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It was the last night before our high school year-end ceremony. Thirty eighteen-year-old kids sat together around the campfire on the beach. The sea breeze, mixed with the fire, shifted through our faces.

In the fleeting period of time you spent together as friends, you’ll realize that they’ve become a part of you and your story in little ways.

I recently watched The Holdovers, a movie I recommend if you went to a stuffy school on the East Coast and/or didn’t have the most orthodox adolescent upbringing.

it’s to know the joy of racing down the shores of the beach, kicking sand and sinking our feet into the cool underlayer

There’s never any judgment between us. The debrief is all about supporting one another.

Once we graduate this type of constant proximity will be lost, but while it lasts, I’ll savour the limited car rides we have left together.

I hate the way you made me feel / I hate the way I cried / I hate the way I ran home / I hate that I had to hide.

I’m Black. I’m a woman. I’m an immigrant. I’m the product of a working-class family. I’m a fervent celebrator of Pride. I’m so much more than just one thing, and I have immeasurable honour and joy in embracing all of these identities at once.

There is power behind the name / The unspoken strength

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