The Last Word

Every time I experience any form of racism, it is always “the apology” that manages to drive the knife further into the wound.

Death will always appear to be untimely for anyone who has lost someone no matter how predictable it seemed.

The period between the last week in September and the second week in October always feels like that interval between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day for me.

I celebrated 32 years around the sun last weekend. I consider it to be a massive blessing considering the state of the world and how many lives have been upended either due to the pandemic, increased natural disaster or political and economic turmoil over the past year.

I go back and forth trying to understand why Guyanese at home and abroad find it so easy to latch onto movements like Black Lives Matter, which originate in North America and the West with so much zeal and passion but find it difficult to draw similar comparisons to and act the same when incidents that bear similarities happen right here at home.

If one needed to find another description for the Met Gala, it could quite adequately be called the Fashion Olympics.

2020 was such a gruelling and exhausting year. Loss felt constant.

After taking a digital detox from Instagram for close to eight months, I reopened my account only to have it disabled for violating the community terms.

The act of being vulnerable is a daunting one. It is one that invites waves of fear, a sense of out-of-placeness and magnifies the possibility of it being weaponized.

I hear about climate change 24/7 because of the nature of my husband’s work.

I spent last month in my husband’s home country. The main purpose of the trip was for us to get vaccinated and to ensure that his parents did the same.

I have always found the word no, a hard one to roll off of my tongue.

I appreciate that my gym has a lady gym, but regret that the journey to it always feels like walking a gauntlet of visual inspection by thirsty men.

Everyday we are reminded of the effects of climate change. Whether it is scalding hot temperatures, wildfires or unprecedented flooding, we are constantly reminded that our world is continuously burning, to put it gently.

I grew up envious of girls who had periods that lasted three days or less.

In March of this year my husband and I lived through our worst nightmare.

The scrutiny black sports women endure about their bodies as they move through this world is ruthless.

This is week three in my husband’s home country. I like coming here, it helps me to recharge my batteries.

Things are slowly reopening here and the excitement feels almost like Christmas.

When dealing with things that are intangible, the reality of them being dangerous can at times feel unreal.