As a Black person, it feels as if our every action is under examination and compared to “perfection” (read as: white beauty, social, class, and economical standards). We are told that we can exist if we conform. Though, even if we do conform, the color of our skin is still a target for racism…

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Sometimes I think I’ll never be a mother, but I forget I’m already a mother, probably even a grandma. When I was 18, I worked at a fish and game in Alaska…

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We did not remember ordering rose stud earrings from another country, and when we opened the small envelopes to find hard black seeds of unknown species, we, some of us, forgot…

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The way you know how your grandma’s house smells, the kind of oolong tea she drinks, her fondness for soft caramels and flashy orchids, but you don’t know how to write her name.

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I remember your mop broom eyes, the Fabuluso iguanas, your fingers unseaming, the sad days of salt, the bottles of spic n span. Back then I didn’t know what spic meant. I remember cartons of Fab, the granules of white like cocaine and talc….

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