Greetings, dear readers!
I’m currently writing this editorial in Montréal at my family’s dinner table with the back door open and a slight breeze rustling papers next to me. It’s still a bit brisk with spring on its way out but I’ve been admiring the recently bloomed peonies in our garden.
By Yolanda Bonnell
There was always a sense of floating. Or running. Never touching the ground.
My personality was shaped by constantly having to adapt to new surroundings as I grew. I learned social skills to survive. Not fitting in was social death.
So youthfully dramatic.
Read MoreBy Juan Velasquez
Like a newborn, it took me a few seconds to adjust to the light. Through my cloudy vision, I could make out the word “rawr”… sent by… Warren?
I was hiding from the party.
“What?” I said out loud. I felt a pang of pride ripple through my chest. I was already speaking to myself in English, after only a couple of months in Canada.
Read MoreBy K. Zen’obia
The red couch looked like something that burst out of a tarnished lamp, or a genie's psyche, like a wavering third eye, when the number 1970 bubbles up on a Ouija. Not like a red Ikea in a dorm room, where two college girls, one Black, one white, are painting walls, and trying to outdance each other, freestyling, during a Calabria voice over commercial.
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