How to Say Babylon: A Memoir

by Safiya Sinclair

Plain as the purple glare on his face, the truth, hasty and pitiful, now revealed its innermost parts to me—a Rastaman was not ascetic or untouchable or particularly saintly.

Over time we grew barnacled and kelped, accustomed to riding the chaotic surf of our parents’ shifting whims. And over time, I began to notice subtle swells of agency in my mother, emerging like riptides beneath us.

I rejoiced now for her and for her and for her.