She liked her coffee black Black like the curly locks that drape around her head. Black like the timeless, smooth, skin that hugs her bones. She was born in the thirties. And died in the nineties. She couldn’t get an education, so she made sure her three children did. She was born in Texas. And… Continue reading Grandma Amie.
I write for my stitched shut lips and my chain downed vocal chords that are not able to speak. I write because my diction is better than my dialect. I write because my author ego is better at telling my story than I am physically able to. I started writing when I was in… Continue reading Why I Write
I am not your trophy... I am not here to be shown off, glorified, or acknowledged when your friends and co-workers come around only to be thrown in a box in your dark basement any other day. See, you probably don't see the difference between me and the golden inanimate object because you're not in… Continue reading Golden Girl
I survived my first kiss with oxygen after my nine-month lease ended with my landlord. I survived the religious dictatorship of the hospital I was born in. I survived the ocean of tears that flooded my shirt when I was left alone to endure the deplorable and defective public schools of my hometown for my… Continue reading Survival of the Fittest
In The Country of the Pointed Firs, the narrator learns how to be. By be, I mean how to simply exist. There’s no specific rules or guidelines for how to live, the only thing that matters is that you are existing. This theme of existence is present in each of the women’s stories. Mrs. Todd… Continue reading The Country of the Pointed Firs
Don't look at me, my face isn't covered in make-up. Don't look at me, my body is bigger than a model's. Don't look at me, my hair is chopped off. Don't look at me, my skin isn't Eurocentric. Don't look at me, my teeth are crooked. I said don't look at me! I'm... I'm… Continue reading Glassy eyes