Comfort Sampong’s heart is sparked by fried plantains, tropical foliage and the stories of women thriving and creating a way out of no way. She graduated in 2018 with majors in economics and international development. Now she lives in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where she works on English communications for the Association for a More Just Society, a Honduran non-profit fighting for justice and peace.
I send a quiet prayer of petition up for my sisters out there adding eggs to their hair routine: “May they remember to switch to the cold faucet.”
We might be able to conjure up crayon-drawn cartoon depictions of its worst manifestations, but that’s where we stop.
This newfound freedom is not packaged individually; it is meant to be shared.
For a people whose survival was never guaranteed, this question is a radical call to evaluate where we are and experiment with what could be.
Those on the Mexican side of the border sing the request while those on the U.S. side respond with rejection, a miniature drama of national proceedings.
And today, when I feel less than my full self in the midst of such urgency to be our best selves, I sway dangerously close to becoming firewood.
I detangle earbuds before including them, ready to start a playlist inspired by fleeting feelings my words can’t capture.
All I know is that during a long vacation, I wandered into a moving tale of dangerous dreams, opportunities to heal former traumas, and people who met at the wrong (or maybe perfect?) time.
But what most makes John Lewis one of my founding fathers is his lifelong rootedness in love.
But now, in the morning as I dress, I am enthralled by all the stories I carry on me and within me.
When it hasn’t rained since January, even the most absent citizen begins to notice.
Today, I cooked to affirm my belonging.
When we come together, we have the power to create what Parker calls “temporary alternative worlds.”
A few months ago, I found myself at a weekend-long turtle monitoring session on Honduras’ southern coast.
As I deconstruct my singular image of God, I am celebrating the multifaceted images of God as a black woman all around me.
Another holiday, another rustling through my luggage of words to find poignant answers for the question.
I cannot scramble past the darkness this year, so I am looking for signs of God’s presence in the darkness.
Even when I do speak in accented Spanish, Hondurans often assume I’m from a Honduran afro-indigenous community.
“No, you need to take a right where the soups are. The soups on the boulevard. You know what I’m talking about, right? Because I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about.”
I picked through the trash for the unraveled strands of yarn and carried them outside.
Who would catch me if I broke rank and fell into new, unknown ideas? Who would listen if I loosened my mouth and spoke?
Imagine. Insist.
We need something to comfort us after the emotional fireworks of seeing Miguel reconnect with his ancestors in a flurry of orange marigolds.
I gain a quiet confidence because I know our advances and our pains belong to each other.
To commemorate a time that holds both tragedy and rebirth, Ghana has declared 2019 the Year of Return.
If your goal is to bring about change, the verdict on riots is not yet out.
I will battle against my own impatience and distrust as I remember that people are not exchangeable puzzle pieces.
