Finding your roots is a hard thing to do, made even more challenging when you're adopted and black. How does one connect with their ancestors when they know nearly nothing about their biological parents? I've always wondered about my lineage—am I 100% black? What explains my lighter skin? Does the slave rapist blood run thick? Mom says my almond eyes make me look Polynesian. Am I Polynesian? I've always felt Latina or Middle Eastern for illogical reasons I shouldn't mention, but I'm pretty damn good at Zumba and smoking hookah gives me life!
“This is why I say that hip-hop has done more damage to young African-Americans than racism in recent years,” said Geraldo Rivera—his hilariously exquisite mustache intact.
The roots of all evil. The source of my shame. Growing black hair is one of the worst things that's ever happened to me and I'd like to ask all of you—yes, you too—to kindly shut the fuck up about it.
These photos are from a family trip to the Alburquerque International Balloon Fiesta. Down the post are some photos from Madrid and Santa Fe.
Traveling to Melbourne after Bali felt frivolous. Not only was the idea expensive, but it's winter in Melbourne and I hate winter. It also didn't help that after I booked the trip, a few Australian New Yorkers pretty much called me an idiot. They said I should have picked Sydney. But despite my hesitation and all of the haters, I traveled down to Melbourne and had the time of my life.
One bitch's quest to love NYC.