For My Friend
I hate Hawaiian pizza. I hate how the flavors clash. I hate the syrupy, canned fruit. I hate how the fattiness from the cheese melds with the sourness from the pineapple — and how you get mixed up gobs of sour, cheesy dough when you chew one bite for too long.
It reminded me of the Chuck E. Cheese on the other side of town, where the White kids and their suburban parents would go for birthdays and sports celebrations.
It reminded me of cheap casino buffets, where my dad would get free meals because he had already gambled away my college tuition and his retirement fund. …
“So, transform yourself first… Because you are young and have dreams and want to do something meaningful, that in itself, makes you our future and our hope. Keep expanding your horizon, decolonize your mind, and cross borders.” — Yuri Kochiyama
One autumn night, when the blistering Santa Ana winds swept down from the Great Basin and drenched us in a thick sweat, some friends and I were hanging out on the roof of an empty parking structure. It was after midnight but well above 80 degrees. There were three of us: a programmer, an ABG, and me, whoever the fuck I was. Below us, the vast nothingness of the San Joaquin Marsh loomed like a mouth waiting to swallow us whole — and beyond that, an array of skyscrapers twinkled in the cloudless Southern California sky. …