The school bus halts at my stop. My cul-de-sac still out of view, I continue forward, listening to the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet, trying to forget the day I just had.
We stood side by side in the bathroom mirror with the door closed and pointed out where on our faces we had the same freckles so as to convince strangers at the grocery store that we were twins. We took turns pressing our fingers into the other's arms to reveal white fingerprints vanishing into pink skin.
How does the lack of equal and unbiased representation in television marketed for children affect their sense of self and self-worth?
Just outside of Grey’s Papaya, there was an odd, frozen cluster of people. Neither my babysitter nor I could see through or over the group from afar, so we kept on walking toward it. Valerie squeezed my little hand.
There was once a young woman named Zlata hailing from a far away land. A land that was neither real nor unreal. This land of origin was a blissful safe haven, and was all that she knew—she knew nothing of …
"French Fries," "Teleport," and "The kid I’ve watched the 1989 'Batman' film with four times this year."
I already miss home. As expected, moving was a mistake. This house is big and empty. I don’t like big houses; my mother knows that. They make me feel small.
Two stories of home—one from the North, one from the South—follow four people as they come to terms with how space and identity collide.
"The summer was hot, the tourists were stupid, and Coney Island spun like liquid sugar in a cotton candy machine."