Dystopia, IRL

Parable of the Sower (1993). The Wilderness (2025). Assata (1987).

One, a dystopia set in what is now present day. The second, a searing contemporary reflection of how we somehow manage to balance light heartedness and impending doom. And third, a stark reminder that the doom is not impending, nor has it already befallen us, rather, it is our very foundation.

The doom is what forced Assata to exile, it’s what colored Octavia’s imagination of a world in which the doom would no longer be deniable, and it’s also what impelled a reality in which revolution sometimes looks like joy and sometimes looks like just getting by and sometimes looks like the wilderness that Angela so beautifully and accurately conjured.

The Wilderness explores adulting through its many phases: life and love, birth and death, friendship and romance. All of these against the backdrop of a burning world and a crumbling empire, our very own IRL dystopia.

In our world, the language of dystopia flows through our daily conversations. Talk of wildfires at dinner with friends and kettling during coffee break in the office kitchen, or more likely when you linger on the zoom with your work bestie.

This is the world we know. Assata and Parable of the Sower remind us that this is the world we’ve always known. Despite the growing discomforts, nothing feels quite like home more than the status quo.

This doom has been looming overhead for generations. Dark, imposing storm clouds, mollifying our outrage by occasionally shapeshifting into a light fog, easing our fears of a flood while never quite clearing our vision. But little did we know, it’s actually us who control the weather. Our compassion the sun, our empathy the blue skies, our love the key to a beautiful day.

Parable of the Sower (1993). The Wilderness (2025). Assata (1987). I wasn’t sure what led me to read these three books one after the other. But, whatever or whoever, I’m grateful for the reminder that while death is certain, it doesn’t have to be imminent. We decide if the sun will shine on only a select few or if it will warm all of humanity.

Signed,

N.A.

Wildest Dream

If you’ve heard the phrase “fuck the police” you’ve probably also heard the quip “nobody ever says fuck the fire department.” It’s usually used to explain to people who don’t quite prescribe to tear-it-all-down tactics that there wouldn’t be such a clarion call to abolish the police if they were actually protecting and serving rather than harming and oppressing.

I’ve heard this interaction and these phrases in many iterations, without ever thinking too much about it. It makes sense, on the surface. But the other day, a thought came to my mind: I bet you they were saying fuck the fire department in 1963.

Picture this (it’s 1963 so picture it in black and white, literally and figuratively). But for real, picture this: it’s spring of 1963 in Birmingham, Alabama. You are a Black child and Jim Crow Alabama is all you and everyone you know knows. But, recently, hope is brewing. Hope of a new reality, a liberated reality, or at least a less oppressed one. So you and your peers muster up the courage to join the Children’s Crusade, to peacefully protest for your rights. No one expected the police to be kind. I mean, fuck the police, right? But not only do the police come to beat you with their fists and with batons, not only to the police sick dogs on you, but the Birmingham Fire Department rolls up and starts blasting people, children and teens, with fire hoses.

In 2025, we have the luxury of proclaiming, “no one ever says fuck the fire department.” But look around, so many of our “trusted institutions” are proving that when push comes to shove, they have no problem hooking the hose up to the hydrant, opening the valve, and pointing that torrent right at the most vulnerable. Is this our ancestors’ wildest dream?

In 1963, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. referred to Birmingham as a symbol and asserted that if integration could be achieved in Birmingham, the rest of the South would follow suit. In 2025, we have no shortage of symbols: Congolese toddlers inhaling fumes in mines, masked ICE agents in plainclothes and unmarked cars, a streamed genocide in Palestine, massacred bodies lining the streets in Rio. These are all symbols of what humanity has sacrificed in the name of capitalism, or white supremacy, or the status quo. And while we’re currently in good standing with the fire department, what about the corporations, and the PACs, and the federal government? How long will we continue to let them slide?

How many times must history repeat itself before we start to employ a different strategy? Saving these institutions will not save us. Let’s get to imagining. We love to proclaim, “I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams.” What will the future say of us? We have to have a wildest dream for them to become one.

Signed,

N.A.

I dey come

There are many beginnings to this story of becoming, or perhaps many becomings in this story of beginnings.

There is a moment that occurred in the summer of 2011 that has never slipped my mind. In fact, it has held fast to the deepest crevices in my memory.

I was born on a Spring Wednesday in 1997. Many things become in springtime. This was a significant becoming for me, as birth is for most people. Becoming an embodied spirit by the miracle of birth and, in my case, a little bit of help from science. Becoming a sister and a daughter by virtue of the love of those who welcomed me to this world. Becoming a United States citizen by statute of the law of the land. Becoming a Black girl in the US, with all of its accompanying weight, by virtue of policy and history, and simple reality.

On a Spring day in 2005, I abruptly became a huérfana de padre. The Spanish language uses the word for orphan, huérfano, even for the loss of one parent, and I appreciate that. My orfandad was obviously life-shifting. In hindsight, it was around this time that I realized life required becoming, an active search and reckoning as opposed to blissful, passive being.

My first migration transformed me in ways I could not have imagined at the time and in ways I am still reckoning with to this day. This was in the Fall of 2016, fitting I guess, as I changed along with the leaves. I moved to the Caribbean and embarked on a journey that was and has been both shorter and longer than I could have possibly imagined. It was there that I found self and began to become me.

These becomings and beginnings were somewhat linear. Leading me down a trajectory on which I continue to advance. But the Summer of 2011 was the beginning of a somewhat circular becoming. A moment in time from which I’ve long since left yet continue to return to.

As we neared the entrance to our compound, my beloved uncle was on his way out. We stopped, and asked, “Where are you going?” “I dey come,” he said nonchalantly with a wave.

As a diasporan, oftentimes two truths cohabitate a single moment. “I dey come.” I understood the intended sentiment: I’ll be right back. But I also remember thinking, you say you’re coming but it kinda looks like you’re going.

Surely enough, he was back within the hour and I spent a few more days under his loving gaze before returning across the Atlantic. I haven’t seen my beloved uncle since then, and I won’t until the next life, the transition to which will be another all-important beginning and becoming.

My uncle’s death was a circular becoming in that it began the return to my orfandad. When I heard the news, I immediately crumbled under the gravity of what I had lost. Not only was he my sweet uncle whose deep bass voice always put a smile on my face, he also seemed my last human connection to my father and my father’s home, to my home.

My uncle’s death was a circular becoming in that it began my return to my search for self. Who am I without these connections he singlehandedly maintained?

There are many beginnings to my story of becoming, and many becomings in my story of beginnings.

But I often return to the moment when I was looking at his face and hearing his voice: “I dey come.” The words ring true.

There are many beginnings to my story of becoming, but, perhaps most importantly, there is no end to my becoming.

Signed,

N.A.

Womanism: a knowing & a being

“My education, my lived experience, and my ancestors qualify me, authorize me, and amplify me.” ebonyjanice moore wrote this in her book All the Black Girl Are Activists: A Fourth Wave Womanist Pursuit of Dreams as Radical Resistance.

For years I have referred to myself as a womanist and everyday this proclamation rings more true for me. It resonates exponentially not because it becomes more true over time, but because I am becoming more and more intimate with this omnipresent, timeless truth.

Education is a privilege, life experience is a privilege, communion with ancestors is a privilege. But the key to accessing these privileges is not money, institutions, a passport, or some top secret ritual. The only price we must pay is presence, association, stillness just still enough for mind, body, and spirit to align and intertwine.

Signed,

N.A.

No Funding for a Title

Yesterday, the only thing that stopped me from calling an ambulance was the realization that I would have to get up from my bed and my pain-induced paralysis to unlock my front door in order for anyone to reach me.

Sometimes when I watch action movies, I wonder if I would be particularly resistant to torture because I am so well acquainted with this pain. I’ve endured when nothing I could say or do would make it go away. Wouldn’t I be equipped if something important were on the line?

This pain and I go way back, since Memorial Day weekend in 2008. I was newly eleven and fresh off the accomplishment of elementary school graduation. Doubled over in the fetal position, I was told to sit up. This pain is meant to be private.

The vomiting started some years later. My body’s effort to exorcise this pain, or at least to scream it into center stage.

When I learned the vomiting was the pain’s companion, I finally ceded to negotiate my mental and hormonal health, hoping that in the event that they left the pain would go with them. It did, for a while, then it returned.

It was 2023 before a doctor finally took a look. Or was it 2023 when this pain became so unbearable that I resorted to playing doctor myself. Or maybe it was 2023 when I refused to be dismissed. No, no, it was 2023 when a simple ultrasound revealed the inanity of me never having had one before. Oh and also 2023 when doctors disagreed on a diagnosis but managed to agree on a procedure. Anyway, it was 2023. It was 15 years.

One day a therapist did that thing that therapists do when they blow your mind by stating the obvious: chronic pain.

For the past two years I’ve inconvenienced my life and my pocket in the hope of keeping this pain away. “Take, take, take,” I pled. Maybe I wouldn’t be as stalwart under threat as I sometimes imagine.

But every ultrasound still brings a surprise. And the blood, I haven’t even mentioned the blood. If we go down that road, we’ll drown.

So with a new doctor and a new *tentative* diagnosis, I attempted to reclaim my life and my dignity. I dared to declare that this pain does not control me.

Then: Yesterday, the only thing that stopped me from calling an ambulance was the realization that I would have to get up from my bed to unlock my front door.

In theory, torture has an end goal. When you give in, give up, spill, at least you’ll be let out of your misery. But this, this pain. It’s not torture, it’s just plain suffering.

I won’t bore you with all the stats about how patriarchy and racism have shaped gynecology, about how there’s no funding into women’s health, about how even with the best doctor the research that would provide answers simply does not exist, blah, blah, BLAH! I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt to assume you already know. And if you don’t, and if you care, go find out on your own time.

I’m just here to say that this is suffering. Suffering. And I’m not the only one.

Signed,

N.A.

destiny, my old friend

I remember my future clearly
nestled in the coziest recesses of my mind
vivid in my heart’s eye

have you ever been so sure of your destiny
it’s as if it already happened

I have. I am.
my future is had,
is

Ekeọma
good destiny
o kere m ya k’ọma

Ekee
cut, divide, set apart
removed and saved specially
for me
made and given
to me

Ọma
good as the purest soul
good as an eyes closed, chin titled, mmmm
good as of God, divine

My destiny summons me
trusts that I know her voice
undeniably familiar
she’s been calling
and I’ve been answering
since my beginning

nke o kere m
I know you
I remember you
until we meet again.

Ekeoma Sunday Ezeh

Aunty grew up with my dad, she was like a sister to him. When Aunty told me she would like to keep in touch, she input my name in her phone, then offered it to me to input my number. I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw: first name – Ekeoma, last name – Sunday Ezeh (my father’s full name). Today marks 20 years since my father’s death. As someone whose dad has been gone for that long, the vast majority of people in my life never knew my dad. Which means, I usually have to rely on myself for a reminder that I am my father’s daughter, Sunday Ezeh’s daughter.

In Igbo culture, it is common to be known by many names. Of course you have the names your parents give you, which usually end up on your official documents. However, it is also common for your grandparents to choose a name for you that only they will call you, and your aunts and uncles or other relatives might do the same thing, and if you get married one day, your in-laws may choose another. These are not nick names or pet names, these are actual names that people in your life take time to think about and name you, the same way parents do. In Igbo language, names always have meaning, so the names your loved ones give you are representative of what you mean to them, how they feel toward you, or what they dream for you.

Now, in addition to all the names you may be answering to on a daily basis, there is also a practice known as itu aha. It’s usually done by parents, or people in a similar position like grandparents or older relatives. Itu aha is when parents call their children, especially the ada (first daughter) or ọkpara (first son), by their many names or titles which are representative of their parents, ancestors, and ancestral lands. It’s basically a personalized, spiritual/ancestral pump up speech. It can be done anytime from just lounging around the house to after a great accomplishment, whether that accomplishment be an A+ score on a spelling test or graduation from medical school. Itu aha reminds the child of who they are and the grandeur they come from, and encourages them to remain true to that sacred identity.

There is incredible power in itu aha and my father used to do it for me on a regular basis. But for the past twenty years, its been a privilege seldom bestowed upon me. Even though I unfortunately don’t have the language ability or even the geographical knowledge of my ancestral land to itu aha for myself, last year when I found myself hiking to the tallest mountaintop in the Caribbean, facing my most daunting physical task to date, it was my father’s daughter, Sunday Ezeh’s daughter, that I channeled. “You can do this. You are Sunday Ezeh’s daughter,” I quietly and repeatedly muttered to myself as I willed my legs to keep moving.

This month marks the culmination of my digital nomad journey. I spent the last several months in Nigeria, surrounded by people that not only knew, but also loved and respected my father. People who saw me and saw him, and saw him in me. People who could and did turu m aha. As I embark on this new chapter, I feel bolstered and renewed, as Ekeoma Sunday Ezeh, to charge forward.

Signed,

N.A.

The Ties that Uplift

.. this one is dedicated to my community, you know who you are, happy three years of Signed, N.A.! ..

Allow Me to Introduce Myself by Onyi Nwabineli is a masterful portrayal of community; an exploration of loneliness, community, and the ties that not only bind, but uplift.

The tale is centered around Aṅụrị, a twenty-something who has been severally disappointed by those biologically predisposed to love and protect her most. On the one hand, a result of simple, unadorned tragedy, on the other, an ambivalence so intense it reeks of malice, but is really just grief in pernicious disguise. Aṅụrị is the Igbo word for happiness, a name bestowed on this protagonist with all the best intent as the very fact of her existence is a miracle, but which the universe seems to interpret as a summons to the exercise of irony.

Despite the unfortunate circumstances that shadow Aṅụrị’s beginnings with the antithesis of her name, a hodgepodge of loved ones encircle and bolster Aṅụrị with an unmatched determination to see to her triumph. Even while battling extremely conspicuous yet illusively indescribable hardships, working through anxiety and addiction, and being weighed down by grief and sorrow, Aṅụrị’s journey is undeniable proof of the power of community. Loving grandparents who always provide refuge at a moments notice; an aunt with an unmatched ability to simultaneously exude annoyance, sarcasm, and maternal comfort; friends who are endearingly omnipresent; and a new somebody who might actually be willing to endure increasing levels of weirdness. Aṅụrị’s tribulations, while novel and niche, stand no chance against the bulwark of loving humans erected around her.

I devoured this enthralling book as my year of travels nears a close, and I found myself reflecting on the community I have built or reconnected with as I’ve bounced around the world. I made new friends in Mexico City and Bogotá, I rekindled with old ones in Toronto and Panama City, I met up with travel buddies in Cartagena and Salvador, and I was welcomed with warm hugs and tea time every time I returned to DC. Along this sojourn, my community has shown up for me in too many ways to describe, manifesting itself in people and places I never expected.

There was a time in my life that I lamented my inability to host a birthday party with all my closest friends, given that they were all strewn around the world. Barring a huge life event, there is nothing I could reasonably expect all of them to show up in one place for. The hilarity here is that I don’t even like parties, never mind hosting them! This random longing to wine, dine, and entertain was likely just an instance of envy, and I chuckle at the memory now. Nonetheless, I am now living a life I could never have a imagined, and my community consistently pops up to it-takes-a-village me in ways I could never have imagined. Turns out they were right where I needed them to be all along.

When I started this blog three years ago (today!), I took on the moniker N.A., nwanyị akwukwọ, acknowledging that I was embarking on a journey of learning and discovery of the unknown. This year of travel has been a spectacular extension of that initiative, and I’m confident it will continue to be. What I was not expecting however, was that a year I expected to be one of my loneliest yet – it many ways it has been as loneliness is pretty much unavoidable as a solo traveler – has also taught me so much about community. Similar to Nwabineli’s Aṅụrị, my community continues to gently nudge and lovingly uplift me into the realization of my name.

Signed,

N.A.

Saturdays in São Paulo

One mid-June madrugada, I finally landed at São Paulo-Guarulhos International Airport. “Madrugada” is one of those words that doesn’t have an English translation, but my personal translation for it is “the butt crack of dawn.” The morning prior, I woke up bright and early, on just a few hours of sleep, to make it to the Bogotá airport in time for my flight. I was on time, my flight, however, was not. That delay caused me to miss my connecting flight and had me spending six wifi-less hours at the Panama City airport, then catching a red-eye to São Paulo. Also, is it still considered a red-eye if the sun isn’t even up yet when you get to your destination?? It was 5 am when I was finally crawling in to bed in my new apartment. I closed my eyes and thought to myself as I drifted to sleep, work starts in 5 hours.

After six months of working remotely, traveling the world, and shuffling back and forth to DC doctors (a frustrating addition I had not planned for my beloved nomad year!), my body really caught up to me. I was tired! And while I was beyond excited to finally be in Brazil, a country I had initially considered moving to rather than spending the year traveling, I knew that something had to give.

About a month prior to this moment, I had spent a Saturday afternoon roaming art galleries in Toronto, Canada. I posted some highlights on my Instagram with the caption “saturdays are for art galleries.” I hadn’t intended it as anything particularly meaningful, but its rare that life’s callbacks are recognized in the moment.

I was fortunate in São Paulo to really adore my new apartment. Of all of the temporary abodes I’ve experienced up to this point, this apartment is one of the few that I could see myself living in long-term. Something about the layout immediately made me feel at home, so I went about the business of forging a “regular” life in it. I began establishing routine in my life, something that had been conspicuously, yet happily absent over the last several months. But this time, instead of going to events and sites at every opportunity, I found myself exploring the nearby grocery stores.

I began cooking everyday, exercising regularly, rededicating myself to my Portuguese study, reading for fun, and resting. In addition to this much-needed recalibration, I accepted that I did not need to do and see absolutely everything the country had to offer, so I reprioritized my Brazil bucket list. Priority #1: I had already planned a work-free long weekend vacation to Salvador da Bahia; I knew I could not leave the country without bearing witness to this historic city known as the Little Africa of Brazil. Priority #2: Learning about diaspora history and culture; I booked Black culture walking tours through the Afro-tourism company Guia Negro in both São Paulo and Salvador. Priority #3: Saturdays would indeed be for art galleries.

So, in addition to rest and rejuvenation, here is how I spent my Saturdays in São Paulo, Brazil.

On Saturday #1, I quickly realized that there was something intangible that I admired about São Paulo. My first stop was Museu Afro Brasil. Not only is this museum a mecca of African and African diaspora culture with thousands of works in diverse collections, it is also located inside a magnificent nature park. There’s something significant about this museum providing a space to immerse in Black culture, both indulging in the joys and reckoning with the tragedies of history and modern life, then stepping outside, finding a quiet place to sit and reflect, and feeling the earth below your feet, hearing the birds chirping around, and gazing at the peaceful lake. It feels eerily well thought out, yet magically serendipitous.

Saturday #2 was a special one. It was the one when I found myself mesmerized by the bohemian beauty of the city’s Jardins neighborhood and thought to myself, I could live here. Everything about this day felt familiar, like I could make a home here. From brunch at Botanikafe, to my afternoon at Museu de Arte de São Paulo, to my pitstop listening to Nalla on Avenida Paulista, it all just felt right. Feeling encouraged by my day, in the taxi ride home I worked up my courage, waited until we were 10 minutes away from my apartment, then nervously leaned forward to my driver and asked “posso praticar português com você?”

Saturday #3 was the day I knew I would be back. It was on Saturday #3 that the vastness of São Paulo, and of Brazil in general, became tangible to me.

People often say “you don’t know what you don’t know,” but seldom talk about the moment when you begin to realize that what you don’t know exists, when it starts to immerge into your consciousness and becomes capable of holding hopes and dreams. As I meandered through the Memorial da Resistência de São Paulo, a museum memorializing a resistance movement I had only a very vague knowledge of even ever occurring, something clicked in me. I knew, with a knowledge not housed in the mind, but somewhere much deeper in my being, that I would be back to São Paulo one day. Only time will tell if it will be to live or to visit, but on Saturday #3, I inventoried in my heart a newly actualized resolve to be a local here one day. I want to know the unknown.

On Saturday #4 I knew I was in love. It was my last day in beautiful São Paulo and as I sat in the back of a taxi, gazing out the window at the romantic couplings of trees and skyscrapers both stretching to the skies, I knew. This feeling right here, this feeling is love. I did my best to enjoy the day, I ate at my favorite restaurant, I strolled my favorite neighborhood, I really just took it all in.

I’m usually not one for souvenirs, but I left São Paulo with one memento: a book. I first learned of Lélia Gonzalez almost two years ago when I started my coursework in Afro Latin American and Caribbean Studies. As I learned more about her politics and her work, I was increasingly blown away that I had never heard of her before. How could I call myself a womanist and not know Lélia Gonzalez? As I made my way through the program, I remember being struck by the reoccurring realization of how language barriers separate Black movements and impede sorority and coalition building across linguistic lines. I’m often frustrated by the exclusivity (in an international context) of US Black movements, but this was the first time that I caught a glimpse of all the knowledge I was missing out on. It was then that I started learning Portuguese. So one Saturday in São Paulo, I made my way over to gato sem rabo, a bookstore that exclusively sells books written by women authors, and picked up the book collection of writings and speeches by Lélia Gonzalez. I figure, what better way to practice my Portuguese than through the words of a revered radical Black activist.

The funny thing about Saturdays 1 and 2 is that on both occasions I had fully intended to explore more of the city on Sunday as well, but when Sunday rolled around I was simply too tired. So, I listened to my body, and by the time Saturday #3 came around, I learned my lesson and basked in the glory and gratitude for the Saturday without envy for anything more.

São Paulo confirmed to me that I’m a city girl at heart. Little did I know, all I needed was a few weeks in the biggest city in the Americas to help me get back to myself, reset my mind and body, and feel inspired to continue learning. I’m forever grateful for this city, and I look forward to my return.

Signed,

N.A.

What Francia Márquez Reminded Me About Black Women’s Activism

Almost two years ago, I wrote an article about how newly elected Colombian vice president Francia Márquez would be great news for human rights. Yesterday, I was honored and delighted to be in the room as she addressed a group of Afro-descendant land and territory defenders from across Latin America and the Caribbean; and I was nothing short of impressed.

To be completely honest, the article I wrote two years ago was quite diplomatic. I was writing it for publication on my employer’s website, so I had to keep it cute. I praised her resume of work and her previous accolades, I connected her issues to the ones we worked on, and I kept it pushing. If anything, I just wanted to mark the history books with a subtle, don’t say I never said anything.

But what I felt at the time and didn’t say, and what I felt yesterday in her presence, is that regardless of the restrictions of executive office, Francia Márquez is the type of dark-skinned, Black woman, get shit done (dare I say radical), grassroots activist that gives white supremacist systems a run for their money.

Last week, I was telling a friend how excited I was that I might get a chance to meet Colombia’s first Black woman vice president. My friend, unfamiliar with Colombian politics, replied, “oh, she’s like our Kamala.” “Absolutely not!” I explained, “She was never a prosecutor, she came from grassroots movements, she actually cares about her people.” Francia Márquez is not the type of Black woman that makes representation seem nominal or visual only, Francia Marquez is in the league with the likes of Fannie Lou Hamer and Lélia Gonzalez, with Tarana Burke and Marielle Franco.

Since taking office, Francia has been pioneering the region by making diplomatic connections with African countries. And she’s been very clear about the fact that she’s doing it because Black people in Colombia, and throughout the diaspora, need to shake off their white supremacist, colonialism-imposed negative views of Africa and start getting to know where they come from. She is the reason Colombia is opening embassies across the Continent. She’s also done a great deal to push forward reparations work in Colombia. But here I go again with her resume.

What struck me most listening to Francia Márquez yesterday was actually not her speech at all, it was her introductory acknowledgements. The very first words of her remarks were “Saludos a todos, todas y todes.” For those who don’t speak Spanish, while this translates to “greetings to all,” it is not a simple “to all,” rather it is proactively and purposefully gender inclusive. In spirit, it’s “greetings to the gentlemen, the ladies, and the theys.” She continued to acknowledge the “people of import” in the room: the organizers of the event, the Black defenders who were the attendees, etc. But before moving on to her speech, she purposefully and specifically acknowledged “LGBTQ people, people with disabilities, and Roma people,” all groups too often invisibilized in Colombia.

You see, there’s this really special thing that Black women human rights defenders like Francia always do that sets them apart from the rest: when they move up, they bring others up with them. Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term intersectionality referring to Black women, referring to the specific exclusions we face because of the combination of our race and gender. And if there’s one thing living life at such a prominent intersection will teach you, it’s not to forget others. Black women human rights defenders don’t just fight for ourselves, we fight for everybody. We have a keen understanding that none of us are free until we are all free, and that freedom starts with the freedom of the most marginalized among us.

Francia Márquez isn’t perfect, and her administration surely isn’t either. But there is a magic that emanates from the place where her identity, her authentic dedication, and her willingness to utilize the power of her office converge. I think we can all learn a little something from that and use it to push liberation forward.

Signed,

N.A.