The weather itself has been a poetic illustration of this internal state: an alternating mix of sunshine and rain, both falling simultaneously from a half-blue sky.

The pushback I received from white voices on the mainland to my reporting racism, and causing a company into action and accountability, added a chilling layer of secondary harm.

I did what was ethically necessary to protect a principle, but I am left to mourn the human cost of that necessity.

I find myself caught between admiration for human ingenuity and a profound melancholy for what is displaced in the name of progress.

As someone whose professional work involves defending Asian American Pacific Islanders, I found myself in the unexpected position of having to advocate for an African American patron against racist comments from staff.

People have been wondering why I’ve been wearing a keffiyeh more often. I do so in solidarity with a fellow Filipino American Muslim young man caught in the ICE raids.

For so long, these cranes have been seen by Indigenous Americans as spiritual messengers, symbols of longevity and profound transformation.

The inquirer we met with today has already shown clear evidence of call through faithful service, pastoral presence, and deep care for community.

The toy car rattled across the fake green marble of the vinyl tiles, its wheels whispering over seams that led from the living room into the waiting dark.

In a world that measures worth by busyness, it is striking to see a creature of the wild, made for survival, strength, and constant motion, simply sit and gaze.

The car is still, but the world is in motion. I sit in my parking lot pew, the sanctuary of a dashboard altar, windows all the way down, letting September air baptize me with a breeze that still carries the memory of summer but already hints at the sting of coming winter.

History has shown us the first people you want to destroy in an authoritarian regime are the comedians and artists.

I know what happens when free speech collapses.

It is a simple map of white ethnic ancestry, but it holds a mirror to the broader story of America.

The sweet offerings are hard to resist, from flaky baklava layered with honey and nuts, to syrup-soaked bamieh, and buttery mamoul cookies filled with dates.

From the chaos of revolutions and political upheavals, Marcelo Azcárraga rose swiftly through the Spanish ranks.

The Philippine–American War is often sanitized in U.S. history books, but it stands as a brutal reminder of the cost of empire.

Tagalogs and Visayans like to claim theirs are the best. But really?!

I wondered how people from India could have made their way into my family tree, which feels deeply rooted in the ethnolinguistic tribes that would later be forced together by Spanish colonists.

To set the world on fire is not to destroy it. It’s to light it up with the Truth.