How do I explain to my Chilean family that I come from a place where prison statistics, police records, and newspaper headlines all fervently declare that I am not wanted? How do I explain to them what I tell my mother— that I never want to have children, because I know that their skin will be as black as mine?
You’re in America, you’re busy, you don’t have time to keep up with politics all over the world. There are a lot of parties, a lot of elections. Who can follow all of them?
You come to his house after practice having carefully showered and shaved in the girls’ locker room. You wear a green cotton dress he can pull over your head. Has, in fact.
