When I came to Laramie, I found the person I wanted to be. When I left, I took her with me.
There are cowboys out there who echo the conquering-the-west narrative, one of entitlement and legacy and what he is owed.
I take off the effects of the day, the echoes of wind, sleet, and snow. I pamper my skin, urge it to replenish and heal. I am asking myself to brave another day.
In this small town of Laramie, what you say matters. It gets around. The only way to combat the misinformation is to keep telling the truth.
As a woman of color moving to Laramie, Wyoming, I was afraid that I wouldn’t fit in, that I would be unsafe. But at karaoke night at The Ruffed Up Duck, I found my place among the the defiant.
My eating disorder dictated my relationship to food. Then I moved to Wyoming, whose unforgiving landscape reminded me: We eat food to survive.