Category Archives: Honduras
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.
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?
We keep getting messages, some true, some false. It’s too hard to make sense of a moment when you’re in it.
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.
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.
I set a few rules—my “day” on the bus would last eight hours, but would include walking to, from, and between buses.
“I’ve always heard birdsong,” my father told me in the car once. “But now I listen.”
Here I’m asked to explain it: why we talk so loudly, why we dress so sloppy, why we elected Donald Trump.
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.