life in tokyo

Shit. An avocado.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing? It's a round green brown ball of guilt. I have thrown away so many. I approach them piled in the cheap supermarket. I am hopeful. I am discreet. I sidle past. I am filled with stupid shame that I didn't grow up with them. I don't find them familiar. Yeah, yeah, of course I've had it in salads. Sliced,
life in tokyo

揚げ足-tripping on your own tongue

The coffee-colored little girl began her dance with little skating steps. She had on those rolling sneakers and with one little toe she’d slide forward. The woman beside her, all unaware, was speaking the ritual words of thanks and goodbye and exaggerated honor. The shopkeeper’s attendant bows reached a rhythm that fascinated the little girl-she was attracted to the conversation and tried to bow to copy the woman she was
life in tokyo

my black woman’s hair: not blowout, growout!

I'm making decisions and checking them twice. Maybe even more than twice. Heck, I'm checking them multiple times a day. One of those decisions is: don't relax, blow-dry, or otherwise artificially permanently manipulate my hair. The goal is to let it grow, just taking the bare minimum care of it. Unfortunately, I didn't take any pictures of my teeny-tiny afro (twa) of 3 months ago, when I did the big