Ty and I were never supposed
to meet. He grew up homeless in
New Jersey, while my Michigan
suburb bubble-wrapped me in
privilege. He’s Afro-Latino and
I’m white. We met studying
abroad in Costa Rica, where he
taught me to dance bachata, and
I taught him to play ukulele.
Having
escaped
the
social
structures keeping us apart in
the U.S., we quickly fell in love.
Six months, two countries and
three states later, learning is still
our constant. As we unwrap the
layers of our opposite worlds,
cycles of poverty and privilege,
what we’ve uncovered is that
there’s always more to learn.
A kind word from a stranger
on the walk to class. Finding
out someone loves that book and
author, too. The sound of their
laugh — pure, spontaneous,
an accident that almost didn’t
happen. A shared copy of All
The Light We Cannot See. Thin
upstrokes
and
downstrokes:
calligraphy pen against paper.
Pale blue hand-me-down picnic
blanket on dewy grass, soft.
Running to catch the sunrise
even though you have already
captured
a
thousand
more.
Twirling the curls in their
hair, wanting them for myself.
Firecrackers, the lingering smell
of incense hanging in the air, a
flickering spark in the darkness.
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | FEBRUARY 14, 2020
tiny love stories
I love like I season my dishes:
intense, flavorful. I like to
stir myself up like I stir my
homemade leshta, churning my
insides with made-up scenarios
that burn like hot manja on the
roof of my mouth. I am not a chef:
I drop water-filled pots, mix
the wrong ingredients, forget
rice on the stovetop, watching
it curl on its ends, charred and
defeated. But I always start
over, feeling hope between the
gentle leaves of fresh spinach,
and hearing whispers of good
luck in the soft sifting of lentils.
I am not a chef yet, simply a cook
trying to master this intangible,
frustrating, heartbreaking craft.
I love like I season my dishes:
intense, flavorful. I like to
stir myself up like I stir my
homemade leshta, churning my
insides with made-up scenarios
that burn like hot manja on the
roof of my mouth. I am not a chef:
I drop water-filled pots, mix
the wrong ingredients, forget
rice on the stovetop, watching
it curl on its ends, charred and
defeated. But I always start
over, feeling hope between the
gentle leaves of fresh spinach,
and hearing whispers of good
luck in the soft sifting of lentils.
I am not a chef yet, simply a cook
trying to master this intangible,
frustrating, heartbreaking craft.