David Minerva Clover

David Minerva Clover

Bio

David Minerva Clover is a queer and transgender writer, covering everything from parenting to why dinosaurs are awesome. His work has appeared in The Washington Post, New York Mag, The Establishment, and many other places. He lives in beautiful Detroit Michigan with his spouse, one child, and an embarrassment of animals. Check out his blog at Postnuclear Era or follow him on twitter at @dm_clover.

David Minerva Clover Articles

Listen, a vagina is not an artificial waterway for babies to be born.

Let's Talk About Genitals: The Term Birth Canal Is The Actual Worst

The way we as a society discuss genitalia is already messed up and confusing. When the word “vagina” is used to mean everything from, well, “vagina” to “vulva” to “the entire female reproductive system — yes, even including the ovaries,” it’s no freaking wonder we don’t know how to talk about this stuff.

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Having my son pushed me entirely off my course, and then bumped me onto a different one. Image: Thinkstock.

Having A Baby Forced Me To Become A Writer

I am at the bar, working on a piece about kids’ books, while my wife stays home to mind the baby. The lady next to me strikes up a conversation about this and that. Then she notices that I’m still casually clutching a copy of Guess How Much I Love You?

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In this family, those figures traditionally made of three snowballs stacked atop each other — they’re called snowpeople.

In This Family, We Say Snowperson 

People might raise their eyebrows when they hear me say “snowperson” for the first time. But it makes perfect sense. A man is just a kind of person.

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For now, I’m a boy, and I’m a mama, and those seemingly contradictory truths are things I can accept about myself.

When I Realized I Was Trans, I Still Wanted To Be Mama

When I finally realized I was trans, it was after almost a year and a half of therapy, a lot of trauma, and after becoming a parent.

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Breastfeeding saved my life.

Breastfeeding Literally Saved My Life

Breastfeeding brought me back. It kept me in my body, forced me to hold my son’s body, and helped me stay connected to the physical reality of everything. What I remember are flashes of joy in the darkness, his tiny hands clenched in determined fists. His feet curled against my soft stomach. The release of the milk starting to flow. My arms wrapped up around him.

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Photo by Dan Smedley on Unsplash

Stop Blaming Parents For Our Lack Of Self-Care

When I have to pick between doing what’s best for my kid and doing what’s best for me, most of the time, I’m going to pick my child. Read...
No one has ever explained to me what “be careful” means in this context. (Image: Thinkstock)

Why Are Men Always Telling Me To Be Careful?

I’m not scared on the street very often, but y’all, this time I was scared. But if there’s one thing I know, it is that you do not answer these guys, because that only makes it worse. So I held my breath and hoped that if I didn’t engage, he’d drive off eventually. I felt for my cell phone in my pocket, wondering how quickly I could get ahold of someone if I needed to.

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