What Is Jenny Slate'S Ethnicity?

It's pretty neat to peel back the layers of an artist's background because it often colors how they present themselves. The Weeknd is Abel Makkonen Tesfaye, a Canadian born in Toronto whose family roots are firmly Ethiopian. In plain terms: his nationality is Canadian, but his ethnicity is Ethiopian — his parents immigrated from Ethiopia to Canada before he was born. That Ethiopian heritage shows up in small ways around his life and the way people talk about him, even if his music lives squarely in global R&B and pop landscapes. Growing up in Toronto's diverse neighborhoods, Abel carried that Ethiopian identity alongside the everyday experiences of being a Black kid in Canada. Ethnicity is about shared culture, ancestry, language, and sometimes religion; for him that lineage traces back to Ethiopia. People sometimes mix up nationality and ethnicity, or lump everyone from the Horn of Africa together, but the straightforward label for his family background is Ethiopian. I find it interesting how many fans who only know him from the spotlight are surprised to learn about his specific roots — it adds a dimension when you reread old interviews or watch early footage where Toronto's multiculturalism and his family's past quietly intersect. On a more personal note, I like thinking about how artists carry these heritages with them even when they don't overtly sing in their ancestral languages or use traditional instruments. It can show up in cadence, in storytelling instincts, even in fashion choices or the foods they mention offhand. For The Weeknd, that Ethiopian connection is part of a layered identity: a Toronto-born artist of Ethiopian descent whose voice has become a global one. It doesn't define him completely, but it informs him, and that mix of local upbringing plus ethnic roots feels like a big part of what makes his public persona so textured. Makes me want to dig into the Ethiopian music scene more next time I'm curating a playlist.

I still get a tiny thrill when a sentence in Jenny Zhang's work surprises me the way a subway stop you weren't expecting suddenly looks like home. Reading her always feels like being handed an unblinking flashlight in a dark hallway: she illuminates the messy corners of intimacy, identity, and survival with a blunt, unromantic clarity that somehow smells like soy sauce and cigarette smoke. The most obvious thread people talk about is immigration and the fractured family—how people travel across oceans and then have to assemble themselves out of the leftovers. But for me, the defining themes are smaller and nastier in a thrilling, humane way: hunger (literal and emotional), the way appetites get braided with shame and affection, and a fascination with bodies that are both tender and enraged. When I read 'Sour Heart' I kept pausing because Zhang's language is hungry—sharp, elliptical, and often spoken through the mouths of children or very young narrators. There's this persistent, gorgeous tension between a child's raw observation and an adult's retrospective cruelty. The immigrant theme is never just about paperwork or assimilation; it’s about the choreography of love and neglect inside cramped apartments, about how parents become mythic giants who also steal candy. Class and labor seep through the pages like oil; the working-class setting is always present but never sentimentalized. Instead of offering pity, Zhang gives us the messy reality: tenderness that is stained, humor that is brittle, and a loyalty that can be suffocating. The other theme that keeps snagging at me is sexuality and shame—how desire gets entangled with violence, curiosity, and negotiation, especially when the speaker is a child trying to parse what adults do. Zhang's stories are not coy about the uncomfortable parts of growing up. She lays them bare in a voice that alternates between poet and provocateur, so you laugh and want to cry at the same time. If you liked the way a book made you uncomfortable because it felt true rather than performative, you'll see what I mean. Reading her feels like overhearing something private in a laundromat and deciding it was a gift; it makes me want to share the book with a friend and then sit in silence together, both feeling seen and slightly ashamed for being moved.

I get this kind of question all the time when I'm rabbit-holing author bibliographies — it’s one of my favorite little internet quests. Jenny Zhang has written both fiction and nonfiction, and while her short stories (like those in 'Sour Heart') get a lot of attention, she’s also produced a number of personal essays and magazine pieces that show a raw, funny, and painfully honest voice. I don’t have a single definitive list in my head, but here’s how I think about what she’s published and where to look. From following her work over the years, I’ve noticed her nonfiction appearing in a mix of literary and mainstream outlets — personal essays, cultural criticism, and thinkpieces. She tends to write about family, immigration, sexuality, and growing up between languages and cultures, so those themes are a good sign you’ve found one of her pieces. If you want titles, the most reliable places to check are an author page (often on a magazine’s site), her official website or social profiles, and publisher pages tied to any collections she’s released. Those pages usually keep a tidy list of essays and links to the original magazine runs. If you’d like some practical next steps (because I love digging for this stuff): search her name on The New York Times, The Paris Review, Granta, and other literary magazines; check major culture sites like 'The Cut' or 'Vulture' for personal essays; and use Google with the query: Jenny Zhang essay site:[magazine domain]. That combination will pull up magazine-published pieces. If you want me to, I can fetch a short, verified list of specific essay titles and where they ran — I’ll go straight to the magazine archives and her publisher’s author page and compile exact citations for you. I always find it rewarding to read essays in their original magazine layout — the headers, the images, the little author bios at the bottom give so much context and flavor.

Yes—Jenny McCarthy and Donnie Wahlberg are still very much married. They’ve celebrated over a decade together and remain one of Hollywood’s most devoted couples. In 2024, they marked their 10th anniversary by renewing their wedding vows—continuing a tradition of annual vow renewals that has become a meaningful ritual in their marriage. Both Jenny and Donnie have emphatically dismissed any talk of separation or divorce. In a recent appearance, Jenny declared, “There will never, ever, ever be a divorce… It’s ’til death do us part,” and Donnie wholeheartedly agreed.

Goldie Hawn’s got that classic Hollywood mix going on! She’s mainly of Jewish descent — her family roots trace back to German, English, and Russian Jewish ancestors. Her mom was a jewelry shop owner and her dad was a bandleader and saxophone player, which probably gave her that cool artistic vibe from the start. So yeah, she’s got that rich Ashkenazi Jewish heritage, but like many Americans, her background is a blend of different European influences, making her identity pretty diverse and interesting.

So here’s the lowdown on Christian Bale: despite his Welsh birthplace, the guy’s actually English through and through. He was born in Wales but famously said, “I was born in Wales—but I’m not Welsh, I’m English.” Both his parents are English (his dad was born in South Africa but to English parents), and Bale spent much of his childhood bouncing between England, Portugal, and the U.S. Basically, Welsh setting, but English identity—that’s his vibe!

Bowen Yang is Chinese American, born to parents who immigrated from China. He was actually born in Brisbane, Australia, and spent part of his childhood in Canada before his family eventually settled in Colorado. His parents—his father from Inner Mongolia and his mother from Shenyang—raised him speaking Mandarin and nurturing a strong connection to their heritage. Throughout his life and career, his Chinese American identity has remained an integral part of who he is, and he has even made history as SNL’s first Chinese American cast member.

The twist in 'Jumping Jenny' is a masterclass in deceptive simplicity. On the surface, it appears to be a straightforward mystery about a death at a costume party—where the victim, dressed as a suicidal historical figure, is found hanged. The initial assumption is suicide, but the brilliance lies in the layers peeled back. The victim was actually murdered, and the killer exploited the costume theme to stage the scene, banking on everyone’s readiness to believe in the apparent symbolism. The real kicker? The murderer wasn’t some shadowy outsider but a guest hiding in plain sight. They manipulated small details—like the positioning of the rope and the victim’s known fascination with the character—to make the suicide seem plausible. The detective’s breakthrough comes from noticing inconsistencies in the 'performance,' like the lack of struggle marks and the odd choice of knot. It’s a twist that turns the party’s playful theatrics into a chillingly calculated crime.