Oct 17, 2019
Becoming My Own Woman, Without the Faith of My Childhood
I had always found a gathering of women sharing their stories and wisdom an effective way to touch the divine.
I had always found a gathering of women sharing their stories and wisdom an effective way to touch the divine.
What I’d been looking for at the convent, I could find in reading and writing. If other writers could channel their desires, I could use it, too.
We’ve listed the names we get called and the names we call ourselves. Some feel true. Others give us aches.
Briefly, I was part of that mysterious organism, a biological family; no one cared about my virtues or my bad behavior.
What I forgot, for years and years, were the details of what my body experienced at the time. But my body did not forget.
There are times I envy art’s effectiveness in a bilingual context, its ability to transcend language.
For my generation of fans, Naito embodies our time and our struggles. The closest thing he has to a superpower is survival.
I learned that kind of hard-won glamour; that we should have beauty, however much the world wants to keep it from us.
I spent so much time watching and trying to understand secular women that I never bothered to try to understand the others, the ones who never left.
“It was this Islam, the Islam of authenticity, community, justice, and love, that showed me how to be a truer version of myself.”
If all adoptees felt not only safe, but empowered in their families and their communities, I would feel better—but not lucky.
In order for bread to rise, the dough must be strong.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just prey, I was bait. In order to hunt him down, I had to be both cautious and on display.
I’m coming apart like the first cigarette I ever rolled. Loose, slobbering, and burning too fast.
I wish I’d known Molly years ago. I wish I had known her when I was twelve years old, wondering who in my life would still love me if they knew my secret.
I don’t recognize the future version of me the doctor describes. To remain myself, I must prove him wrong.
This film is an opportunity to help rescue Fanny Mendelssohn from near-obscurity; and to do the same for me.
I imagine she wrote it for women like me. Women who wear their hearts on their sleeves but hold their hands over their mouths.
Guy Fieri allowed me to ask: who do I fear noise and brightness for? Who do I fear food for? And he gave me the answer: I fear it for myself.
At the time, I didn’t know I could be anything but a girl, a quiet Chinese American girl, cute and easy to ignore, but Kurama hinted at other possibilities.
