We Asians were in this thing—racist America—together.
Nothing has gotten better—not the pandemic, not racism—but I know, and the Black women in my life tell me so, that everything will be alright.
During those first weeks, I was in a never-ending, often failing battle with Penny, then an eight-pound roly-poly of a beagle
I know my neighbors now a little bit better than before.
And then there is the date that we don’t yet know. The last date—a meaningless number on a calendar until it isn’t.
The simplicity and certainty of the game was precisely what I needed. Who was I to refuse the guarantee of a certain reality?
This body is the home of both a female and a male self, and I am not yet sure how to help it accommodate all of me best.
I dug my hole trying to keep up with a social calendar I couldn’t afford, which is often what happens when you feel like you don’t belong on the social calendar to begin with.
Only after I left a home where there were many women who might have helped me did I realize the sari represented more than a cultural announcement.
Sometimes even just a minor taste of something brings old ghosts back to me.