Today marks two years living in Seattle. I still struggle talking about moving here—the why, the how; my impressions and experiences. The gray rainy winters are as capricious as the city’s luminous summers. The politics are as liberal and nuanced as you can believe. Social tensions are as insidious as found in any rapidly developing […]
For me, being out means learning to be comfortable in my own skin. Learning to love my skin. Learning to love my identity. Learning to make my identity my own. Learning from mistakes. Learning to take chances. Learning to unlearn behavior from the closet. Learning to be me; the best that I can be. For
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There are weeks where time escapes me; slips through the cracks between my fingers as I try to hold it. Gravity is unforgiving. Perhaps this is a normal part of life—an inevitable part of life I stubbornly wish to believe is short lived; that time will proliferate with age and experience like a redemptive reward.
I. I’m back in Seattle, thinking about Honolulu, where lounge chairs on balconies litter the sky, rows stacked above each other in towers rivaling the height of surrounding mountains. What is it about this place, a place for weddings and honeymoons; romances new and seasoned? What is it about this place that merits years of
I remember seeing those grainy photographs with a sense of bewilderment. I was a young child entering my preteen years, flipping through chapters and quizzes of my American history textbook. In one photo, I saw people adorned in white garbs with pointed hats and cutouts for eyes, waving flags as they marched. In the other