Internal Dialogue
“I was always going to do the thing. You didn’t have to hound me like that.”
“Sure.”
Katerina Parsons (’15) graduated with a double major in English writing and international development studies. She lives in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where she works as the Director of English communications for the Association for a More Just Society, an organization that fights for peace, security, and anti-corruption in Honduras.
“Little Venice” is Sinking
Neighboring governments are refusing to accept these hungry, oppressed citizens, just for lacking a simple pamphlet made of dead trees and bureaucracy.
Not Another Bite
When I first moved to Honduras three years ago, I ate everything my host family ate: beans, eggs, cream, tortillas. Heavy, simple plates—bland, but satisfying. But then suddenly one day, months in, I just couldn’t do it anymore.
What Would Just Immigration Policy Look Like?
The solution to undocumented labor is not the deportation of laborers—it is their documentation.
Virginity: An Education
Chapter 8: Religious Studies II
“There is no such thing as a condom for the heart. Once you have had sex, you are never quite the same.”
-“Pure Again,” Focus on the Family
The Billion-Dollar Business of Donated Clothes
I have a sinking suspicion that most issues work this way—they deeper we go, the more tangled we find ourselves, looking in vain for an exit.
Reading World News without Losing your Mind
Reading the news well and responding to it is not everything, but it is something—and so I won’t refuse.
I Speak with an Accent
What if we heard all accents this way—not as a sign that English is not one’s first language, but as a sign that another language is?
When the Church Fails to Talk About Consent
In church, there is no need for consent, because the rules are very simple. Before marriage, the answer to any question must always be no; after marriage, yes, always yes.
Holiday Small-Talk and Other Things we Survived in 2017
I’m doing great! Yes, still at the same job. Well! It’s going well. Honduras, yeah. Um, it’s in Central America? Down south?
All the Things We Don’t Know
We keep getting messages, some true, some false. It’s too hard to make sense of a moment when you’re in it.
First Drafts
My real fear is not that someone will think that I write poorly, but that people will think I write without having anything to say.
I Am Not the Funny One
It’s not that I don’t have a sense of humor—with close friends and family I joke, laugh, and make others laugh. But there’s an unshakeable earnestness to it.
The Starfish Dilemma
Maybe—and this is hard to admit—I care more about the plight of The Poor than about individuals in poverty with names and faces, each with different dreams.
When I Cross the Street, Cars Stop for Me
I want to be better about recognizing their cousin—micro-advantages, micro-privileges that lead to a world that bends in my direction, that is softer with me, gentler.
A Day on the Bus in Tegucigalpa
I set a few rules—my “day” on the bus would last eight hours, but would include walking to, from, and between buses.
What Happens Next?
There is increasing political talk in the United States about deporting the migrants who are apprehended at our border or inside of it. There is very little talk about what happens next.
Listening for Birdsong
“I’ve always heard birdsong,” my father told me in the car once. “But now I listen.”
Something-American
Here I’m asked to explain it: why we talk so loudly, why we dress so sloppy, why we elected Donald Trump.
Moving Day
A fan. A spatula. Thirty soft-cover books. A pile of dresses. Yarn. A bottle of balsamic vinegar.
Things Keep Happening and Happening and Happening
I sent the email at 3 p.m., and at 3:05 I wondered how they would get the blood from the seats and I couldn’t get it out of my head.
January 1st, Again
The New Year doesn’t really feel any different. Like birthdays after twenty-one.
A Different Tongue
I had always prided myself on writing and speaking well, and suddenly I was handed different tools to use; they felt cumbersome and did not fit well in my hands.
Let’s Get a Little House
Let’s buy our sofas at a rummage sale and/Cover the spots with afghans someone knitted./Let’s learn to knit.
I Believe in Hope
This hope beyond reason (though not against reason) is not held in monopoly by Christians, but it is central to Christianity.
In Defense of Emojis
Texting without emojis is like talking with your hands behind your back. Certainly possible—but a little less dynamic.
Me and my Family on Vacation in New York
My mom and dad trail behind me, consulting a map. One of my brothers squints upwards, while my sisters are eagerly taking pictures of sewer rats.
I Found Myself Alone
But sometimes I am lonely, so lonely that I can’t take this solitude as a gift. It feels embarrassing or unfashionable to admit this, that after almost a year, I feel untethered and empty sometimes, even despite support systems and good friends.
Telling Other People’s Stories
This was my mistake. I tried to tell a story without knowing the lives behind it, without caring. I did not publish that story, however remarkable I still find it. It was not mine to share.
Pouring from an Empty Cup
People aren’t talking about the twenty-two-year-old case workers crying in their cubicles at the end of a particularly hard day.
