Crowds of people stand with their backs to the colors, their eyes on their phones or on the train tracks. “Turn around!” I want to say, “You’re missing it.”
The last time I knew who I was I had acne, four AP classes, and a Bible in my senior photos.
I’m named after my father’s homeland, a place I know very little about. Because he’s dead, Indian culture is not something I absorb in my everyday life.
The right idea about me is that I am a confident, empowered female person who rejoices in her sexuality.
When I was eleven, the barn cat we kept outside to catch mice had kittens.
I wonder, though, if we haven’t forgotten what vulnerability actually means: exposure to harm, physical or emotional. I wonder if we’ve glorified vulnerability.
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.
Or maybe, there’s liberation to being in limbo—for a brief time, I’m nowhere. I’m placeless. I’m just part of the mass of humanity that’s moving from one space to another and back again.
Once I met Lucy face to face, we knew each other, and I sang to her songs from a place that had been growing inside me, one of confidence and purpose.
We stood on an extension of a natural butte, but under the topsoil was a thousand feet of trash.