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When I would ask about my absent dad, my mom would tell not me to worry, reminding me of my Heavenly Father watching over me from up above. I love you, Mom, but that’s crazy talk. I don’t want white Christ watching over me as much as I don’t want
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The family practices I saw on “Full House” and other American TV shows couldn’t apply to my own family because of our drastic cultural differences.
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I am a self-proclaimed goofy Black woman. But like most students, I learned early on that joy and humor have no place in the classroom.
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Even if I’m just waiting in line at Peet’s Coffee, I’m all too aware that as soon as a stranger sees my headscarf, they immediately identify me as the “the Muslim girl.”
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Coming to UC Berkeley made me realize that I could both be Korean and talk about sex — the two are not mutually exclusive.
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My dreams and ambitions extend so much more beyond the sparkly, golden cage that America imposes on me, and I will relinquish my shackles to flex all of the facets of my being.
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It is easy to call me a whore or a statistic. To call me a liar, or a person seeking attention. Or call me stupid.
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My mom taught me and my sisters the important things — there is literally no use in crying over spilt milk. Microwaves can be used to bake cakes. We do not have to rely on men for stability.
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