Now, a year later, I feel like being rejected from my “dream school” was an opportunity to get to know myself better.
My parents left their home country behind to give me the American Dream. But, like other immigrants, they discovered that this dream is only attainable if you know English and have a solid education.
Almost every day, on my way to school, I get harassed on the street. It’s like part of my routine: get off the bus, grab a chai, get catcalled, repeat.
As college acceptance letters begin trickling in this spring, Mali Dandridge turns to her mom for advice on what to expect in college.
My mom came to the U.S. from Taiwan when she was seven. As an immigrant in the ’70s, she faced racism daily. So it’s puzzling to me when she makes highly questionable statements about other groups.
When I tell someone my preferred pronouns are they/ them/ their, I never know what to expect.
My newfound feminist beliefs are real. They weren’t handed to me. I had to earn them by living day by day.
Once my classmates had the opportunity to speak anonymously, it was like an entirely new side of them came out, one of fervent hatred and unashamed criticism.
In my family’s minds, muscles are a kind of insurance policy against the dangers black men face.