Memoir
Growing up, I resisted identifying as disabled. Now, I’m seeking to better understand the label and the community behind it.
The figure of the witch looms conspicuously large in Catalan—in the gardens, on the roof, in the heart of the mountain.
Like so many German Jews, my Nana’s family was late to leave the country when Hitler came to power. They thought antisemitism was a relic of the past.
On seasons of grief and change, in Montreal and everywhere else.
I thought I could escape my jail kid past in an idyllic southern city. But trouble found me, and not everyone I knew got out alive.
I somehow thought my mother would die and still be alive, somewhere in that distant sound that resembles the sea in which she taught me to swim. But she is not there.
My grandfather had never told me about his trip to the Soviet Union in the sixties, but I don’t know why I was surprised. He never told me anything, not even my grandmother’s name.
You go to Buc-ee’s for the same reason you break up with someone: to pursue possibility, that narcotic promise of more.
Surgery can be seen as way to escape being a trans woman, the freedom to disappear into an “ordinary” life. But my scars, my complicated being, mean more than any illusion of freedom.
He gave his life to the Russian Orthodox Church. It didn’t deserve to lay claim to him in death, too.
- 1 of 4
- next ›