Horror in the Vast Rooms of the Internet
We die differently now that we have each other at the tip of our fingertips. We live differently, too.
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When I search for my father, I feel his numbers. Here’s a house number on my friend’s street that mimics the first few digits of my father’s phone. Here, at the 7/11, my receipt totals the amount of the last four digits of his SSN.
When Americans consume media that privileges white survival, what does it mean for which disasters earn our attention, our money, our likes, our grief?
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To me, ‘daiji’ embodies the struggle to prioritize two languages, homes, and selves.
The idea of exploitation seemed to me fraught with assumptions about what a blind person is supposed to do and be—assumptions that insist blind people be poets and prophets, saints or beggars, not lowbrow entertainers.
I told him clearly in that interview: “I am here because I’m afraid I will be killed in my country. I cannot return to Guatemala. I will die if I do.” The immigration officer acted like he did not understand.