Spending my childhood preparing for the Apocalypse exacted a price on my ability to trust, particularly in the concept of family.
“Dealing with someone else’s culture, someone else’s media, and trying to Americanize it is something I can’t understand.”
I’m longing for the day when folk like me and Trayvon and Korryn and Lennon and Aiyana and Botham don’t need to be lucky to stay alive.
Wrestling never stops, so I couldn’t stop, and thus I am still here.
My relationship with food was a combination of deep love, reverence, and guilt—making it impossible for me to give it up.
A part of me, the part trained to put my father first, thought I should allow him into my home, regardless of his threats.
Like a drawing is and is not mine once I’m finished with it, my son is not mine, not really, because he is himself.
A new period in my life started when Abu could no longer fast for Ramadan.
Well, what does it mean to be a boy or a girl? The answer so often is, simply: I don’t know. And I’m not sure that it actually matters, anyway.
As biracial people, my husband and I should know how to raise a mixed-race child. But I find myself wondering just how much I’ve figured out.