As my mother loses the ability to remember, I find myself playing with my own memory.
In Houston, as with everywhere else, the arts serve as tiny lifeboats—and sometimes, if we’re lucky, we all find ourselves floating together.
Nukumori can refer to a kind of existence not dependent on physical proximity, allowing a person’s presence to linger with you even if they cannot.
If traditions like the rodeo can accommodate Houston’s diversity, whole new traditions will be formed—leaving us with something even better.
What if my son, the boy who has puzzled everyone, has helped to save my life?
Love is born in the quiet ways we reveal ourselves; how we notice and love our partners when they take on new, surprising forms.
How could I navigate my Japanese-language emotions in pursuit of a Western psychiatric label?
We’d made a connection across tables, generations, tongues, our own tiny blip of transcendence. Holiness in the noodle bar.
I’m not just advocating for a child whose challenges don’t follow a script. I’m also a black mother advocating for my black son in a room full of people who don’t look like us.
It’s a space where language is manipulated and contorted and pulled and borrowed. It sounds like everywhere and anywhere else.