Part One: Identity
Alexa Downing
Alexa Downing
Alexa Downing: “I wanted to live in New York since I was a kid….It's interesting for me to live in the Bronx because I'm half Japanese, and then my dad is white Jewish. So, I spend a lot of time thinking about how people look at me and who they see when they look at me, and sometimes they tell me, and usually they're wrong.”
Cauc/Asian or, How Alexa Became a New Yorker
There are only a few things about myself that I am certain of, and one of them is that my appearance tends to make other people deeply uncertain. Most people I encounter are certain they know what my ethnic makeup is, and a hundred percent of the time they are incorrect.
“You Puerto Rican?”
“No.”
“Colombian?”
“No.”
“Middle Eastern?”
“Closer, but still no.”
Often when I give in and tell people what my actual ethnicity is, they become concerned and defensive. I once worked with a woman for five months before she figured out I wasn’t Puerto Rican.
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“I’m positive.”
I haven’t always been certain of this. As a kid I drifted through my little multicultural life without much thought about how I looked and what that meant about me and my family. Of course, I was aware that I didn’t have my grandmother's eyes (despite her attempts to scotch-tape them into an epicanthic fold like I was Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s), but I also knew that I had her cheekbones, just like I knew I had my dad’s teeth and my mom’s terrible vision. I could so clearly see parts of myself in my family that it shook me to my core when I realized other people saw me as a stranger in my own life.
The ambiguity of my appearance still shows up in bright flashes such as when my friend looks at photos of my brother and me and jokes that we’re different colors, or when my dad’s friends think I’m his “cute Asian” date and not his daughter, and a thousand other small moments of people projecting their assumptions onto my life and my family.
It’s hard not to be seen as who you are. On the other hand, if others can’t see you for who you are, does it even matter?
I love my mom very, very dearly. My mom has been through a lot. She was the eldest daughter of first-generation immigrants, which is its own thing. When she was growing up, she had to be right all the time. If you're the only one in the family who can read English, you have to fill out the taxes. You have to translate. So much was riding on my mother as a child, like, functioning and operating in the world and being correct. And I think as she got older, like, that's too much pressure to put on a child, and it kind of warped her brain in a way.
~
She doesn't understand why our relationship is so fraught, like she can only understand that she feels hurt and that she feels upset and other people don't understand her. And it's really hard for me to watch, because she is so smart and she works so hard and she's so good at what she does, but she can't maintain meaningful relationships, including with me, and that makes it hard to consider her a role model. I guess she is a role model in that I am afraid I'm going to end up like that. I think as I've gotten older, I operate in my life kind of constantly afraid. Like, am I too much like my mom? Am I being like my mom? And sometimes that's a good thing, because she has a lot of strength, and she has a lot of persistence. There's a Japanese word, gambatte, which means, keep going, keep going. And she really personifies that word. She's a role model, but I have to be very careful, like, how I model myself off of her, because I feel like the trauma of her life and immigration and just sort of racism in the United States, especially where I grew up in Denver, has affected her ability to move through the world.
When I first came to the Bronx, I lived in the dorms, just because it felt like the easiest thing to do. I had no idea how to get an apartment. I still don't. New York is a jungle, but I lived in the dorms, which were half a mile down Bedford Park Boulevard, so they're not really on campus. The dorm was built in 1910 and it used to be a boarding house for sailors, and it's still kind of set up like that with shared bathrooms. Living in the dorm was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I had a roommate, Juanita Jimenez, from East Harlem and she's wonderful. She's a born-and-raised New Yorker; Puerto Rican and Dominican.
And I was like, “Juanita, how do I be a New Yorker? How do I exist in this New York?” and she's like, “Okay, I got you. Let me tell you: Mind your business. Don't talk. Keep your eyes down. Walk fast.” So, I got this taste of a life that I don't really live, where, you know, you party and you dance and you drink. I'm not that kind of person. I can't really drink because I have the Asian alcohol sensitivity. But living in that space and kind of integrating myself into the city was a good first step. I don't think I could have just moved into Williamsburg, as a freshman, having never been in New York, and been able to make my way around. But I'm really thankful because people in the dorms took care of each other.
I have a story kind of about that, also about my mother, when she dropped me off at college the first time. We were riding the #4 train up to Bedford Park, and she was going to get off a stop before mine. She had to catch a flight the next day. And we're both sobbing because, you know, I hadn't lived with my mom for a few years at this point, but it was still hard to say goodbye, because she's my mom. And we're both sitting on this train sobbing uncontrollably, and like, she gets up and leaves, and I could just feel my heart peeling out of my chest. And this guy sits down next to me, and he's like, “Hey, are you okay?” I said, “My Mom's leaving. I'm not gonna get to see her for a long time.”
“Oh, that's hard. My family lives in the Dominican Republic, and I haven't been able to see them for 10 years.” I said, “That's worse! I’m sorry.”
And he's like, “No, no. You shouldn't feel bad. It's okay. I know how hard it is, but like you're gonna be okay. I'm okay. I haven't seen my family in so long, but you're gonna be okay.” And I'm not sure I would have been without that guy.
And at the same time as my mom steps off the train, this woman, one of the women who sells roses, comes up to her, and says, “Hey, are you okay?” My mom's like, “No, I just let my daughter go.” And the woman goes, “Well, take this flower. It's gonna be okay.” And, you know-- on two sides of this train platform--
When I tell people that story, they’re like, “Oh, he was just trying to hit on you.” And I'm like, “Oh, I don't know. I feel like I have a little more faith in humanity than that. Maybe, if I keep living New York, that'll go away. But there is kind of a humanity here where it's like, you do get to feel safe in certain ways just because you're surrounded by so many people.
The Day Alexa Became a New Yorker.
There's also another story. This is the one where I walked barefoot across Manhattan.
I was cat-sitting in Washington Heights for one of my professors. So, I go out to take the trash, and her apartment door locks behind me. And I’m not wearing my shoes. I do not have my phone. The only thing I have in my wallet is a pen. And I was like, “Well, I know I have to go to rehearsal today. And someone there will have my professor's phone number.” So, I go out of the building. I'm not wearing shoes. I'm wearing like a flannel dress, and I just walk across Washington Heights barefoot to the “A” train. I go to the station manager, and I'm like, “Hi, can I have a mask please?” And he gives me a mask. I was like, “Okay, so you may notice I’m not wearing shoes. I have locked myself out of the apartment that I‘m house sitting at. I don't have my MetroCard. I don't have my phone. Can I please jump the turnstile? I have to go to school.” And he's like, “It's Sunday. Why are you going to school?” And I was like, “The truth is often stranger than fiction, because I am a theater kid, and I do have rehearsal, and can you please?” And he's like, “Okay, just go.” So, I jump the turnstile. I get on the subway, not wearing shoes, just trying really hard not to think about all of the HIVs and the HPVs. And I get on the train and I'm sitting there, tucking my feet under. I'm like, please, no one look at me. I'm so sorry.” And this mom sits down next to me, this very like professional sort of like business lady, and she goes, “Hey, I have an extra pair of shoes in my bag.” And I was like, “You do?” And she's like, “Do you want them?” And I was like, “Are you sure? Like, do you need them?” And she's like, “No, I have my heels on. I need a new pair anyway.” And I was like, “Are you sure?” She's like, “No, no, take my shoes.” So, I took her shoes, and I was like, “Please, let me give you my number—” and she's, “No, no, it's okay. Don't worry about it.”
And I'm wearing these shoes that are, like, three sizes too big, and they're bright yellow, so I look like a duck, and I'm walking down Bedford Park Boulevard, and I get to the gate, and I was like, “Hey. So you may notice that I’m not dressed appropriately for this, and I don't have my ID, but I do need to get on campus.” And the guard was like-- honestly, the most arduous part of this journey was getting onto campus. So, I have to go through his phone and pull up my Lehman thing, and I finally get scanned in, and I pull up to rehearsal, and I'm an hour late. And I said, “Hi, sorry, I'm late.” And my director, Stephanie, was like, “What are you wearing? Your pajamas? Like, what is happening?” And I was like, “So, so you see—" and then I tell her this story, and now she's like, “Well, no one can ever be late for rehearsal ever again. If you came here without shoes, no one else has an excuse. Zero excuses allowed.”
So, I apologize to everyone in the theater department, because now no one has an excuse. But that was the day I think I can say I am a New Yorker, because every real New Yorker I've talked to was like, “That is the most insane thing I've ever heard in my entire life. What is wrong with you?” And honestly, yeah, they have a point, but I have a weird sense of pride about that story, because I was like, “No, I got to go to rehearsal. And I got there.”
~
I was in a journalism class and we had an assignment to pick an ethnic media outlet. And I was like, I should be looking to more my Jewish side so I picked the Jewish News site. And I was reading an article about a rise in antisemitism in New York and the article ended with the rise in violence against Jewish New Yorkers is rivaled only by rising violence against Asian New Yorkers. And I was like, well, great, good thing I look Puerto Rican!
That year, the post COVID year, really affected how I moved through New York. I was afraid of being pushed onto the subway tracks because I'm tiny, I'm very small. You could just pick me up and throw me. So now I wait for the train up the stairs. I don't wait at the platform anymore.
When I first moved to New York, before the pandemic, it felt different. I think this spike in violence in a place where Asian Americans have lived for so long and have thrived for so long, it's indicative of fear mongering. Yeah, it's indicative of the way media in recent years has warped people's humanity in ways that I don't think we're gonna be able to fully comprehend until years and years later.
This wave of hate crimes feels new, and it feels foreign. And I think for a lot of Asian-American New Yorkers, there’s a feeling of community that's that swelled up in the wake of this negative force. The community rises up to meet the threat. And that is very New York. The hate crimes are not New York. That is something else, that is some bug in humanity. But the rising up and you know, walking your elders home – in Chinatown, if you feel unsafe, you can call someone to escort you home -- that's really touching to me.
When my mom was in seventh grade, they had just learned about Pearl Harbor in their history class. And this was pretty recent, in the 70s. And after school that day, a bunch of girls from her class jumped her at the bus stop, and they beat her up so bad she had to go to the hospital. And my mom still talks about that, and thinks about that, because, how could you not? And, like, a few years ago, one of them reached out to her on Facebook and apologized, which is an interesting thing to do. My mom was kind of able to accept that and move on a little.
I wish my mom had a community to rise up and meet her. So, we can't stop these sorts of violences, but we can control how we as a community respond to them, and that is something that New York has always been good about. New York has always been primarily a community. Sometimes I'll be riding on the subway, and it feels like you're just sitting in the world's biggest living room, like everyone's just there living their lives next to each other, like you’re roommates with everyone in the city. And I think that unwarps your brain. It brings you closer to your humanity, because you have to deal with other humans every single day in such close proximity. And it's really heartwarming to me that out of that proximity comes community. It's like, oh, these cities are these lascivious pits of sin, and everyone's stuffed together like sardines. And yeah, we're stuffed together like sardines, so we have to take care of each other. And it kind of reaffirms my faith in humanity. Intermingling is generally a good thing. It's generally community, and it's support, and it's people having access to resources, like emotionally, that they didn't in the past, or they didn't in places that don't have that level of community. So I will always be so thankful that I got to live in New York.
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*Alexa Downing graduated from Lehman College in 2024 with a BFA in Multimedia Performing Arts and a Theater concentration. She liked Lehman so much she stayed on, working for the Lehman Center for the Performing Arts as the Marketing and Development Coordinator.
© 2026 Alexa Downing. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
~~~
Lisanny “Lissy” Dominguez
Lissy Dominguez
In her engaging essay, Lissy Dominguez describes what it was like to be a passionate, rebellious literary girl in the Dominican Republic whose dream to move to the U.S. comes true—and what happens when a dream comes true.
Lissy weaves fascinating history into her essay, providing context for why her family wanted to move to the U.S. She writes with authority, yet she is confident enough to articulate real vulnerability.
On The Devil’s Tail
It is no secret that I’ve always struggled with being Dominican. I was never the most feminine girl growing up, nor did I want to be. Growing up in Santiago, in a culture that can be machista and dismissive, I was often scolded and told how to behave, from, “Don’t answer back to a man when you’re upset,” to my personal favorite, “Be a lady.” I found it difficult to find myself and accept who I am. It took a few years for me to realize that there’s more to a Dominican woman than just how she dresses or acts.
Amid the origins of Dominican misogyny, lies the dictatorship of Trujillo. El Jefe, as they called him, was a man feared by many. He rose to power and believed that he could have any women he wanted. Everyone who crossed him ended up dead, but this didn’t stop many individuals from defying him.
One day, while sitting with my Mamá Luisa in her front porch on the anniversary of Trujillo’s death, I asked her how her life was during those years. She told me one time a soldier came to her place and said: “El Jefe wants you to donate your land to his cause.” With a nonchalant look on her face and a smirk, she shared with me how she took a broomstick and threatened the soldier to leave at once.
The dictatorship ended many years ago, yet the feeling of my grandmother defying it was chilling. Mamá Luisa looked at me; she noticed I was about to ask her why she would do something so reckless. “You can’t let the fear of evil control you,” she said. “Sometimes, you have to step on the devil’s tail and confront him so that he leaves you alone.”
As I sat at home later that day, I imagined what it would have been like if I was born in that time, and what I would have done. I don’t know what I would have done, but I figured out that being a lady is not just about femininity, it’s about respecting others, and respecting yourself enough to stand up for what you believe in.
~
From an early age, my family was always pushing me to become a lawyer or a doctor, careers they thought would give me high success. "Happiness always comes after you've made it," Papi used to say.
If there’s anything that the Dominican Republic taught me while growing up is that life there becomes routine after a while; you can either accept it or move to the U.S.
For the first fifteen years of my life, my father lived in New York, and I envied him for it. Whenever we would speak on the phone, he always had new stories to share about things he had seen or places he had visited. All of these tales would always end with, “Don’t worry, one day you’ll live these things yourself.” How I longed for that to be true.
By the time I was thirteen years old, I came to the realization that the chances of my family relocating to New York to be with my father were quite slim. It felt like time was running out for me; if it was meant to happen, we would have at least vacationed in the city. So, after some thinking, I bitterly decided that the U.S. was not for me after all. I told myself that I wasn’t going to become an artist, or a journalist of some sorts. I was set to graduate from the same Catholic school I’d been going to since I was five, go to the same Catholic college everyone went to, and study one of the top four career choices: law, psychology, marketing, or medicine.
I didn’t despise living there; in fact, I had some decent reasons to stay. I had a good group of friends, I lived in a house that, while not a mansion, was connected to my grandmother’s backyard, and it had a gazebo where I spent most of my childhood and early teen years. What I truly hated was that everything seemed to be laid out for me, and yet I didn’t seem to fit in. I was losing my sense of adventure. I had no major life experiences to write about and I was losing my sense of adventure.
~
It was the last few days of December, 2011, and as some sort of belated Christmas present, my life took a turn. We went to an appointment at the American Consulate in Santo Domingo on a Tuesday, and that same day we got our U.S. permanent residency. The following Friday, by some unexplained miracle, we received our new passports weeks before we expected them. A small celebration and a few crying phone calls later, our flights were already booked for New York.
January 2nd, 2012. It was early in the morning, and we were ready. In a matter of two days, we managed to strip our house of everything; all that remained was the holiday aftertaste and a strong feeling of excitement. I gave every single corner of the house a last look to engrave it in my memory. I stood on the balcony, watching as my dad loaded our suitcases into the taxi van. I looked above, and I saw the top part of the house, which had two circles side by side; one big and the other smaller. With the bars of the balcony, the whole area resembled a face, and that day I felt the face looked sad.
We went off to the airport, and I couldn’t help but look back one last time to at my old house, and Mamá Luisa’s house. I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I was going to be in that neighborhood.
After what seemed like hours, we arrived at the airport. “We’ve never been past the entrance,” my sister said, confirming my thoughts. At the counter, I presented my passport for the first time. Papi was agitated, maybe anticipating the stress of all of us living together in America.
At customs, I removed my shoes for the x-ray, scared of my new socks touching the dirty airport floor. Mami shared my feelings, as she held my brother by the hand.
As we boarded the plane, I grew more and more anxious. “No turning back now,” I thought to myself. “This is what you wanted.” We made our way to the very last row of the plane and, as I requested, I got the window seat. The plane took off and I saw the very edge of the Dominican Republic stay behind, getting replaced by the Atlantic Ocean and clouds. I grew calmer. No turning back now.
Upon arrival at the John F. Kennedy airport, I was mesmerized by the signs, all written in English. As we exited the terminal, I saw Mamá Anny, my dad’s mother, practically run to us. She carried coats, scarves, gloves, and jackets for all of us. “It’s a cold one today, I came prepared for you guys.” My coat, hat, and gloves were gray and heavy; did I really need all this just to walk outside? Unsure, I put on the coat and stored the rest of the winter ensemble in my bag. The second we stepped outside of the airport, the cold breeze smacked me in the face in such a way, it felt like an unwelcomed greeting.
On the ride to our new home, we saw the New York City skyline from a distance, and I grew more excited. Once we arrived at our new apartment, the rest of my tíos, tías and little cousins were waiting for us. I was a little underwhelmed; my fantasies of a New York apartment weren’t met instantly. In reality, the place was big for a New York apartment, but small for a Dominican house. The walls were bare, and the furniture looked straight out of an IKEA catalog. Starting that night, I was supposed to share the largest room of the apartment with Mamá Joaco, my great aunt that raised me, and my siblings. Our new space was carefully arranged in a way that resembled a college dorm. That first night in New York, no matter how great I felt about my family being together for good, I missed Santiago like I never imagined I would. Nevertheless, I knew it was time to move forward; it felt like I finally was going to have something to write about.
~
I always pictured that school in the U.S. would be just like in movies. I saw myself dissecting a frog in biology class, having a locker, and eating gringo food at an open lunchroom, laughing with my new gringo friends while talking about our classes. But moving to New York in the middle of the school year was confusing. I came two weeks before the semester’s final exams. My classes in the Dominican Republic were too focused on Dominican history and culture, so I didn’t know a thing about general global and U.S. history topics. What’s more, I didn’t know what an essay was, or how to write one. My hand was shaky when I tried to write in English. More than once I got teary in class and it was hard to control my panic attacks.
Everyone was impressed by my English proficiency but at the same time my classmates mocked my accent. Most days I would eat lunch alone and avoided speaking in class at all costs.
It was painful, but in time I decided to focus on the remaining years of high school, and through it, I met a group of people who suddenly made my burden feel lighter. My new friends, all from different countries, were my first ticket to exploring the rest of the world. By moving with my family to New York, I became someone I never thought I could become.
No matter how much I avoid these words, I have to convey that my story is an immigrant story, that the image of the Dominican woman is changing, and that writing about my experiences is valid.
As I reflect on my first years in New York, I’ve concluded that for Latinos, this city can become a constant reminder of what your country lacks, or it can be a chance to start over. I learned that starting over in a new place can mean revisiting old demons, only to later find a way to exorcise them and use them to become someone new. While going through a painful adjustment to New York City, I realized that the city is intimidating, but it’s not evil. It gives more than it takes.
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* Lissy Dominguez, a 2019 Lehman College graduate, is an account supervisor at HavasCX.
© 2026 Lissy Dominguez. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
~~~
Abisola Fashakin
Abisola Fashakin
Abisola Fashakin is a New York-based creative. In 2017, she published a poetry book, The City Stops for No One, detailing her love for the boroughs of New York City and the experiences that would go on to shape her art.
Not My Cross to Bear
There’s this show, “Preachers’ Daughters,” which aired on Lifetime in 2013. A camera crew would follow around a pastor’s daughters and document the girl’s life existing under a Christian household while maintaining the title of being a PK or “pastor’s kid”. It showed the dynamics of a hyper-religious family, the limits that this title put on their experience of life, as well as the double lives some of them were living. There were secret parties where “not-so-Christian behavior would occur”, paternity tests, begging to date, purity classes, rebellion, opposing family morals, arguments at church, and so much chaos that felt so familiar. I looked at them and thought, “They keep secrets and so do I. I am her and she is me.”
At home, I spent most of my time in my room. Sitting within those four walls, cemented with the expectations of my parents and the watchful eye of God, I could only be one thing: the perfect pastor’s daughter. I was pure. I was holy. I didn’t curse. I didn’t date. I learned to cook, clean, and train to be this perfect Christian wife and perfect obedient daughter.
Photo of Abisola at a service in her father’s church.
For a good portion of my childhood, I existed comfortably under this umbrella. I got good grades, smiled when I needed to smile, performed at church, and took care of the younger kids. I listened and I learned. I was trusted and loved and I was everything that everyone wanted me to be. I was the golden child, the brightest trophy that my parents had on display.
And while that may sound like the defining chapter of my life, it wasn’t. It was when I started questioning the constraints of that title “Pastors’ Daughters” that I really began to grow into the person I am today. This change didn’t happen overnight, as it would appear to others in my life, but the change happened with each new thing that I let myself experience freely: the ride to my first apartment as I sat in the back of a U-Haul with my brother’s friends, the terrible first date in Bryant Park with a too touchy man, and the amazing first date at Governors island with a girl who would be first person to ever get me flowers.
The changes were getting into my dream college and having to leave it after a year. It was changing my major three times. It was drinking for the first time, smoking for the first time, and dancing sober until the sun came up at my first queer ball. It was learning how to make friends and learning how to keep them. It was crying into my brother’s arms and telling him how suffocating living had become. It was the first time I got into a fight and won and the first time that I read my poems in public. It was my first flight alone to spend five weeks in Mexico with strangers. It was realizing that I was everything and more, that I was capable and that I was more than the girl who spent quiet years in her bedroom staring at her Bible.
These are the stories of my life outside of that room. The person I became when I wasn’t constrained to that one identity. This is a discovery of my voice, my motivations, my limits, my passions, my sexuality, my faith, and my existence. These are the stories that make up who I am, rather than who I was expected to be.
Joyful Beginnings
If there’s one thing you need to know about my family, it’s that we don't shop at Key-Food. No, we don't shop at C-Town either. We are a family of six which means that we shopped in bulk with a mother who believes that there is nothing that you can’t find at Costco. Because we shop in bulk, grocery days were a family ordeal. We didn’t show affection like typical families, so in many ways these Costco runs were a bonding experience.
Every third Sunday, after service, the grocery run would begin with me and my younger brothers fighting over who got the honor of pushing the cart. More often than not, I won. We would make our way into Costco and instantly everyone would split off to their home bases. Our silent motto was “divide and conquer.” My dad would wander off to the flat screens and countertops, my older brother would somehow disappear without a word, and my younger brothers ran in and out of the snack sections. Meanwhile I, list in hand, would go off with my mother on a mission to get the household essentials. We gathered dry foods and by the time we got to eggs, my youngest brother would appear, excited to run into the walk-in fridge and grab us a carton.
Once every food item was acquired, we entered, what I call, the “begging phase.” This is when every member of the family pleaded their case on their non-essentials. My father would begin by saying how it’s so crazy that the TV’s are on sale again. Of course, my mother would tell him that our TV is just fine. My older brother would wordlessly reappear, dump something in the cart, and walk away. He always ended up being the only one who didn’t have to plead his case. I’d like to think that that was just first-born privilege. Often I tried to not-so-subtly mention how my coats didn’t fit the same anymore, but I would “make do.” I’d start to walk away with a deep sigh, counting 1,2,3 until eventually my mother would sharply say, “Abisola just go and find something quick.” That’s how I knew I had won.
After, my father and mother headed to checkout, all of us kids trailed behind them. We would fidget back and forth slightly clutching our stomachs, trying not to be too obvious, until my father would say, “Abisola, go place an order for cheese and veggie pizza. Get soda and order six frozen yogurts.” My brothers and I would silently cheer and try not to look so eager as we would run over to the food stalls. Yes, there was a mini food court because, like I mentioned, there was nothing you couldn’t find at Costco.
Eventually we got the food and brought it back out to our car. We would hop in and make our way home, smiling in anticipation of eating this pizza. My dad would make eye contact with us through the rear-view mirror, softly smiling, his eyes seemingly happy at our own joy. My family wasn’t one of many words, but our grocery runs, one of the few moments we shared together, were always intertwined with all the feelings of love and care that we never seemed to be able to say.
Growing Up
Liquid Courage and Growing Pains
Abisola and Cora
In my 22 years of living, I have experienced many moments of liberation. There was the time I moved out from an emotionally draining household at 19; and the day when I took my first international trip with internet strangers at the age of 15; and lesser moments like going high on a swing in the park swings and ROLLER skating down hills. But the moment that means the most to me it involves theatre, a kiss, friendship, God, and a few too many shots of Hennessey.
Growing up, I spent most of my life holding onto many labels: Black, Nigerian, dramatic, and funny, but the one that seemed to hold more sway over the others was “Pastor’s Daughter”. My father was a pastor who ran a church in New York and Nigeria, and as his daughter, it seemed that some of his burden, because of being a pastor, shifted onto me. This burden colored how I saw the world, the way I dressed, and the choices I made. And so, until I left for college, I never once bothered to think about who I was outside of these labels.
When I arrived at the University of Rochester, I found that within a few months I was able to make a name for myself in the fields where I felt the most at home: theatre and poetry. I took part in open mics, auditioned for plays and musicals, and even performed in the African acapella group. I eventually received word that I had been cast as a lead in the school’s fall musical: Big Fish. I remember the excitement and astonishment that I felt in that moment. To be cast in such a big role as a freshman, only a few months into my first semester, quieted all the doubts that I was not meant to be at this university. I told my friends the good news and we celebrated all night in my dorm room with dancing, shitty mess hall snacks, and amazing vibes.
Rehearsals eventually kicked off, and everything seemed to be smooth sailing. I met new people, encountered very different personalities, and even had to deal with my first on campus macro-aggression during our cold read of the script. But all of these were just small hurdles until I hit my first major roadblock: the kiss. In the script, I played Jenny Hill, the mistress of the leading man. As a mistress, this obviously meant that we were expected to have a long and passionate kiss. And I would soon find out that this was very different from high school theatre where we would push off the kiss until a few weeks before the show, and then nervously peck each other. No, this was college theatre, which meant that at the next rehearsal I was expected to run the scene with a passionate kiss without any nerves or delay.
I like to think that the main reason I began to panic was because the leading man’s girlfriend was a part of the crew, and would have to watch us kiss on stage, but that didn’t seem to matter much. No, I realized that up until this point I had lived a life so sheltered that something that felt so easy to others felt monumental to me.
So, after hearing the news of what was to happen at the next rehearsal, I decided to take my mind off things by going out drinking with some of my closest friends. The party was held at an off-campus theatre house, where I poured out my grievances. I was freaking out. It was just a stage kiss, something that I’ve done before, so why was I so panicked now? I let myself become distracted with the games and drinks. We played Uno, board games, danced, sang (as theatre kids love to do), and enjoyed each other’s company.
It was after the third UNO, when I found myself retreating to the kitchen with my closest friend, Cora, in tow. She was someone that I had quickly bonded with upon arriving to Rochester because we both shared the same label of “pastor’s daughter”. We stood side by side in the kitchen, with me once again venting about how panicked I was over the kiss. I remember that after I finished my rant, she just stared at me, until she broke the silence with three words: “Practice with me”. I didn’t know what to say or what to think, and so I did exactly what she said. I leaned into the liquid courage I had been downing all night and I kissed her.
We eventually broke apart, and with giddy smiles we returned to the group as if nothing had ever happened. After the party was over, we tipsily made our way back to campus both of us running in circles, with huge smiles on our faces, as our other friend recorded Cora singing, “She’s gay! She’s gay!” over and over. It was something that I never confirmed or denied at the time but simply smiled at.
In that moment, all I could think about was my changing feelings, confused mind, and the comfort of my friends. I didn’t anticipate that one day I would go on to be Cora’s maid of honor; that I would stand in the very front as they said their vows. What felt like a monumental moment in my life would become a passing memory in hers. But this is just a part of life. You live and you learn, as they say. These were my growing pains; the complicated stories that would shape my morals and character.
If Things Had Never Changed
The summer of COVID was the beginning of my villain origin story. Maybe that’s dramatic, but my teen life seemed like it came crumbling down in the matter of a few months. I had spent my first year of college at the University of Rochester. It was a college that I fought to get into, both academically and with my parents. When I found out about my acceptance, I was on a school trip on the streets of London and I remember sobbing out of relief and excitement. Rightfully so; I cherished every moment at this University.
This was where I had some of my defining moments: 18th birthday, spoken word, and joining the Black Student Union. celebrated my 18th birthday the first week of orientation, when I joined the school church choir and many other organizations. I became the secretary of the Dean of Art and Sciences and within a few months I made a name for myself on campus. I performed poetry at countless events and developed a small following of people who looked forward to my work. I partied, cried, explored my sexuality, and felt every emotion that there was to feel. For the first time I was proud of myself. I planned out my courses for the next four years, envisioning my future and all the potential it held.
It was during a campus church mission trip in Mexico, that I received an email with the notice: “You have two weeks to vacate the campus”. I panicked, thinking back to what could cause a decision like this. That is, until I realized that everyone had received the same email. Students were calling home, booking flights, crying. International students were confused as to what their plan was, and I felt frozen. It felt like my time at this campus had only just begun, before it was cut short. But still, I found the silver lining. I told myself that of course it was temporary and that COVID would resolve itself. “I’ll be back on campus in a few months” is what I told myself. Only, one month turned into an entire semester online with a tentative alert that campus would resume in person in the fall. “This was it!” I thought. “All I have to do is wait out the summer”.
And that is exactly what I did. I spent my summer at home with my brothers, reading, and trying to get my appetite back that had severely decreased since the start of the semester. I spent hours on FaceTime with the new friends that I had made, reminiscing about our partying and planning out our future outings when we would return to campus. I began to get excited as pieces of my life at Rochester started to fit together again: I got a lead for the fall play, I got into a Seniors only poetry class (despite being a freshman), and I got a featured position on my poetry team. Finally, August rolled around and the excitement came to a peak. I packed my things into boxes, talked about room decor with my campus roommate, and began to run lines for the play. It felt like a dream, and it was only a short while until I found out that it was just that: a dream.
It was a sunny afternoon, two days before I was set to be driven back to campus by my parents. I sat by the window, reading and looking out onto the porch, when my mother walked by. I stopped her. “Mom, what time do I have to be up when we go to campus? Are you driving me or is dad?” Silence. I sat there and waited. My mother said nothing until she finally turned around. “What do you mean”, she said. I stared at her in confusion. “I’m going to campus on Wednesday”. “No, you’re not,” was all she said. Those three words shattered all the hope I had built up over the summer. She went on to explain that she could no longer financially support me in college, despite me paying my share with every cent that I earned from my job. It was frustrating, but I understood. What broke me was when she told me that she and my father had known all summer that I would not be able to return to Rochester. She said that they simply had forgotten to tell me.
They forgot to tell me that I could no longer attend this place that felt like home, two days before I was set to return. This was the reality of living in this house. The following days were spent in a spiral. I spent my days crying, emailing my school and professor to decline my role, decline my spot in the poetry class, and place a permanent leave of absence from the school. And just like that, my four-year plan was shattered. I spent days in my room wallowing in regret wondering why they had not told me earlier so that I could have planned accordingly. I could’ve worked more part time jobs. I could’ve applied to be an RA and get free housing. I could’ve done anything with just a little bit of warning.
Eventually, a sort of numbness set in. The world was different with the changing climate caused by COVID. Isolation was the standard and so I spent my time alone trying to pick up the pieces of my scattered college life. I applied to Hunter and got in a week later but ultimately decided to take a semester off to reassess what I wanted to do.
Ultimately, after that semester, I applied to Lehman College and saved up enough money to leave my parents’ house. I felt the loss of the community I had built at Rochester. I would be a liar if I said that I didn’t become a bitter person from the start of COVID. It was the beginning of the end of my carefree self and while I am accepting of who I am now, I can’t help but wonder who I might’ve been if things had never changed.
Reflection
I’ve only just begun the process of trying to find ways to heal from everything I’ve experienced, and gain confidence to explore my identities. I often find myself doubting my past decisions as well as my current ones: Should I have stayed at my father’s church? Was it right to move out so young? Is this burden I’m feeling real? I’d like to think that I never would have known how multi-faceted I was if I never dared to see a girl who was more than her father’s daughter.
This burden that I have been carrying my whole life was a stupid burden to shoulder. I was never the pastor, I was just his daughter, simple as that. I don’t have to live under the constraints of a life that I didn’t choose. I don’t have to feel the imaginary burn of hellfire as I’m kissing a girl for the first time. I don’t have to hear the whispers of hymns and psalms as I take shots of Hennessey. I don’t have to feel uneasy around my own friends, who are more family to me than my actual family, for fear that they “harbor evil spirits” as my father would say. I don’t have to do any of that because…it’s a choice. Labels have always been about choices. I might’ve born a pastor’s kid, but weight of that title was never my cross to bear.
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*Abisola’s poetry has been shared across social media, through her page @abisola.writes. In 2019 she joined the Rochester-based spoken word group, “No Disclaimers”. This shift prompted her to expand her work from poetry into other forms of creative writing and storytelling. She has gone on to explore theatre, starring in various plays and musicals, while pursuing a future as a nurse. You can reach out to her for any inquires through email: abif1314@gmail.com
© 2026 Abisola Fashakin. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
~~~
Adam Mobley
Adam Mobley as a child.
Adam Mobley spent a lot of time in libraries during his childhood. The words from the books must have seeped into his bones, because his writing here is elegiac and moving. His account of a recent trip to his boyhood church is a perfect example of how community love can sometimes sustain us if family love falls short.
Across The South Channel Bridge
It’s not easy for me to admit when I miss someone, especially when I feel the effects of that loss every day. As time goes on, I’ve learned to appreciate the losses that occurred because without them I doubt I would’ve been able to make it this far. Yes, that’s what I told myself for a while. In a way it’s true because without my struggles I wouldn’t think the way do, plan the way I do and I probably would lack the insatiable craving I have for security and stability that drives me every single day. However, I don’t want to reduce everything I love about myself to just being the results of “trauma”.
Growing up my mother and I had a strong relationship that faltered due to what seemed like growing pains but she may have just been defeated. I remember how much time my mom put into her work, even sneaking me into the office with her a few times. I watched her do the mysterious thing that kept the lights on in our house. She was always proud of what she produced but I’ll never forget the day she mentioned getting a raise for $0.10 and seeing the look of exhaustion on her face.
I had a father who never really seemed to show up at the right times, with the exception of a few squandered moments. As for me? I was a kid who seemed to “wreak havoc” and create dysfunction everywhere I turned. I felt like I could never do the right thing.
Once I got to high school I didn’t get into nearly as much trouble as I used to but trust me, as long as I’m breathing something is bound to go wrong. Maybe not that day, that week or even within that month but at some point, the universe will swoop in and stop every golden age, and that’s exactly what happened a few years ago when I thought my life was finally starting to come together. I bit the bullet and switched from a Journalism major to Business Administration at Lehman College in the Bronx despite the math requirements that were enough to land me in the army recruitment office. I was going out with friends, went on a couple trips, and scored a full-time job that was flexible enough to let me continue going to school and to top it all off one of my applications for the affordable housing lottery was being processed.
It finally felt like I was free.
I was excited to begin living the life that I dreamed about, to have the full autonomy to be the functioning adult I knew I could be. Unfortunately, being a “man of perspective” forced me to see the flip side of the situation, and to be prepared if the situation changed. So just like anyone else who believes in a higher power, naturally I prayed on it. Everyday. In the shower, before bed, on my way home from work, and yet still doubt found a way to creep into mind. Nothing unusual came from the thoughts, but it reminded me to consider going back to church.
I hadn’t been to church in nearly a decade, but when I was younger, I went almost every Sunday. I was in the junior choir, “The Sunshine Group”, and later sat with the regular choir during major services like church anniversaries or Easter service. It was a nice thing to be a part of. I knew most of the congregation so in a way they were my extended family. I would go to things like fellowship services or movie nights. I remember we once watched Miracles From Heaven, about this young girl who had an illness that no matter how many specialists her mother brought her to just couldn’t be healed and then after she fell into a tree the illness went away. The memory of that movie sticks with me because I couldn’t fathom that the cure for her illness came from falling into a tree; granted it was a little deeper than that but that is essentially what happened. Nonetheless, I enjoyed going to events like this. Every time I see a seagull I remember when we all went to Rockaway Beach and one came down and snatched someone’s lunch right off the sand. I do wonder if the bird ever got the sandwich open, or what would it do with the Capri Sun?
But when I moved to Brooklyn, I stopped going to church.
As time went on, I tried to find small reasons to go to church but nothing I came up with gave me that real push. The latest reason before the housing lottery process was when I was trying to convince myself to go back to pick up some new gospel songs. I love gospel music and my playlist was getting a little stale so it seemed fair enough but that still didn’t give me the push I needed.
However, the uncertainty from the housing lottery application did the trick and just like that I decided to go.
When I woke up on the day I chose to go, my head filled with thoughts laced with the anxiety of facing the community I disappeared from years ago. I would likely need to explain what I’ve been up to or field a few questions about my mother who I also haven’t spoken to in nearly a decade. The routine questions like, “How’s your mom doing,” or “When last you hear from Sandra?” or “You talk to your father?” always bothered me because the answers had never changed over the years. All they did was trigger the responses that let me dance around the topic, “I don’t know”, “not recently” or just “no”.
I’ve always enjoyed the journey to Far Rockaway whether it was in a car, bus or train. Just passing by all these things that I used to be surrounded by everyday just felt so surreal. Riding over the South Channel Bridge and watching the boats that left the marinas for the day brought on a feeling of nostalgia that was later cemented by the train passing my old stop, “Beach 25th – Wavecrest”. Seeing Cornaga Avenue and remembering when I used to go to Sorrentino Recreation Center near Beach 21st where I used to attend summer camp and actually played basketball on a team for the first time. I might not have remembered to pass the ball to the right team members, but I do remember that being the game my dad did show up to.
Seeing my old barber shop and the McDonalds on Beach Channel that outlived the White Castle, Food Dynasty and Thriftway that used to reside on Mott Ave. Now, they were all replaced by newer developments; The White Castle morphed into a Taco Bell but in one of the building’s previous lives it was also a Checkers and the lot that was home to Food Dynasty, Thriftway and the other shops had been replaced by a huge affordable housing complex.
As I got closer to the church the nostalgia wore off and was replaced by nerves that were trying to get me to second guess my decision. It felt like going to church was a mistake as but sometimes you have to do just that.
And thankfully I did.
Once I walked through the doors everything felt familiar. The layers of anxiety just fell off me and then it all got better from there. An usher recognized me at the door and seated me next to Mother Daley, a member of the church who I consider my third grandmother. She had always made an effort to check on me and make sure I was doing alright, even when I had disagreements with my mother. After nearly every service I would head over to her place where we would talk, watch the Caribbean International Network and eat whatever she cooked up that Sunday. I could never tell you why I gravitated towards her or vice versa, but I appreciated her and this week was no different.
Coincidentally, the message for this service was about embracing the young people when they return to the house of God. So, while my appearance wasn’t fully planned it did feel like I made the right decision to go. Dare I say it was meant to be?
When the service wrapped up, I was greeted by so many familiar faces and I was embraced by so many people who were happy to see me and it felt like I was surrounded by family and that’s when it started to click to me. This is what I had been missing all these years.
My community, my village.
My mom was born in Jamaica so I was raised using a mixture of what she had to offer from her culture but with the American twist. So, there are certain things that only made sense at home, but at church many of the folks there also had some kind of Caribbean background and it helped enhance our interactions since we all understood the same context behind certain language.
The unwritten rules, certain social cues that I had learned at home were also valid in this place with all these people who I grew up with. The woman who ran the daycare that not only I went to but nearly a decade later my sister went to. Her grown daughter, whose children I was good friends with at the time, was also there. A few of my friends from school and their parents and even a few neighbors. It was all so familiar and evoked this sense of comfort. Being around people who were just happy to see me and were glad to know I was doing well.
It felt nice to be reminded that I still belonged somewhere.
Sticking to our Sunday routine, I went over to Mother Daley’s after the service and of course, she cooked. The smell of the food kept me in a comfortable head space that tightened the grip of my own personal pandora’s box of thoughts. No internal micromanaging of my physical behaviors, no overthinking every part of my interactions and best of all no anxiety laced thoughts. Just the sound of my stomach growling and the sound of a song by Alkaline that was featured on the music portion of CIN, which had a vibe similar to when MTV featured music and then played music video’s during the day.
Nothing but pure relief.
Once I started eating the nostalgia that took over me during my journey to the church engulfed me again but this time it was more intense. The intensity took me back to a time when I was constantly surrounded by members of a loving community. At the time it was annoying, but I never knew how much I appreciated it. I remembered a time when all the other Sundays would end just like this one. All the Sunday dinners and weekend cleanings that took place at my old house on Bay 30th St. The sounds of Wayne Wonders’ “No Holding Back” album playing from the silver Bose radio my mom had bought from the Home Shopping Network (HSN). I remembered waking up from naps to the sweltering heat that took over the house because of the organized chaos taking place in the kitchen.
As I continued to eat the rice and peas, more memories came to me. Memories of the nights I rode my bike after school and went on personal expeditions that violated the verbal agreement I made with my mom about staying in the neighborhood. The times I stopped on Norton Drive to gaze into the distance and watch the waves crash into the shore, occasionally accompanied by a temporary acquaintance who also stopped on the rock to rest and take in the scenery. Staying there with the water and watching the moon rise made it seem easier to make friends, almost as if being a part of the same community somehow automatically connected us.
Coming to Brooklyn, I immediately noticed a difference. My dad always stressed the importance of being able to defend yourself and staying on guard, and while I don’t agree with the execution, I still hold onto what he would tell me, especially seeing all the things happen on the subway nowadays.
~
While I missed the community, I once had to remind myself that if I didn’t end up moving on, there was, a chance I might not have been able to figure out what career path I wanted to go down or have the freedom I needed to explore my sexuality in the way I did and what I value in the world might’ve been heavily influenced by those around me. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing but being able to grow and figure these things out on my own has allowed me not only to appreciate what I have been through but also where I came from and everyone who was a part of it. Small or big, impact is impact.
Who would’ve thought a plate of plantains and curry goat with rice and peas would’ve dredged up all these memories?
The trip became more than just a better place to pray, but a reminder of what home was really like outside the trauma. The acceptance and warm embraces meant so much to me and was exactly what I needed.
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*Adam Mobley graduated from Lehman College in 2026. In “Across The South Channel Bridge” he reflects on his experiences growing up in Far Rockaway, Queens and the effects of breaking away from that community. Writing about these memories reminded him of the people who helped shape him into the “man of perspective” that he has become. amobleyjr45@outlook.com
© 2026 Adam Mobley. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
~~~
Ambar Dominguez
Ambar Dominguez
Ambar Dominguez wrote about the central drama of her life. She and her mother faced off in an epic struggle; did Ambar have a right to love who she loved?
Two of the people she wrote about her referred to by an initial, to protect privacy.
I Love You Regardless
Ambar texting with a friend:
Y: Whatchu up to?
Ambar: Nothing. Watching TV with my stepsister u?
Y: Mikey is so cute don’t u think?
Ambar: I mean I guess.
Y: Whateva muff muncher
Y was one of my closest friends in middle school and one of the first people that I came out to. She and I often called each other names in person, texts, and on the phone. Because of this I always kept my phone on me just in case my mother saw what we were saying. I didn’t know how to put a password on my phone. I don’t even think my phone had that option yet. When Y and I had this conversation, I had to run to the bathroom and I left my phone in the living room. I saw that my mother was standing near the front door, but I didn’t think anything of it. When I came back to the living room I couldn’t find my phone, even though I specifically remember leaving it on top of a pillow. On the Disney Channel they were playing High School Musical, so I forgot about my phone and enjoyed the movie. Later I went to my room because my stepsister was being annoying and being the annoying little brat that she was, she followed me into my room.
Five minutes later, my mother walked into my room with a serious expression. I thought about my day to see if I had done anything wrong. She asked my stepsister to leave the room and to shut the door behind her. When the door closed, my mother looked at me with pain and fury.
“Ambar, are you a lesbian?” I clenched my jaw. I could no longer make eye contact with her. We stood in silence for a minute and she reassured me that whatever I said would stay between her and me. I felt like a criminal in an interrogation, my mother being the detective trying to frame something on me. After a few minutes, with a warm tear coming down my face, swallowing the rest, I said, “Yeah mom. I’m a freaking lesbian.”
As my fellow Dominicans would say, pa que fue eso (what was that for?). She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe this.” Part of me felt relief, finally able to tell my mother. But when she began to cry, I was confused and scared again. She reassured me that it was okay, that she just wanted to help. Then why was she crying? She told me that she read the text messages between “Y” and me. “Doctrinas Y Convenios 93:40, Pero yo os he mandado criar a vuestros hijos en la luz y la verdad.” (Doctrine & Covenants 93:40, Parents are commanded to bring up their children in light and truth.) This is the only Book of Mormon verse I remember her telling me because she said it so often. There were also a couple of Bible verses, but I began tuning out her words like a trumpet mute.
All I could think was, at what age am I going to be able to leave my mother’s house? Will she ever accept me? Will I someday be straight? My attention came back to her when she said that I am a piece of shit and won’t amount to anything. No one will ever love me or accept me and that I will rot in hell. She could not allow her daughter to be such an atrocity, a despicable dirty soul walking on earth.
This resulted in being forced into therapy. For starters I would like to thank Karen, Beatriz and Albert for helping me understand my sexuality and for putting up with my mother’s homophobia. Beatriz was the founder of Life Is Precious, a suicide outreach program for Latinas, housed in a large office space in the Bronx. Karen was one of the counselors who worked with Beatriz, and Albert was the therapist assigned to me.
The first time we went to the program, I was hesitant. In fact, my mother didn’t tell me what we were going for, just to come with her.
I wrote my name on the waiting list and sat in the waiting area. A person sitting three seats away had bright orange hair, bigger than their head could carry, leather skirt, ripped fishnets, long neon-yellow nails, and a butterfly painting covering their entire face. Fifteen minutes later, an older Caucasian woman came out from the back and invited my mother and me into her office. The plaque on her desk said “Psychiatrist”.
“So what brings you in today?” I didn’t make eye contact, shifting my eyes towards my mom because I had no clue. My mother told her that her daughter has homosexual tendencies and dresses like a boy. She brought me in to be evaluated to see if I could be helped to get rid of my “disease.” I shook my head. The psychiatrist asked me if I felt uncomfortable in my body. How long have I been feeling homosexual? Do I harm myself? For all the answers I looked down at my feet and responded no or shrugged. “Ambar, have you thought about committing suicide?” I looked up, stared at her, then looked away. She asked my mother to leave the room which she did. Then the psychiatrist continued to edge me on to talk more about suicidal ideation. I told her that I thought all the time about dying and never coming back, maybe to reincarnate into something or someone my mother could love.
She let out a loud sigh, leaned back into her chair and called out for my mother to come back in. She didn’t see a reason for me to take medication, but she highly recommended that I attend one of their programs, Life Is Precious.
Before we left she told my mom, “You know, there are plenty of gays and lesbians that become successful in life. Ellen De Generes, Neil Patrick Harris. There’s even speculation that Oprah might be a lesbian. Being homosexual doesn’t interfere with becoming successful. And if one day your daughter wants to work for a company that doesn’t accept her, for whatever reason, then she shouldn’t be there in the first place.” My mother asked me to step out. I’m not sure what was said, but when my mother came out of the office, she pointed her finger at the psychiatrist, like a parent scolding their child. “Don’t you ever tell my child that that lifestyle is okay. Ambar come on, let’s go!”
The following Monday I began to see Albert, a nice tall guy with curly hair. It was my first time being in a therapy session and I felt like I was being interviewed for a job. He asked me about school and how my grades were, and I told him I wasn’t doing so well. We came up with a plan that before I could do any activities upstairs with Karen, Beatriz, and the other women I had to show them that all my homework was complete. I saw him once a week on Thursdays and we never mentioned anything about my sexuality. On one occasion he asked me if I would like my mother to come in, so we could have a talk, maybe open her mind up. But the thought of that gave me chills and filled my stomach with butterflies so he didn’t bring it up anymore. His clothes always fit him big and his polo shirts would sometimes reach his thighs. Our sessions became more of a break for him. I would come in, he’d ask me about my day, we’d talk about that for about five minutes, then he’d ask me to pick out a board game. I usually picked Candy Land because he always beat me in Uno. After about 20 minutes of playing, he’d say, “Well kiddo, see you next week.” I think he realized that the best cure for me was to do something that didn’t involve my mom or made me think about my mom. My mother was the reason I was in the program; my mother was the reason I was depressed. If my mother accepted me, there’s a possibility I wouldn’t need the program or therapy.
Although Beatriz and Karen were co-workers, they were almost like best friends. I think that if Karen was younger, Beatriz would’ve been hitting the clubs with her. Beatriz was a strong, open-minded, Latina women who had a lot of knowledge and love to share. Karen was like the sweet South African grandma none of the girls ever had. It was fun teaching Karen about new trends and talking to her about any crushes we would have.
Life is Precious is an after-school suicide prevention program, run by the noprofit organization, Comunilife. The first time I went there, Beatriz introduced me, and all the girls said hi. We were in an office space with a TV, a sink, small refrigerator, art supplies, laptop, and a small room where we could talk or go into if we just needed some time alone. There were about ten of us, and four girls were two sets of sisters. One girl locked her eyes onto me. We gave each other a smirk and she continued doing her homework while I explored the office.
One of the girls, M, was fierce and a force to be reckoned with. The top of her head reached up to my collarbone, and she had dirty blonde curly hair, a gap in her teeth, and pupils so dark that if you stared too long it was like watching coffee swirl. Her story was that she liked to fight a lot and went through shit in her house. I never got to know exactly what that was, but she was in the program, so it had to be serious. She was 17, making her the second oldest in the program and I was 13 making me the youngest. One of the biggest rules of the program was that two participants could not date unless one of you were no longer in the program. But M was a rule breaker to say the least. I wouldn’t say that we dated though, we just had intense flirting sessions. Since we knew we couldn’t do a lot of flirting in front of Karen and Beatriz, we would meet up before going into the program and go to a park and lay on the grass. She smoked cigarettes and for some reason that made me more attracted to her. I would always watch her put one into her parted lips, light it, inhale and blow out. Every time she blew out she would look at me and smile. We would talk for about an hour about drama, shows, music, what we wanted for our future. She would always say, “I’m gonna be fucking rich baby!” and we would both laugh. I found it ironic that my mother sent me here to be “cured” yet, every moment I spent with M reassured me of my sexuality. Eventually M turned 18 and had to part ways with the program.
~
On my twentieth birthday, Donald Trump was elected president of the United States. I remember feeling scared, alone, and betrayed. I thought to myself, “I already deal with homophobia and sometimes even racism. Him being president, people will have the power now to treat me like this freely in the public sphere.” My mother would always say, “El es un maldito loco pero mira, el esata haciendo las cosas como deben de ser hecha” (He’s fucking crazy, but look, he is doing things the way that they should be done.)
During this time, I began dating (my now ex) Anna. We met in high school and although I wasn’t much interested in her back then, fate allowed us to fall in love two years after I graduated high school. She slowly took some of my fear away by simply loving me. She was my first official relationship, ever, and with her I learned a lot about love and myself. I would have to say that because of her, my view of the world changed.
She encouraged me to stand up for myself, to love myself and to not be afraid of anything, especially my mother. Every day we would talk on the phone, and I’d always tell her about the torment I had to endure from my mother. Anna would tell me that I could go to her house just to escape for a bit which turned into sleeping over most days of the week. She was the first person, besides my aunts, at whose house I’ve ever slept over. My mother absolutely hated it and would leave me explicit voicemails, telling me she wished someone would kidnap me so that I can learn my lesson. One time she even wished death upon Anna. She didn’t know that Anna was my girlfriend but I’m sure she had her suspicions.
After about two months of going to her house to sleep over, we grew to love each other. We figured out the best ways to cuddle, who usually escaped the cuddles because it was too hot, and what our morning breath smelled like. She asked me to move in and that rocked my world because I knew my mother wouldn’t approve, even over her casket. Anna helped me come up with a way to explain to my mother that I could no longer live with her if she didn’t accept me.
I told my mom sometime in February that I was going to move out of her house and into a friend’s house so that I could see what the world was like. I felt ready to take on more responsibility, pay rent, buy supplies, save my money, etc. I was in school fulltime and I was working at Kingsbridge Heights Community Center as a teaching assistant. It paid well, and I would often get one to two hours of extra work. My mother didn’t even look at me, she just said, “Yeah right” and walked away. Two weeks after that conversation, on my way home, I decided I was going to move out.
My palms were sweating as I walked into my room with the garbage bag I used to fill with clothing. I didn’t say a word to her, just threw everything into the bag as fast as I could. She came into my room and asked what I was doing. “You took me as a joke when I told you I was moving out,” I said. “Now that it is happening. Don’t try to stop me. It’s not easy living with you. You don’t let me be who I want to be and that sucks, so now I’m leaving.” She rolled her eyes and walked away to the kitchen. I unhooked my TV, grabbed my PS4, and enough clothes to last a week. I would come back to finish packing when she wasn’t home.
I told her that I was going to borrow the car to take everything because it was a lot. She told me, “ojala te tiren en la calle esa jente (I hope they throw you into the street). You have no reason to leave this house, I give you food, money, and an education. You are so ungrateful.” I thought to myself she’s partially correct, but above all that, I just wanted a mother with unconditional love, that no matter who I was, she would accept and love me. I wasn’t getting that from her, so I knew I had to go.
Driving to Anna’s house I felt different. I felt powerful and like I could stand up to my mother. From that day on I did. I went from the Ambar that would take insults and dirty looks, sit in my room and cry hoping for an escape, to the Ambar who didn’t take shit from anyone. I walked with my head high and I finally felt like I could breathe. I will forever be grateful to Anna for allowing me to be myself and for holding me up on the days that I felt like the world was crushing me to the ground. She gave me the courage to stand up to my mother and to love myself regardless of what my mother had to say or thought about me.
~
My mother endured a lot of things being with my father, from verbal abuse to spending a day in a jail cell because he filed a restraining order against her. She fell into a black hole and fell into an even deeper one with her boyfriend after my father. She kept all her tears and agony away from my brothers and me because she knew she had to be strong. She put three kids through college and all three have their bachelor’s degrees (two of us have our masters). She would always tell us to worry about you first, then you second, and finally yourself. I think this taught her to only think about her emotions and not others. For example, me. My former therapist, Alison, helped me understand this when she had my mother and me sit down to chat during a session. I sat quietly the whole time and let Alison and my mom do the talking. Alison wanted to make it clear to my mother that she (Alison) was not the reason I was coming home late or sleeping out of the house. That I had another reason, but it was up to me to decide when I told her that. She told my mother that she knows who I’m with and even has the address if something were to happen, so she should not worry. Alison asked my mother if she had any concerns for me. My mother said she didn’t understand my behavior. She does nothing but take me on trips, gives me the best education, teaches me lessons that not every mother can teach a child and that she loves me and wants the best for me. She looked at me and said, “Mama, talk to me. Why are you this way? Why are you depressed, what’s going on?” I stared at the floor, breathing harder with each exhale.
“I’m fucking gay, ma and it’s been so many years since I told you and you still haven’t come around.” I was crying hysterically now, trying to take back the words I just said and trying to gather myself, so I didn’t make an emotional wreck of myself in front of my mother. She looked at me then out the window with a stern, emotionless face. Alison wasn’t too sure what to do so she watched us both. Shortly after my mother said, “I will never ever accept it Ambar, entiendolo (understand that). You were sent to me by God to guide you on the right path and the one you are going down right now, I don’t see how that can be any good for--”
“Yes ma! Guide, not to dictate! You can say to me anything you want, in terms of trying to help me be a better me. That’s fine, but what you can’t do is belittle your child for not wanting to be like you. You try to make me a mini you and I don’t want that. I am me. You are you.”
“No Ambar! You must understand me. How do you think I feel thinking about my daughter dique (lesbian) walking down the street with a woman? Stop that shit! Eso es algo muy feo y el mundo no intiende el tipo de vida que tu has tenido (that’s something very ugly and the world does not understand that type of life). I raised you in the church to follow the good not to conform to the customs of the mundane world.”
“You hide your insecurities and use the church to back up old school ways of thinking,” I said, “You should be proud of having a daughter who has made it this far. A daughter who tells the world, “I will love who I love, and I am not ashamed. You have raised me to be strong and I always thank you for that but ma, I am your daughter! You should love me!”
Alison interceded. “Ambar, would you like for me to tell your mother what you said to me the other day?” I stood still for a moment then nodded yes. “Ambar told me she has been contemplating suicide. Although she does not have the means of doing it (I told her I would prefer with a gun), it’s not something that should be taken lightly.”
My mother had tears in her eyes but refused to let them out. We went on different routes to get home. She took the #4 train and I walked to the west side to take the D train. When I got home I went into my room and locked the door. I cried for what felt like two hours. Suddenly I heard a knock at the door and someone trying to turn the doorknob. “Ambar. Ambeeyor (the nickname she uses for me. A combination of my name and Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh). I just want you to know that I am praying for you to get better. So that whatever demon is possessing you for your tendencies, God will be able to take out.” I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn’t believe that once again she dismissed my feelings and thought about hers. “Alison literally told you I was contemplating suicide, and this is what you have to say to me! I can’t believe you! I want to fucking die! I want to die!”
She walked away and walked out the front door. She went to the temple, I’m guessing, to pray the gay away. Alison told me in the follow up session, “That was the first time you’ve cried in the one year you’ve been having therapy with me. Something about your mother triggers you. You know, I think she just pushes everything away to deal with her own stuff. She puts her emotions first and doesn’t care about what others say to her. What she thinks is right is what she feels must be right. You should maybe do the same.”
Epilogue: Seven years later, 2026:
Over the years, by trusting my gut and doing what was right for me (shoutout to Alison), my mother and I have completely transformed our relationship. We talk every day, spend time together and even go on vacations. Most importantly, I can be my authentic, masculine-presenting self around her.
In my mid-twenties, I returned to therapy, where I finally began to unpack the deep trauma surrounding my relationship with my mother. I came to terms with what our relationship looked like while I was growing up. I've also come to understand that my mom was navigating life for the first time, too. The dreams she had for herself as a young woman, and for the daughter she imagined raising, didn't match the reality unfolding before her. While she struggled to make sense of that, I was still just a little kid with dreams and aspirations of my own. I simply wanted to wear graphic T-shirts and play video games—not get acrylic nails or decorate my room in pink.
As I got older and established myself, she slowly became more accepting. One of her biggest fears was that the way I dressed would keep employers from hiring me. Instead, the opposite happened. In the past seven years, every interview I've had has resulted in a job offer because people could see my character, my work ethic, and the way I carried myself. Eventually, my mom began to see those things, too.
She is still one of my greatest inspirations, and I love her deeply. Our relationship isn't perfect, but it is built on understanding, acceptance, and love. Today, she's someone I never imagined she'd become—a progressive feminist who continues to grow right alongside me.
If there’s one thing I hope readers will take away from my story, it’s this: Stay true to yourself. You will find your people. You will always have your voice. You will experience love, laughter and joy. Keep striving to become someone your younger self would be proud of.
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*Ambar Dominguez is a counselor at a charter school in the Bronx. She graduated from Lehman College in 2019 (Dean’s List) and earned her master’s degree at Manhattan University in Counseling and Guidance Services.
© 2026 Ambar Dominguez.. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
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