My connections to the country and its people, my family, didn’t require control or even words. Touch, color, and togetherness were enough.
Just like plants, we inherit some traits from those who came before us, but when I spend time with my siblings I’m amazed by how different we are.
I know by worrying about a room of mostly white readers I undermine myself, but it’s become instinct. And, honestly, I just get tired.
I see a wall as tantamount to rejection: to create a physical barrier is to reject the possibility of familiarity.
I’ve read that trauma disrupts time. That violent events are recorded differently in the brain.
If I could save her, I would. I needed to feel that it was in my power to save her, to save something. I didn’t need her to be uncomplicated. I didn’t need a good dog. I needed her.
This was not the information I was looking for. This was not the truth I wanted.
As a young girl, running away is considered a flight of fancy. As a grown woman, people think it’s just flight.
Briefly, I was part of that mysterious organism, a biological family; no one cared about my virtues or my bad behavior.
There are times I envy art’s effectiveness in a bilingual context, its ability to transcend language.