All This Could Be Different

by Sarah Thankam Mathews

My only job was to study, I was told. To do well. Graduate with distinction, secure a decent-paying job. Success at these had been met with no celebration, only a transfer of expectation to the next desired milestone: marriage and readiness for it.

This is what it means, to come here as an immigrant. You are here on sufferance. You are a form of currency, not a person, and only a person has the right to desire, which is to say, to be difficult.

Bitch, let me introduce you to a concept called: gay people. If you haven’t done yearning-filled long distance are you even a lesbian? Or just tell her you want her to come with you.

This is my tragedy and my great good fortune, to be the recipient of this bond, to be kept alive under its crushing warmth and weight, to be given it so freely, so much more than I have ever deserved. The world has ended a thousand times and my name called in each new book of it.