The Avatar Incident , 2009

When the lights came on, my eyes were already stinging red from the 3-D glasses and big screen glare. As we crossed the vast and vacant dark parking lot, I turned my eyes up into the light rain for relief. "Oh c'mon Ange, it was a magnificent story about protecting the environment. The characters were blue aliens--not people." My friend could not have known that this time it was different. I was not angry or disappointed or offended. The film had, quite literally, hurt me. The wound was throbbing in the soft of my belly, just below my ribcage. Was I the privilege-soaked self-anointed hero choosing to parade as a dread-locked native while my nation systematically exploits them? "Jesus Christ Ange, stop seeing everything as racism for one minute. It was a good story." A trembling hateful yell emerged from the soft of my belly: "How could you be so cruel?!" Tears fell harder and faster than the drizzle. I hated myself for allowing such emotions, so carefully bottled and buried, to now burst and spill out all over my friends in this middle America parking lot. We drove away from the theater in the shocked silence of my sobs. Living in Uganda, East Africa had changed me more than I realized. I could not pretend it was only a story. 

Philly , Forbes Under 30 Summit 2014

To my left, a well-dressed woman’s eyes got red and wet as Monica Lewinsky described her suicidal thoughts from years ago. I quickly retreated to the lobby to recover my sanity at the free cookie cart. Half of the Philadelphia Mayor’s office was in attendance to support this event as a “city revitalization effort”. They debated whether the Summit’s Wiz Khalifa and Afrojack concert last night was profitable. We returned to the ballroom to witness an oddly cellulite and breast implant ridden fashion show. My serious attention was only grabbed back by Sara Blakely, the inventor of Spanx. How did she grow a billion dollar company from only 5,000 dollars of savings and manage to keep 100% business ownership? The question bugged me while I kicked around the energy-harnessing soccer ball my new friend Jessica invented for rural students to power their reading lights. No one here is normal. And then, Malala entered the ballroom. This short, visibly awkward teenager who lives a double life—handing in homework one day and accepting the Nobel Prize the next—spoke powerfully about education. My eyes were not wet, but my heart was on fire. I believe Malala looked directly at me: "Education is the key to ending poverty globally. We must continue our work."  

East Harlem Cafe , Dinner

She had one of those window-shaking, soul-smacking power voices that could turn a flat café floor into a stage. Most of the songs were originals with only a melodic guitar and her reverberating cords. I ordered my usual turkey sandwich at the counter. “This is dedicated to all the women—no matter your size—who are beautiful”. I closed my eyes and breathed deep the mocha frappuccino iced latte earl grey tea air. It was a Spanish song about walking into the sun with a pimpled face, with hair that stands firm against the wind, with a booty that jiggles at each step, and with a smile that holds back a bitter sweet song of soul.

Airplane . Pre-Dawn

It feels like I exist less in both places—like I am less real compared to everyone else. I bunch little white pillows in the space between my seat and the curved, cold plane wall so I can crane my neck less watching the lapsing, dark ocean. A baby whimpers and the stranger beside me stirs for a moment. The world doesn’t seem to move on without them, despite them. Not me. I am painfully aware that the sun still rises here and the night still rages on there after I am gone, and even while I am leaving. I lean away from the sea as my breath fogs the triple-paned glass. It is humbling to visit your legacy. I am there just long enough to make a wave and gone long enough to have that wave calm into a current, and that current disappear into a ripple. Until finally there is only the water’s smooth steady glimmer reflecting a distant moon. 

Kensington Market, Toronto. Last Month

Guest Vignette by Arnab Majumdar            Professional Writer Extraordinaire 

 I find myself in a dusty corner of Toronto’s Kensington Market, working in a French diner with 1-star yelp reviews. I grab the mop with bleached and burned fingers, scanning the tables in an ever-increasing paranoia of bumping into someone from my past. Out in the distance I make out the skyscraper at First Canadian Place, that plain jewel of my ambitions where I sat just moments before. Uganda isn’t Canada, she explained. You’ll have to prove yourself. Stepping out to the floor, I catch the face of my father in the mirror, laughing at the overlap between his journey abroad and my return home. By the cash register the owner fires the recent illegal hire. I remember to go pick up my suit.