The sky was a color / she loved most — / the holy blue / before Eid mornings.

Day 1: I woke and opened my eyes to a quiet morning, trying to feel if it was the end of an era.

I was born like anyone else. Mom and Dad loved me like anyone else’s parents loved them. Like anyone else, after school, ran from skinheads.

The night of the second presidential debate, I called my mother. It wasn’t supposed to be a political call;

Omar annoyed me for the normal reasons that students annoy teachers.

Politics is like an awful off-Broadway play that can’t decide whether it’s a tragedy or a comedy.

On the streets of the two cities is found / a pattern or practice of conduct that violates / the Constitution or federal law

It is September 23, 2016, and you’re reading this because our classmates, faculty, campus, community, state, and nation didn’t listen last time

In the summer of 2015, I was working in Spain for a theater project with a Spaniard friend of mine.

I grew up in a schism. My father came of age in a Jewish family from Massapequa, New York, and my mother a Baptist family from Dalton, Massachusetts.

My melanin is not enough to hold my culture.

On a family ranch, you have to earn your belonging.

There’s a certain art of being able to navigate failure in order to reach a point of alignment.

Floating on the bubbly foam of her extra hot latte is a wilting tulip pattern that looks like the wounded black bird she saw lying dead by the fountain yesterday.

I picked the boy out because his picture looked friendly and his profile said that he only had two weeks left in the States.