My face and my head pulse, and so does the radio. I’m losing track of time, but I can tell that we’re close to the beach when the police officer stops us—the ceaseless strip of road has gone satisfyingly gritty with sand.
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 …
The firefighters carried that extra baggage in their already twenty-plus-pound sacks on each and every trip. Their backpacks held their survival gear doubled in the weight of their historical heartaches, with their generational trauma in tow.
What does it mean to both recognize the atrocities of slavery while engaging with the environments in which it occurred as spaces of leisure and romance?
"My family visited Auschwitz for Christmas that year. It seemed only fitting, for a masochistically-sympathetic group such as ourselves to relive the trauma of our ancestors, specifically, my father’s parents, on such a celebratory occasion."