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Let me begin with this: I am not here to out anyone. That said, I sometimes have a thing for closeted men. Maybe it’s the element of forbidden love, maybe it’s self-sabotage, maybe it’s internalized homophobia, maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline. Not to flex, but I found myself kissing one in Uni Mini last spring while waiting for my mozzarella sticks.
This is the weirdest possible time to be in a relationship. We’re adults, but not really. Still kids, but not really. Totally independent, but not really. Mature, but not really.
As you may know, the Netflix show Sex Education is all the talk these days, and I am one of those disciples who swear by it. Just to clarify, I am not a TV person. I am not even that much of a Netflix kind of gal. What I am, however, is a huge fan of sex education.
About a year ago, I went vegan*. Consider the rest of this column the explication of that asterisk. At the time, I was working on a Barnstormers production that required baring it all (well, most of it, I guess) onstage. Aside from lifting weights six times a week, biking as often as possible and a few hours a day of choreography, I wanted to cut some calories in an effort to, um, tighten things up.
I. Worn green leather, soggy black floors. The majority of my time spent on a public school bus commuting to school everyday, was spent watching YouTube.
As some of you may know, the first week of school has been busier for some than others.
I think we all know how ridiculously annoying it is for a song to be stuck in our heads for days upon days. There was one song last semester, however — one I hadn’t even heard in years — that implanted itself in my brain and refused to leave for a good long while at what was probably exactly the right time.
Sometimes it’s as simple as wishing that a pair of shoes that are currently sitting in my closet in Singapore were with me in Baltimore, and sometimes it’s wishing my mom could drive to me in three hours when I’m having a crappy mental day instead of having to travel upwards of 20 hours in cars, planes and trains to get to me.
Chinese nationalism has been making the news lately. We’ve all seen it in action, whether in the form of giant military parades in Beijing, the National Basketball Association’s expulsion from China over a single tweet or that big Chinese flag that was hung up in Brody.
An alligator suns on a log. It’s winter, but we’re in South Georgia, so that means it’s 80 degrees, but perfect.
Dear Arden,
Lately I’ve had to give this explanation to a lot of people in my life, so I figured I might as well write it down. If you’ve spoken to me at all recently, you know that I’ve been caught up in a medical whirlwind for the past few months.
Every time I return from a break in the espresso-stained, red sauce–laden part of New Jersey I call home, I feel uneasy. I just spent a week consuming at least three cloves of garlic a day and beginning all conversations at a 7/10, but as I try to settle back into Baltimore, I wonder if I need to tone it down.
I. For as long as I could remember, Christmas was always spent locked in a Chinese restaurant; tasked with scooping rice into take-out boxes, I dreamt of escaping that small storage room through the glass window, entering the parallel universe of snow outside.
Once upon a time in a flyover town, an only child slept in her wooden castle and was tucked away in her princess-themed tower, which overlooked the splatter-shaped moat with a swirling slide attached. Her blinds were drawn, and under the covers, she read with her flashlight because the anticipation of Christmas morning was overwhelming. The cookies were iced and were waiting downstairs for Santa Claus. Carrots and nuts for the hardworking reindeer occupied an extra dog bowl on the brick front step.
I have never been a very independent person. It’s not simply that I enjoy the company of others, but the idea of doing certain things alone fills me with debilitating dread.
I’ve never really thought myself as a rebel. Stubborn? Sometimes. Difficult? It depends on the person and the situation. But a rebel? Not really.
I am Laís. I am Latinx, I am Hispanic, I am Brazilian, I am a woman. These are all my “identities,” and I accept these identities now, but that wasn’t always the case. I know in my heart that I’m a part of the Latinx community. But why do I feel like because I have white skin and European heritage that I’m not a valid member, even when it’s the community that I fit into the most?
I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100 percent that b—. Well, not quite, but love you Lizzo. I took a DNA test in January, got the results a month later and found out that I’m not 100 percent anything. Don’t worry, it wasn’t some shocking turn of results — I knew my DNA would prove to be a multicolored pie chart.
There is a cemetery in Korea whose name I do not know, far away from Seoul and deep in the mountains, where my maternal ancestors are buried. Apart from my grandfather who passed when I was eight, I do not know their names or faces.