Essays

With my flimsy paper plate overloaded, I take a seat with my parents and three generations of distant cousins. And here, the picnic’s real flavor emerges.

On Tuesday, October 4, 2005, my mom was reported missing from her home.

What to do with all this grief? What to do with all this rage?

Again and again, I return to this: being in community is the antidote to feeling dread, despair, and powerlessness.

What is a caregiver before the diapers need changing and the wheelchair needs pushing?

My fear and I cohabitate because I’ve fed it my whole life.

On the phone with my father, I volunteer my shame and regret through tears. His name. How could I not know his name?

There are far more jumbled states possible than whole ones, but occasionally in the shaking, maybe a piece or two comes out together.

Yet, in my moments of hope, I wonder: If trans signifies a crossing, might it cross the space between life and death?

These are all preposterous, illogical ideas that we wrap around ourselves as children, then cast off when we are somehow not anymore.