Time is predictable. Constant and cyclical. We’re born, we live, we die. For most of our history, this didn’t surprise us. Humans lived by the sun and the seasons. We recognized that the sunrise and the sunset were the same entity. We didn’t just smell the flowers. We planted seeds, watched them germinate, tended them as they grew, and saw them wilt and decay. Over and over. Birth, Life, Death. We were intimately acquainted with all three.

In the early 21st century, we set out to define and standardize that cycle. We measured it, and created notches and signposts throughout…

When I was small, the empty lot down the street grew a jungle of weeds that filled with fireflies every summer. I’d scamper past the decripit houses in a long-past decripit neighborhood with my siblings to watch them glow and twinkle on and off. I don’t remember us catching them in a jar a la one of the quintessential Midwestern childhood experiences. I don’t think we ever did.

We’d hold them in our hands, giggle when they landed on our elbows, and ran through the weeds to watch them all rise up around like flickering dandelion wishes. I haven’t seen…

*Cracks knuckles*

First things first. If you read this title then fixed your face to comment any variation of “I don’t need forgiveness” or “This divisiveness is why the country’s a mess” or even “If you made these generalizations about any other group, blah, blah, blah”, just stop. Power down your computer, go sit in the grass, and watch the clouds. They’re fluffy, white, and full of air. You’ll love them.

Let’s get into it.

I saw the largest civil rights movement last year. Protests and parades amidst a pandemic that sought to fight the equally dangerous and not-even-that-subtly-hidden virus…

April 11, 2011. I’ve biked two towns over on a stolen sense of adventure. The wind shoves my hair into my eyes as I pretend I’m riding a galloping horse. Homes get further and further apart. My phone is in my dorm room, currently being blown up, but I feel six hours away.

My legs have been begging me to stop moving since 20 minutes into this ride, but I urge them on. “It’s been a long time coming, but I know a change gonna come.” …

I opened Medium this morning and almost couldn’t believe I had an influx of new readers. I’ve always assumed my little corner of sarcasm, vulnerability, and depression wouldn’t “sell”, and I’d get to pour out my soul without waking any of the neighbors. Nevertheless, I’m 67% okay that I’ve stopped using a fake name and the third picture that popped up on Google when I searched ‘hipster girl’.

I know opening myself up to other people is an exposure that opens me up to wholeness. Wholeness, despite what the word implies, is not about being complete to me. Rather, wholeness…

“Mention universal basic income one more time, and they’ll have our heads on a stick.”

“It’s the truth.”

“They don’t care. At this point, I don’t care.”

“I’m not going to stand up there and pretend that our system is the best way of doing things when it clearly isn’t.”

College debate circa 2010. Let me set the stage. There’s twenty of the most brilliant and repressed students I’ve met here crowded into an economics classroom. As a just-turned-seventeen-homeschooled-black-girl from the inner-city, I am a cluster of contradictions on this campus, but one thing is certain. I’m not supposed to…

I’ve been given 3 nicknames in my life. One was a song by my mother. (meea-miyah-pizza-piea-ria) I’ve done the full loop from love it!-embarrassed by it-to indifferent-right on back to love. The second I will never share, and the third that’s frequently used by friends and family is ninja. Sidenote: all of these tech companies with ninja in their name sound like they were made by 12-year-olds, and I’ll stick by that till I die.

Unfortunately, the nickname wasn’t given for any combat ability or skills. …

The rebellion will come with a laugh. A full-throated, hearty, goose-honk of a laugh. Snorts and all. Laughter is defiant. More obstinate than a fist. Reminds us why we’d raise a fist in the first place.

The first place I went after my vaccination was a ‘Black-and-Asian-Solidarity’ event in the thick of the city. Stories were told, tears were shed, plans were made. I left feeling lighter than I had in weeks. The next day, I went to a park where a group of black friends had dressed as fairies-actual, mythological fairies with wings and horns and crowns-and laughed until…