I sought a cherished symbol from my own childhood, not a standardized emblem of all Indonesian culture, which I can’t and shouldn’t pretend is all mine to take.
I relate to what Springsteen sings because he reveals much of the American Dream as an intoxicating illusion.
For me, homosexuality is an invitation to opt out, to abstain from the trappings of heteronormativity, a gift of eternal boyhood.
Because it’s still more acceptable for white women than it is for women of color to show anger, I scream-sing along to Courtney Love’s rage.
Though my mother’s no longer here to meet my son, he’ll taste his grandmother’s cooking though our family’s Sunday gravy, the one I make every week to keep her spirit alive.
I don’t want to take time away from your book, she said, but the book could wait. My writing was always there. She might not be.
Our fathers may never know us the way we wish they would. And if we learned that ignorance is bliss, it’s because we learned it from them.
Miraci is being the one thing blackness has always been forced to be even when unwilling—political.
Trans people have rights because we’re human—not because we’re special. So why does having those rights recognized require a flood of trans tears?
It’s hard to negotiate how much of me is Filipino or American, but I realize this is only a question asked of me by people who seek clarity in their own definition of “American” identity.