Shalise Manza Young

1 week ago | contrarian.substack.com | Shalise Manza Young

By Shalise Manza YoungAs a working journalist for my entire adult life, I’ve done plenty of shouting at the news in recent years—whether at my laptop screen, in my car, or on public sidewalks while walking my Very Good Girl and listening to political podcasts. In the last decade or so, nothing has been more infuriating than witnessing corporate media normalize the completely abnormal. Minimize the monstrous. Ignore the immorality. Whitewash the wicked.

2 weeks ago | contrarian.substack.com | Shalise Manza Young

By Shalise Manza YoungIn its heyday, before a certain South African immigrant bought it and destroyed everything that was good about it, Black Twitter was a time, hunny. It was a community of strangers but also a community of family, a way for Black Americans to recognize that whether you grew up in the deep South or the Baltimore suburbs or Oakland, there was a commonality to how we were raised and things only we would understand.

2 weeks ago | contrarian.substack.com | Shalise Manza Young

By Shalise Manza YoungAmong the many terrible, horrible, no-good things the Trump administration has done since re-taking office in January is firing as many Black federal employees who have risen up the management ladder as possible. The firings are abrupt and without cause, and because media writ large are reporting on the firehose of scandals and stupid decisions coming daily, many of these firings have received little to no coverage.

3 weeks ago | contrarian.substack.com | Shalise Manza Young

By Shalise Manza YoungForty years ago, on May 13, 1985, Philadelphia dropped a bomb on its own residents, killing 11 people and destroying over 60 homes. It was the only time the American government has taken such action in a residential neighborhood. Shockingly, this attack is not well known outside of Philadelphia.

1 month ago | contrarian.substack.com | Shalise Manza Young

By Shalise Manza YoungWhen we were younger and something happened in our house, some small infraction that was more aggravating to her than egregious, my mother would ask my sister and I who was responsible. Often, the answer was “not me.” To our mom, it was often enough that one year there was a gift under our Christmas tree for Not Me, her unseen third child.