Remember that time I asked for your opinion on my hijab? Oh right, never happened.
I’m severe I’m severed I’m savior—
Does the decades-old NYC tradition of community patrolling keep city streets safer?
How performance and storytelling helps to nurse old wounds and heal trauma.
“It feels like you have crossed a river you cannot cross back again”
Atrocities happen all too often in real life, so it’s my hope that people can be less hurt while reading my novels.
In every dream, I consider coming clean / through my skin like a shadow, every bare bloodline / unedited & untouched
You want more than the count of their lives lost
I’d see the soft outline of a couch or get a whiff of coffee roasting in machines, and it was like I was smelling diesel, blood mixed with dust. The bees would start to buzz frantically then, and the noise was deafening.
I never understood the concept of wearing an outfit only once, by which I mean I’ve never thought about my own wedding.
shuffling their feet toward the family, idling by / the lip of a suddenly crowded room
What got you through those first few months of COVID? What comes to mind when I say, “body?” How will you live now?
The morning I was hit by a bicycle was the last time Ma asked me to do an errand before she left us to work in another country.
On Yuri Kochiyama’s 100th birthday, her granddaughter Akemi Kochiyama reflects on her radical anti-imperialist, anti-racist, and internationalist politic and praxis
A Filipina nurse’s family life during the pandemic in New York City
Life is getting sick and dying. Life is suffering. And that’s ok.
Bubbling under the cacophony of the city or suburban mundaneness is the sound and the fury of an unutterable desperation for acceptance, family, and something that will endure
I’m severe I’m severed I’m savior—
I never understood the concept of wearing an outfit only once, by which I mean I’ve never thought about my own wedding.
Does the decades-old NYC tradition of community patrolling keep city streets safer?
shuffling their feet toward the family, idling by / the lip of a suddenly crowded room
How performance and storytelling helps to nurse old wounds and heal trauma.
“It feels like you have crossed a river you cannot cross back again”
What got you through those first few months of COVID? What comes to mind when I say, “body?” How will you live now?
The morning I was hit by a bicycle was the last time Ma asked me to do an errand before she left us to work in another country.
Atrocities happen all too often in real life, so it’s my hope that people can be less hurt while reading my novels.
On Yuri Kochiyama’s 100th birthday, her granddaughter Akemi Kochiyama reflects on her radical anti-imperialist, anti-racist, and internationalist politic and praxis
In every dream, I consider coming clean / through my skin like a shadow, every bare bloodline / unedited & untouched
A Filipina nurse’s family life during the pandemic in New York City
You want more than the count of their lives lost
Life is getting sick and dying. Life is suffering. And that’s ok.
I’d see the soft outline of a couch or get a whiff of coffee roasting in machines, and it was like I was smelling diesel, blood mixed with dust. The bees would start to buzz frantically then, and the noise was deafening.
Bubbling under the cacophony of the city or suburban mundaneness is the sound and the fury of an unutterable desperation for acceptance, family, and something that will endure