DEAR LITTLE RYAN, You will always remember the day your mom sat you and your sisters down on the fraying living room couch, black and brown fibers teasing through anxious fingertips. You can replay the entire scene in your mind.
IT HAPPENED at the end of recess, after the bell had rung and all the other junior high kids had gone inside. My beefy, mop-topped classmate hurled basketballs at my chest while his friend held my arms back so that I couldn't protect my body. "Chink!" Neil yelled angrily.
“DADDY, I HAVE A VAGINA and you have a penis, because I'm a girl and you are a boy." I was resting on the sofa, just minding my own business, when my daughter comes up and says this whole bit about the vagina and penis.
THE FIRST TIME I was catcalled, I was 11. A young man in a pickup truck saw me and he perked up. He flashed a grin, and let out a whoop. "Wooooo!" As far as street harassment goes, this was fairly mild.
“ARE YOU MARRIED? Do you have children?" These are questions that I am used to hearing, oftentimes from older folks, which I feel obliged to answer.
CASTRO STREET IN FRONT of the Twin Peaks bar was full of people standing shoulder to shoulder, but this was no typical Sunday afternoon beer bust. The Rockies and Gibraltar and the entire world made of clay had fallen and crumbled.
THERE MUST BE such a thing as a unicorn — that mythical creature God made for progressive Christians to date. Someone who is thoughtful, lives for social justice, and wants to creatively build God's kingdom.