I'M FLIPPING THROUGH my phone in Target, and glance over at my son. He doesn't want to leave and has been lying facedown and noncompliant on the floor for about five minutes.
MY DAD WASN'T ALWAYS that abusive. Until I was 9, he was relatively nice to us.
OUTWARDLY, MY LIFE seems very put together. I was born into an upper middle class family; my parents are married; I have a loving husband and a beautiful son; I graduated from the University of California in Los Angeles; and I work as an oncology nurse.
“FUCK THIS SHIT, oh Lord. This is my tired advent prayer. Fuck this shit indeed. Amen."
IN MANILA, PHILIPPINES, race wasn't something I thought about much. I didn't grapple with issues of culture and racial identity because everyone around me was Brown.
BENT KNEES. Straight back. Flexed body. Ringing voice. My friend slapped his arms against his thighs and raised his arms above his head, performing a haka.
I USED TO BEAT UP people for other people. I'm not exactly built like a fighter, but people knew I would fight for any reason.