I guess I’ve been an art historian, informally I’d say I’ve always “geeked out over art,” since my teens in San Francisco. I didn’t know the official title of what it was I loved because I didn’t know that “art historian,” as
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I hear my student say that word and I’m not surprised. I knew this student was going to say it because this student is clueless to the world; he knows only what he has been brought up to believe. He was raised
When Helen lands in her birth country, nobody is there to greet her. The deathly heat from the Caribbean sun can’t penetrate the chill she feels of being alone. She looks around at the people that walk past her, their eyes gliding
It’s late afternoon as we climb into my father’s gray Mercedes. As we stay stationary in the garage, I lean my fro against the pane and stare out of it and above into the cobwebs collecting in the far corner; a bee
“Good lord, girl. You swelling!” The girl looked down at her belly, then beyond it down to her shoes, at this she was secretly satisfied. She was not pregnant and in punishment for her tardiness, her body had begun to form pockets
When I arrive, the first part of the journey is to walk past the avid chain smoking of the other residents. Each person dealing with their own thing, each person somebody’s someone. My someone lives on the second floor. The first resident
Dear God, It’s your Ugandan daughter, with the 4C hair. As you know, I was born in Mengo Hospital between day and night. My mother grumbled often that I was a literal pain in her gut. I was yellow like custard as
Jocelyn found it hard to focus on the date, although it had been the only thing occupying her mind until she got the text from her daughter. And just like that, she was split in half. Part of her brain trying to
