"Other"

I start my daily drive, 45 minutes in stop-and-go traffic, northbound on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. I’m headed to teach English to non-native speakers at a high school on the edge of Baltimore City—which, in many ways, mirrors the place I once called home in Washington, DC. For example, I always found it peculiar that the Anacostia River is accessible via the park, but only after you cross I295. Why does a highway run right through a neighborhood, only to cut off its people from waterfront access?

But I guess it’s better to place a highway in my backyard, as opposed to yours.

Since I was in elementary school, I have always kept a journal. I want to say something profound. I want opportunity to hold space and time, an audience with eyes looking to witness something transformational, but these days I have very little to say. There are no words anymore—nothing that we don’t already know, collectively.

And if you’re looking to hear a story, when’s the last time you listened deeply to your own?

I don’t want to try to make an example of my Americanness, mixedness, and all the complex and salient identities meshed and held within my body. Because all people are more than the sum of their identities and the appearance of their bodies. And what of our social body? Divided nations are simply reflections of divided bodies of people, all severing themselves into digestible components.

“Check the box here:
What is your race of origin?
Your gender? Sexuality?
Socioeconomic status?
Ability?
Political affiliations? Age?
Ethnicity? Religion? Education?”

Somehow, enclosed in these little boxes, is everything but the order and simplicity they claim.

“Other.”

Other sends me searching for more ways I can be one and wondering why we’re sent running from another. What is it in the sound of my voice and the appearance of my body that compels others to fight against me?

There are no edges here, only movement toward uniting us all. So what story do you choose in between the touch and go of your own life? When will you arrive? Until then, remember: in this story, other was always ours.