Proud Parents of This Great Kid
by Kai Arrowood
My mom called me to dinner. I swallowed thickly and emerged from my room, faintly practicing the lines I had prepared. It was the winter of 8th grade, and Christmas music was playing. Feeling light in my chair, as though I was going to fall out of it, I cleared my throat and told my family, “I have something to say.”
by Dani J.
When I walk into the printmaking studio, the creaky wood-paneled floors give away my entrance. The studio appears dilapidated, with pipes exposed from an open ceiling, and I hear every other person’s footsteps and children screaming in the distance, but at this point it’s like a second home to me.
Caught in the Middle of an Ugly Divorce
I was born and raised in East Harlem near 110th and Madison. Both my parents were well known on the block; for a time I felt like royalty. My mom told me stories about how my aunts and neighbors fought over who held me next.
The Good in Grieving
by Zainab Hamid
When I was 5, I moved to Bangladesh from the U.S. This enabled me to spend more time with my grandparents: Abdur and Amena on my father’s side; Misbahul and Samsun on my mother’s. I loved and cherished my time with my grandparents.
Breaking Ties With My Mom
I didn’t meet my parents until I was 9. I grew up in El Salvador with my grandmother and traveled alone to join my father, mother, and two new little sisters who were born in New York. When I first got here, my mom bought me new clothes, and showed me around the neighborhood.
Taking My Life Back From My Abusers
Names have been changed. When I was 9, I moved to New York to be with my parents and sisters. Like many immigrants from Central America, I took a two-month journey north across Mexico and crossed the border illegally into the United States.