21. Sometimes my life seems to spark like a live wire, and I feel intoxicated by its opportunity and potential.
This may be the last post I’ll write from Honduras.
If you visit Tegucigalpa, you’ll find more than you expect.
It is not a partisan statement to say that the U.S. immigration system is broken.
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.
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.
