Be Proud of the Chicken Poop on Your Boots


Literally. There is shit all over my black boots. The chicken kind, to be exact. It’s dry and green, brown and yellow, all the pretty colors of the shit rainbow, and it’s screaming at anyone and everyone proudly: I ammmm poooooop!

I pause in the middle of the lobby in the building where I work. My boots look like a mistake against the pristine floor. I look up. No one has noticed. Everyone is too busy trying to get to their respective offices. For a moment I think about driving all the way back home. I think about calling Alex and asking him to bring me another pair of shoes. I think about all the ways I could’ve dressed this morning, about the black pencil skirt hanging in my closet and the green summer dress that hid all my tummy fat.

Then I thought, “Oh, piss off inner voice. I’m proud of the chicken poop on my boots.”

On Being A Refugee

He had come to ask me about my refugee experience—an assignment for one of his classes—and I’m always willing to share, but afterwards, there was a lingering taste of discomfort in my mouth. Although I hope that I had given this student perspective in some small way, I couldn’t help but feel like maybe I wasn’t refugee enough to be interviewed. Like maybe I wasn’t even refugee enough to defend being a refugee.