I sat across from my plate, stomach doing summersaults. My abuela’s hard-won labor laid before us, the smell of rice and beans, pernil and pie, all the things she knew we loved— decades of meaning ladled and diced, set on her last good china, all the family together and the years we lost between. I...
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Over the past months much has remained the same. For many of us this season has stretched longer than our initial predictions, and then longer than our revised predictions. At The Washington Institute we have striven to engage with our cultural moment, but at times we also dabble in contributing to culture. Several months into...
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A Reflection on Jeremiah 29… At first, when I read this passage, I thought I would attempt to write a thorough essay explaining how I, as an African American women, a product of a divorced parent, in one of the largest urban centers in the United States, feel both daily and keenly as if I...
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