Trail of Death

A candle is lit on my table today... . . . It's fourth grade, and we're learning about "American Indians" in social studies. I have never taken notes before in my life, but this time as the lights are off and the slide show is running, cataloging so many tribes, their housings, their ways of [...]

Road-trip Calamities: A History

Here, for your amusement: a brief history of my calamities. I write to you now from a small-town midwestern Econo Lodge, perhaps the most American of places to be on a patriotic holiday weekend. The sum total of what I know about this town so far is this: car repair places are currently closed till [...]

Glimpses

Every time I drive by this past week or so, they're gutting these two houses further, a truck pulling an open trailer full of pieces parked in the street. The doors and windows are gone, their frames lifted off the foundation and onto cinder blocks. They'll move them maybe, somewhere outside our neighborhood. These are, [...]

What is this place?

They say that you can never go back home. I used to think this was a certain cruelty, as if leaving somehow was always a betrayal, one that got you banned or held at arm's length or just not privy to the important things, the inside things that matter most. To be away with your [...]

Christ in the wool shop

Tuesday morning, I woke up to oppressive drizzle, both within and without. I got the preliminary UMC news Monday evening. Most of those around me say they inwardly knew that the United Methodist special conference on LGBTQ+ inclusion would end in a reaffirmation of the so-called traditionalist plan, but now with penalties for ordination boards [...]

On the bench under her pear tree

So often my mind returns to that place, a barn and pasture hidden up the winding roads in the hills of east Kentucky, out of sight from the main road. In those quick and unbidden glimpses of memory, the times when my mind goes there like a flashback to some earlier significant scene, it is [...]

My blood is the history of wars

I remember the moment so distinctly in which my parents break the news to me that I am not Mexican. We are standing in the kitchen, it's after school, and both of my parents are present. I'm maybe eight years old, and in school we've been talking about genealogies and heritages. Something I have written [...]