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.