Essays

Maybe it was not such an obstacle after all, if it was going to save our lives one day. This is how my brain came to be rewired.

That Saturday, the day of my belated sleepover, the only full day I had with my dad for the entire week, he scheduled my final lesson.

What did I say on the phone? I have no memory.

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?