Statement

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Whenever I realize I need a haircut, it always takes me a few days to get around to booking it.

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If I have two things to thank for introducing me to the heavenly spirit that is Connie Converse, they are Spotify’s Discover Weekly algorithm and The New Yorker.

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Dear Friends and Family,

An affair to remember before midnight.

My blasé attitude toward New Year’s Eve was challenged while standing in the dairy aisle of the grocery store.

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In accordance with the Pew Research Center this article refers to second-generation as US-born children of immigrants.

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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.

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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.

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I grew up in the arid valley where the moonlight was muffled by the smoke of thousands of coal-burning stoves. It was cold and scary at night and the day came, only to reveal the night’s crimes.

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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.

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Around a corner you might otherwise stroll past on Main Street, there is a set of glass doors between ivory white brick that holds the smallest, most restless Cuban eatery in town.