Pacifist is a title I started giving myself after the fateful day I spent with Yoko Ono’s treasure trove of experimental, anti-war art at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain on my first trip abroad.
The piano in my childhood home is tired. Her brown, fraying ivory sags with overuse and dulled keys sing softly — worn out from years of pounding fingers. Her exterior — covered in stickers and stamps and carved into with uncut fingernails — reeks of resignation.
My expectations of love and romance were doomed from the start. As a child, I lived and breathed Disney movies. The story was always the same: A beautiful princess was in trouble and — shocker — a beautiful prince came to save her.