After writing the article "Navigating Through Pride and Prejudice" about what it’s like to be black and gay during Pride, I needed to regroup. I had this pit in my stomach and started circling the black, brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple wagons. I had an existential moment after reading comments on the article and chatter within the “Social Thunder dome” (aka Facebook and Twitter). Most of the feedback was great, encouraging and what I kind of expected. When

I grew up in a household with a mother who was young and still trying to find herself and a dad who was worried about who he was going to screw next. My mom was 18 when she had me and my dad, who had been in the army for 5 years, was 23. When my dad entered the room, I could see my mom automatically adjust her body position and what she was doing. I wasn’t sure what this meant but I knew from an early age that something wasn’t right. When I was 3 years old, my dad moved my mo

I am 18; perched on a wooden stool overlooking the Plaza de Armas in Cusco. I turn back to my hot chocolate (I’m in the chocolate museum.. naturally), when I notice someone taking a photo of me out of my periphery. He wasn’t particularly subtle about it. He had a large SLR camera and possibly a tripod. I kept sipping my chocolate trying not to break the candid shot. His camera snapped the little white girl swamped by an enormous orange, red and yellow ceremonial style poncho,

©All A Gray Area 2016 All Rights Reserved. Video contains graphic content Exactly one year ago, I sat on the patio of coffee shop in Colombia. I cried. Not just because there was another unnecessary shooting of someone who could have been my brother. But because I felt broken and detached; broken by fear and detached from family and friends who would understand that fear. Then, in my new home, even with its own form of racism, I couldn't quite make people understand why two d