I finished the book. I expected a different kind of memoir. A tell me all kind of reading. I wanted to fat talk. Roxane Gay’s book was that and it wasn’t that at all. I was left feeling empty and not full. Like she let me sit at the dinner table with and eat only
I usually don’t react and write about current racial issues. Simply because they will be emotionally filled and most times I can’t get my words right enough to speak on events we’re still experiencing in 2017…. and how white people still say that racism isn’t alive. I do, however, repost articles that I read on
He was born, he may have lied and then he died. I knew very little of about my father. I know his name was Juan Lopez and the streets called him Papo. I know that he was born in Juan Diaz, Puerto Rico and the island called him Collore. I knew that his mother abandoned
Mother has been bothering me about taking on a mother role to a kitten or two in Newark. Both myself and my son have told her that I have asthma and I am severely allergic to them. I am not quite sure when the allergy developed because I have had cats before. Nosky, the youngest
I never mentioned those five weeks on campus at the Hill Summer Program where I met your dad. It’s the same place I met his current high school adviser. I never said anything about how we both went our separate ways our 9th grade year until that one track meet in the spring of 1996. How
The waiting room was unchanged. The walls were a blue sea green that held hand painted pictures of flowers and mounted in frames of compressed wood dust. It was still filled with those uncomfortable chairs whose padding was made of hunter green plastic leather and had absolutely no back support. There were eight chairs in
My phone vibrated against my thigh. “I’m so sorry Sugar. I’ve been busy working. I meant to answer you earlier.” I read the text message from one of my “friends” about four times before I realized that it was doing something to me I didn’t quite understand. I suddenly remembered there was only one other
I stood in front of the stove seasoning my son’s chicken. He loves my arroz con habichuelas y pollo frito. Eric sat at the kitchen table doing homework. It was our normal after work routine. He’d sit at the table I bought used for forty dollars from a co-worker who was moving overseas to Shanghai
The old fashioned radiator hissed at a soprano note cutting through your concentration while spitting small specs of moisture into the air as it maintained the eight nine degree temperature. The living room window was propped open but was not our savior. The one bedroom apartment situated on the top floor of the low income