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Editor's Desk 

“Books That Once Saved Me.”

By Wayétu Moore One year ago I visited Liberia, 24 years after immigrating to the US with my family. I was inspired by many things during my visit, but felt led to open a space where Liberians could buy and read the novels and poetry that rehabilitated me. Shortly after acquiring a space & returning to New York, Liberia was hit by Ebola in a huge and devastating way. I canceled my August trip to open the store and the space just sat there. I got lectures on how unstable…

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Editor's Desk Society Arts & Leisure 

THE SUNDAY RUMPUS ESSAY: LOVE/WOMAN/THIRTY

BY WAYÉTU MOORE April 12th, 2015 ———- love/ ———- At that point I could not remember when last I had been outside. Some weeks prior I went to a store just below Eastern Parkway, one of the only stores of its kind that still existed among the deluge of coffee shops and yoga studios, to buy palm oil and frozen cassava leaves, to make the dish I knew would heal me, the only Liberian dish that could. When I arrived a sign informed that the store had closed indefinitely, and…

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Interviews 

11 Questions: Wayétu Moore, Writer, Thinker and Publisher

Wayétu Moore is the Publisher of One Moore Book. She produces and publishes children’s books specifically focusing on kids in countries with low literacy rates. Moore graduated with a BA, Journalism from Howard University, subsequently receiving a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing from the University of Southern California. As the former editor of “The Coup Magazine”, her objective was “UNIFYING WOMEN OF COLOR” through social and political consciousness. Her work can be found in Guernica Magazine, The Atlantic Magazine, Gawker, The Huffington Post and Waxwing Literary Journal, among others….

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Politics Society Arts & Leisure 

Wayétu Moore: The Evolution of Bernice

By Wayétu Moore When I was ten years old I attended a sleepaway camp outside of Nacogdoches, Texas, where I told a few hundred people, with great pleasure, that my name was Bernice, not Wayétu. My family had only emigrated from Liberia five years prior, and for two weeks I basked in the glorious trope of American normalcy; a name like Bernice was proper, distinct, pronounceable. When I arrived home my father probed about my time away. After some banter he asked me: “What is your name?” I was caught….

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