Up till now, the math of my life has been pretty simple: friends plus family plus sports. What more could I ask for, right? But lately, my outside has been changing and my inside keeps telling me more is on the way. Trouble is, I'm not sure I'm ready.
He said I was different because I was dark. She said I was different because I wore a scarf. He said I was different because I had an accent. She said I was different because I couldn’t read. He said...
I come home, feet about to bleed from angry stomping. “Boy!” says Mom. “Quit making all that racket.” But what does she expect when, day after day, haters sling words at me like jagged stones designed to split my skin? I retreat to my room, collapse on the bed, count, “One. Two....
My body is perfect and imperfect and black and girl and big and thick hair and short legs and scraped knee and healed scar and heart beating and hands that hold and voice that bellows and feet that dance and arms that embrace and my momma’s eyes and my daddy’s smile and my grandma’s hope and
I came to Panama planning to dig the Eighth Wonder of the World, but I was told that white men should never be seen working with shovels, so I took a police job, and now I've been transferred to the census.
Books are door-shaped portals carrying me across oceans and centuries, helping me feel less alone.
But my mother believes that girls who read too much are unladylike and ugly, so my father's books are locked in a clear glass cabinet. I gaze at enticing covers and mysterious titles, but I am rarely permitted to touch the enchantment of...
“I'm so—” I start to apologize, but Albert laughs. “It's not my birthday,” he says. I'm confused. “It's for you, Bindi.” “Me?” I say. “It's not my birthday, either.” Albert leads me to the chair. He hands me the present. I open it. It's one of those plastic trophy things. It says: “World's Best Sister.” I get all...
When my aunt died, my uncle raised his hands like a prophet in the Bible. “I've lost my girl,” he said, “I've lost my girl,” over and over, shaking his head.
I didn't know what to say, where to look, my quiet uncle raising his voice to silence.