Tag Archives: Reagan Jackson

‘Still Here: A South End Mixtape From an Unexpected Journalist’ Hits All Its Notes

by Sarah Neilson

The epigraph of Reagan Jackson’s new book, Still Here: A South End Mixtape From an Unexpected Journalist, comes from the great Audre Lorde: “If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” It’s an auspicious opening to an impressive collection of some of Jackson’s most important journalism over the past 10 years; writing for which she has won multiple awards and distinctions, including the 2016 Seattle Globalist Globie Award Journalist of the Year and a 2020 Distinguished Visiting Writer at Seattle University. It’s an ethos that the writing consistently embodies. 

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FRIDAY FICTION: The Reclamation

by Reagan Jackson

It wasn’t unusual to awaken to a misty morning. After the ash of fire season and the yellow acid skies you had seen enough unprecedented celestial events that had made you wonder if you would live through the day. The gray rolled in, viscous and deep, but somehow also unnotable, even comforting in the way it clung tight and close, blanketing the house in wool socks-weather. This was a thing that happened most winter mornings and when the dawn broke it would burn off and dissipate into a slightly less oppressive gray. Except this time it didn’t.

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Black History Today: Reagan Jackson

by Marcus Harrison Green

(Black History Today is published in collaboration with Rise Up For Students)

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

-Tupac Shakur, “The Rose That Grew from Concrete”

Pruning roses…

That’s the way Reagan Jackson described the craft of writing to me the first time we met. It was during a one-on-one writing session at Hillman City’s Tin Umbrella (now Onda Origins Cafe & Roastery).

I almost trembled with intimidation that first meeting. I was mere months removed from blogging in my pajamas in the basement of my parents, house after I forewent the lucrative and luxurious world of high finance to eke out a “living” as a journalist.

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Who Can We Call?

by Reagan Jackson

It was a rare sunny day in January and the curtains in my dining room were drawn open to let the light in. I sat fidgeting with my sewing while on a Zoom meeting for work. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man come into my yard.

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