Navigating the burdens of expectation as a married woman in Nigeria
On space debris and a father's remains.
Aging is a funny thing. You’re not sure if the world has changed, or if a hundred cellular mutations have changed your place in it.
This folder contained memories I did not have, information about a family I did not know.
Being disabled means hundreds of thousands of people believe they always know better than you do.
Maybe, over time, the ephemera of Jack’s life will become less explosive, like a landmine whose triggering mechanism has eroded, rendering it harmless.
My heart’s deepest desire was to see my mother again, yes, but also to glimpse a portrait of normalcy that I had never known in the years of her illness.
I have such immense anxiety. It sweeps me up into its furious winds. And my kids are at the middle of the storm.
In her illness, Korean food was all my Polish-American mom from Jersey wanted to eat. It was all that she could bear.
Adoption is one of those forks in the road where many of us try to glimpse through the trees to the other path, the other world.
I whisper to my great-grandmother a burden I’d like lifted, one she might take to the next world with her.
I’m stockpiling sweaters because they signify refuge, collecting them like talismans though grief cannot be avoided.
“I hated when attention was brought to my adoptee status. I was American, and that was all I wanted to be.”