struggle to consider myself a writer. Even though I depend on writing to live, to keep myself from starving or from going homeless, every so often, when I am confronted by a blank page and a looming deadline, I ask myself: Do you even know how to write? A line from one…

Hatred towards men whose deep-seated sexism has diminished my existence. Hatred towards white people who dismiss my experiences of racism. Hatred towards a world who would never care about social issues, unless they can have a selfie with it. I am Rhea and I hate.