A traumatic fifteen-hour spinal operation saved my life but stole most of my mobility and, thus, my dance career. It took fifteen years to begin to correct the story.
After I was run over by a car, getting mad helped me find my way back to myself.
Why did I go to work for the TSA? To try to connect with my father? To soothe various concerns as a new father myself? Was I researching a book? Having a midlife crisis? All of the above?
My father defaulted on his dreams, abandoned his daughter, and resigned himself to living on a futon in his parents’ living room. Then he bought a two-foot-tall stuffed rabbit.
The fact that I’ve always had an exact replica of my father, with a startlingly similar voice, mannerisms and, well, face, never really struck me as exceptional until he passed away.
The larger deception is that birth is only about life. In reality, the only certain thing about life is death and every birth contains that prospect.
The farther I am from my home in Zimbabwe, the farther I am from my mother and the daughter she remembers.
When my family made pilgrimage to Saudia Arabia in my grandmother’s memory, we were struck by the state of faith and war.
Though I’ve lived in more “storied” places, the physical space of the suburbs has shaped me more than any other.