Endpaper
On Weakness
It became apparent to me that Mama straddled two worlds: she was both intrinsically connected to the women that came before her and painfully aware of the endless possibilities of what this new nation had to offer.
Love in Spoonfuls
Caring for myself at Harvard is more difficult than I like to admit. I question how I can stem from generations of nourishing women as someone who can barely replenish myself.
Paper Boats
The ground is forgetful — after a few dry months, it’s flustered by the torrent of rain and can’t hold onto the precious moisture.
Planting a Seed
It seems unfair to say I love someone who I never knew completely. It’s hard to understand how it could even be possible. I have no evidence, no explicit reason why I should love him aside from the blood we share and his undeniable part in giving me life. Yet, I do love my dad and I miss the chance I had at being his daughter, blooming in his image.
Big-City Blues
When I see New York again, we’ll reacquaint ourselves. I’ll tell the corners that used to know my secrets a few new ones. And then we’ll say goodbye, and I’ll be on a train north — missing home, but glad, for now, that I left.
Acceleration
I am afraid to carry the weight of other bodies, of other lives, with unflinching speed.
Stripping on Sundays
At the beginning of my sophomore year, I was on the phone with my grandmother when she asked me if I’d gotten a term-time job. “Yes,” I answered her. “I’m stripping at CRG.”
On Bearing Witness
When faced with uncomfortable displays of grief or jealousy-inducing accomplishments, bearing witness is the bravest act of love.
