I have to leave the fledgling garden behind, ferret out of the dirt yard, and pioneer past roofscapes towards the simple beginning of things.

Writing to freelance before pitching a story might as well be growing food before testing its soil for lead and arsenic.

At the end of the day, hands on my hips, I tell people (if I see them) that I am pursuing a writing career. Then I sleep and start over exactly the same the next day. In bed, I tell myself I am surviving.

My mother and I were recently watching a Top Chef rerun. In this particular episode, one of the contestants scrambled to assemble his dish, an unparalleled entrée featuring perfectly sliced Kobe beef carpaccio accompanied with a boysenberry gastrique. My mother, a Bangladeshi immigrant, just could not comprehend why anyone would voluntarily eat raw beef, thinly sliced or otherwise. I initially scoffed at her simplistic palette, wanting to deliver the condescending comment resting on my tongue, aching to correct her uninformed opinion.

In Philadelphia, the education system is being pushed aside. Teenagers come to school with their fists flying, ready for a fight.

I felt strong and powerful, so then why wasn’t I happy?

I took a ride along the subway this afternoon. The air was cold, a bit crisp—out of place for spring in Philadelphia.

Some people say feminism is over and long gone, and others support it wholeheartedly. But can anyone be feminist?