An essay by Mary Grace Bertulfo
“’One is one’s own refuge, who else could be the refuge?’ said the Buddha.” – Walpola Rahula
Monday night. 6:10 p.m. Alone.
I drove down Lake Street in our worn, twelve-year old mini-van. Hot fury heaved in my chest and shoulders and transformed into a high-pitched scream that poured out of my throat for two whole blocks. I screamed until I had no more energy. I screamed until my voice was hoarse. Had I been a superhero, Wonder Woman say, the scream would have been a siren shattering every van window.
An essay by Euree Kim
Nurse told me to be stripped naked.
I asked: Do you have my consent? What about my rights?
Nurse replied, I do not need your consent. You do not have rights.
An essay by Danielle Tanimura
“What are you?”, not “How are you?”. As early as preschool, I thought that this was just how conversations were supposed to start. This is normal. This is fine.
by Co Shi An
I am not white. I have spent 29 years of life believing I was white. Now I’m realizing it. I’m not white. I am not white and I am also not Yellow. I am, however, Chinese, and Irish. Not white, not Yellow. Chinese and Irish.