My mãe works all the time, and still our financial circumstances are so strenuous that we rely on the church for our monthly groceries.
Browsing: Prose
There was something deeper than skin tone: I needed to think of myself as Syrian-Jewish instinctively, beyond what white men had defined in books.
For every ‘mamasita’ I’ve ever received I have an equal number of ‘cochina’—balanced like Rosary beads, and a prayer I hear everyday.
The more challenging an audience, the longer I hold my pauses. It’s exhilarating.
he decided it was fun to repeat the word catboy catboy catboy catboy catboy catboy catboy catboy
1995: A man grabs my brother, turns to me and says, “You black dogs.” I drop my lunch box.
I wanted to weep knowing that someone, somewhere, had had the exact same experiences as me.
A black, single woman. Travelling on her own. The only one. With an afro weave. The odds aren’t in my favour.
This piece was written for and first published in Wild Tongue Vol. 2 – How Should an Artist Be?, a zine by Timmah Ball and Azja…
When I was little, my mother would threaten me with dishonour whenever I misbehaved.