When we moved out of our house, I wondered: How much of our presence is still there? How much do we haunt the place?
In other words, the suburbs are equated with whiteness because they were designed to be.
In our constrained culture where public, raw grief is not socially acceptable, I fear that grief stories are being asked to do too much.
My father has been gone for so long now. There’s nothing for me to escape anymore. I read his book to try to believe him again.
My mother’s body, one in a million, became a conduit for lightning, and, three months later, it became a conduit for me.
Naturally, the first person I wrote about was my mother.
An obsession with excellence creates an unfortunate binary: all or nothing.
To know him beyond the frail, serious man who struggled to speak to his family was such a rare and incredible gift.
Quietly, I clung to what I knew: how to be an outsider in the South.
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.
Always the most vulnerable will die. There will be others, too, but it begins there. And we see, in slow moving real time, whose life is valued, whose life is not.
There have always been people suffering from anti-Blackness. And May Ayim highlights the continuity of the Black experience—not only her own, but those before her as well.
Once a mixed-race fishing community, the island is now empty, showing the gap between the state’s history and what it professes to be.