I Want to Believe: Conspiracy Theories and Trump
If you look at any conspiracy website, this is essentially the narrative you will find.
If you look at any conspiracy website, this is essentially the narrative you will find.
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.