“What’s wrong with me?” Jules asked, the morning after she had gone on a date with a man, during which he violated her boundaries during sex.
I hugged her, uncertain of what to say. The times I had gone through a similar experience, my friends couldn’t tell me something to reassure me, to make me wholly believe it was not my fault.
“It’s not your fault,” I offered.
“Right, but I don’t know if I can believe that,” Jules replied. “Because this has happened so many times, there must be something wrong with me.”
Obviously, there is nothing wrong with…
On November 8th, 2016, I, along with millions of Americans, doubted my belonging in this country, my faith in my home wavering. I didn’t worry for my safety as much as trans and gay citizens and Americans with non-citizenship status did but I suddenly felt I had lost a home — one perhaps I had no right to call it just that. I had never felt this uneasiness before, naively thinking that I was safe as a first-generation child of Filipino immigrants to deem myself as unequivocally American.
When I came home that night at 2 AM, my parents were…
HELLO? IS SOMEONE OUT THERE? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?
These calls out into the abyss are what it feels like when I send my written work out into the void of the inboxes of The New Yorker, Penguin Random House. This Brave Writer’s submission portal.
Certainly in the modern era of blogs, social media, and the 24-hour content cycle, it seems easier to get your voice heard, your writing read, your name to be known, but also seems impossible, as though our writing is entering a dark chasm — the Internet. With self-publication outlets such as Medium, the rise of…