As a teenager, I had a few breakouts here and there around my period, but nothing that couldn’t be treated overnight. My skin was more or less a perfect canvas with a few freckles.
Sometime after my 11th birthday, a warm breeze blew through my room and turned everything in my life to sex.
When I was a child my thick hair was a stunner. As the daughter of a dark Latin man and a blonde Eastern European woman, I hit the genetic jackpot.
I have not unseen what I saw in the homeless shelter: the papery faces of women undone by heroin, the babies born shaking from opiates.
The kicks and punches became so frequent that I couldn’t remember what it was like not to have a burgeoning person inside me.
The possibility of extra cash enticed me, but sort of like a whisper, came a singular thought: These stories will become heirlooms.
When I think about what is happening to refugees in the Mediterranean, I realize that history repeats itself in harsh ways.
Living with the constant threat of life under ISIS, women in Iraq are fighting to protect themselves, their families and their towns.