The pressure I feel as a Black woman to consistently write about my experiences with racism, and of a trauma that is supposed to come from those racist experiences, feels restrictive like a glass wall; a barrier to break through to take up space and exist.
She used to buy her mother flowers. They used to live in an apartment building crowded with flats, in a neighbourhood crowded with apartment buildings. In the previous decade, they’d moved five times – six if you count that first move across the Atlantic. Frankly, that first was the easiest of the moves, a pale […]