I’m Not Here For Your Microaggressions
I often get praised for my intelligence. Even though that sounds like a compliment, sometimes the implication is: You’re smart…for a Black girl.
I often get praised for my intelligence. Even though that sounds like a compliment, sometimes the implication is: You’re smart…for a Black girl.
It’s been one year since the Pulse Nightclub shooting where 49 people were shot in a popular gay club. For me, the pain is still fresh.
When I was a kid—World War II felt very remote. But in this political moment—my Great-Grandparents’ actions during the war take on a renewed relevance.
Like most kids raised in the projects, my goal is to get out. But it’s not that easy.
I feel safe in my community. Which isn’t that unusual. Except I’m not just any kid. I’m undocumented.
Watching my mom go through school, I got to see her as more than a mother, but as a woman empowered.
Each new piece is a way for me to connect to an identity that was stripped from me.
When the police came, my teacher got in the police car with me. At the station, I heard her tell my mom, “I’m not gonna let them take him away from you.” I was in third grade.
I embrace my quiet side. But when I need to, I can morph into beast mode.