Status Updates From Brown Girls

Our mother tongues, if we were taught them at all, become atrophied muscles, half-remembered melodies. Our parents, who don't care for capital A Art, or the pursuit of beauty, or so we believe, say, We don't understand, slow down, can you explain it again? when they ask about our days. And when we see the confusion clouding their eyes, we feel powerful. Reckless. Mean.