“During our visit to South Africa, my greatest test came when the rest of the group and I were blessed with a street performance of Zulu war dances.” Poems.
"The intersections of my identity became points of confusion for me: I was Black like the people I was seeing, but I wasn’t African. I did not even know if I should call myself African-American or if I was being seen as just American, or if it mattered."
Why do we “like” things? Why do we “heart” things? Does love mean swiping right? Does it mean holding the door for someone who has their hands full?
Maybe it's all of those things. Maybe we can’t define it.
"feeling your heart beat through your screaming chants, hearing your sorrow through the reverbing stomps, smelling the fear in your every breath, and touching the hope in your gravelly voice" Poetry.
"When one of your oldest friends texts you, you answer immediately. When that friend texts you a photo of her engagement-ringwearing hand, you drop the phone."
