I didn’t know, anymore, how to date like a normal person—how to give a potential relationship the space to grow into the family I dreamt of.
Class systems are not fixed in fairy tales—in fact, fairy tales would almost seem to argue for the redistribution of wealth.
There are cowboys out there who echo the conquering-the-west narrative, one of entitlement and legacy and what he is owed.
Above all, the teahouse was a room of my own, the first I’d ever had.
Here in Idlib, Syria, we have gone back to the most primitive ways of living: We cook on coal. We wash our clothes by hand. But we are surviving. Some days it feels like a miracle.
It is not so much that these things are invisible as it is that people are trained to hide them, and society is conditioned to look away from them.
What I can do for now is to give back in ways that may seem extraneous, but bring delight to the recipient. So, I make frozen desserts.
There is a part of me, even after so many iterations of faith and years of living in an adult body, that is waiting for punishment, waiting to be banished from the Garden.
I am not the first viewer of this movie to see it as essentially apocalyptic.
This creature is a survivor. As long as it survives, our notion of the wild, of conditions indifferent to humanity in which other species thrive, survives too.