The Iran-Iraq war that made me who I am ended thirty years ago. Keeping quiet will not make it go away. I don’t believe in talking through it, either. Between silence and speech lies the act of writing. This is where I seek my remedy.

No matter how inexperienced I was, I didn't deserve what he did.

On finding the language to mourn.

A Salvadoran woman looks for a sister who went missing while trying to make it to America.

There was the time I found an entire horse or cow skeleton laid neatly on top of the shed roof. When I asked my brothers what it was doing there, they looked at me patiently and said, We found it in the desert.

The baby stayed in the desert. I myself stayed in darkness for a long time.

There was one name and one name only, just hers over and over and over.

On the journey from webcam girl to professor and breakout memoirist, and not letting white academia drag her down.

In an age where mass shootings can transform malls or classrooms into war-zones, teachers are getting new training: combat vigilance.

You never get used to seeing dead refugee children, or women who died giving birth on a wrecked boat, their tiny babies still attached to them by the umbilical cord.

Mental health, race, and trauma in the city of Good Christian Bitches.