He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

William Faulkner, Nobel Prize banquet speech (1950)

Words, words, words…

Here are some writings that I would like to be read, because ideas cannot help anyone in my head.

They are sorted into various categories. The links on the right side of this page will help you navigate.

Archipelago stories are journal entries from my year in Indonesia.

Grounded contains pieces that try to capture what specific moments feel like, writings that can only be understood in the context of those moments.

Wild Geese contains pieces about feelings, and how to let the soft animal of the body love what it loves.

Gender Failure includes my thoughts on gender, personal and political.

The Flying Dutchman includes pieces I’ve written during my time as a writer and editor for the school newspaper.

Christmas Monologues are a series of essays I write near Christmas every year, where I attempt to reflect on how things have changed, and how I have changed.

Writing Writing are essays reflecting on writing, language, and what it means to create.

  • The Politics of Hygiene
    There is no textbook answer on how to rid ourselves of history. But here I am, with my family of strangers in a foreign land full of memory and wounded pride and indignation and grief, and I find myself content. This, however flawed it may be, is my answer, for the time being. I wonder what yours is. 

  • This is the Price
    As I’m writing this, three steps away from the airport gate, there’s twelve minutes until we start boarding, one after the other, on a passage New York bound. I miss home already. I listen to Hamilton again, and I remind myself: this is the price I pay for this richness, and this rootlessness is worth it because I’ve grown from it, steady as old pine.
  • It’s Pride Month Again, Or, There’s A Bluebird In My Heart
    I do not want the shame internalized in me for longer than it already has. I don’t want to be an activist, but I am not writing these words just for myself: after all, there were people who made me feel less alone on this journey of meaning, and ideas in my head cannot help anyone until they are out, and maybe, just maybe, what I write will help someone else as well, whoever they are. They say that you eventually become the person who would have saved you in the past. Perhaps this is what this piece is. Perhaps this is who I wrote this piece for, for someone like me who needs words to survive.