Like many lost weekends, mine started on Thursday. I was twenty-six years old by now, co-producing a Swahili hip-hop festival in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
I remember the devastation of my son’s birth, an easy birth I am told, my body surrendering just how it should. But still, it ended in our separation.
Don’t ask her what she means when she says you or your siblings ‘don’t have enough Asian.’
There’s a certain hot rage when a man shows up at the door to take your mother on her first date since the divorce. The moment he says, “Hi, I’m […]
Her shape—long, rotund, dark gray except where damp sand smears her pelt—is the first mass we see at Tunnels Beach on Kauai, Hawai’i.
I always assumed we would one day find each other again, my father and I.
But a room with a bed at its center would attach certain words to what we had, words we weren’t ready to claim.
On hurricane days my family drove to the beach, parked, and stared at the insanely huge waves, perfectly safe from wind and water in our car, but struck dumb.
Wander around Washington, DC long enough in a bow tie and a flag pin, you can land any number of free five-course meals replete with stemware and a salad fork. This luncheon was something special though.
Causes, in many ways, similar to those that felled the young men I knew: jungle rot, youthful folly, despair, and gunfire.