Crossed Over

by Santana Knox

No one prepared me for the burden it was to be the singular child of an immigrant, the pressure to not just succeed, but surpass, my parents’ accomplishments, as well as their struggles. To be better than they ever could be, since they sacrificed so much to make it so.

When you’re a woman, your anger is either childish or irrational. It’s never justified. So I didn’t care to try to explain myself anymore.

“Please tell me I can kiss you.” Her eyes were glued to my lips, and my stomach fluttered something awful. “I think I’ll die if you don’t.”