Sometimes I stare at my wife’s hands and am overcome with appreciation. My wife’s hands are usually dry and smell of cigarettes and whatever she last ate—take that as you will. Her hands are strong and remind me of safety and security. When we first started dating, I used to watch her hands on the steering wheel. I would stare, mesmerized, at the hands that were quite literally holding my life and driving me forward; gently and carefully at times,…
My first idea of womanhood came from my mother. I remember being a child in Colombia, physically looking up at her, and seeing her ooze femininity—although I did not have this word yet. It’s the nineties, and my mother wears lots of dresses and skirts and crop tops and shorts. I remember her in flowing skirts made of sheer fabrics and tank tops with thin straps that she wore without a bra. She always wore lots of jewelry—necklaces, earrings, and…
At least twice a week, I have the same conversation with several different people. It starts with them trying to talk to me about something they saw on the news, followed by me letting them know that I don’t follow the news. At this point, they try to react in a neutral manner but fail, letting just the slightest bit of judgement peek through, which puts me in the position to explain: “For self-care reasons, I don’t follow the news.”…
I spent most of 2017 planning (and secretly dreading) a queer southern wedding. My partner and I were together for nearly seven years before getting engaged, and a full eight before the actual wedding. We went through undergrad, grad school, four apartments, three cats, two dogs, countless trips together, an infinite number of laughs and tears, and more than a handful of awkward family moments before getting to the alter. …
Listen, morena, I guess what I’m trying to say is that higher education is hard—and it’s even harder when you’re trying to prove that you deserve to be there as much as the next person. So when you start feeling like you’re having a harder time than your colleagues, it’s because you probably are. Be kind to yourself.…
I’m always having to explain myself. I’m Colombian. Colombian as in coffee, vallenatos, and magical realism. I’m black. Black as in oppression, drum-heavy beats, and tight curls. I’m queer. Queer as in rebellion and unintentionally radical love. And I’m southern. Southern as in barbecues, sweet tea, and big, open skies.…
