In Trinidad, where the prime minister is distancing herself from traditional regional allies over Venezuela and the United States.

In Trinidad, where Christmas is the best and one in every few conversations is about multipolar geopolitics.

In Trinidad, where I get to not have to explain myself because there is so much else to talk about.

In Trinidad, where you are inevitably asked the question, “so are you coming for Carnival?”

I want the answer to be yes, I always want that answer to be yes, but there are so many other questions in between.

Attribution

​​​​​​​In my mailbox: a welcome letter and a 3x2 inch card. It declares I’ve been granted temporary permission, acceptance, to be where I already am. I could drill a hole in it with my stare: this small key on the palm of my hand, green like a pair of emerald earrings I never had, green like bad breath and anxiety, green like the application fees that continue to increase like an insidious dream of bloating grass. Green, the color of my conditional privilege. All condensed into a single object I’m asked to carry at all times but made so I could, easily, lose so much more.

____

​​​​​​​I’m tired, so I read about how policies attempting to restrict immigration constantly fail, unable to forbid the body, the cities and deserts it carries inside, the winds wrinkling its lakes, the finches darting not only above but under its airport ceilings. I’m tired, so I lie down. The earth spins for me and the dead continue their orbiting. It gives me strength to remember there is no such thing as an immovable object.
— from A Study Through Homes by Ae Hee Lee