Iain Haley Pollock

has invented a category that precisely defines What, in your idiom, I am. (The same could be said for you, I’m sure, had we time and desire enough to wade into your pool.) If the world continues as it does to change and stay the same, I do not in my lifetime predict success in this definitional endeavor and particularly not star-spangled success. By pointing to the paucity of categories precise in their definition of me, I do not reject love for my mitochondrial mothers, stolen as they were from their Gold Coast homes, shipped as they were across a body of water stretching farther than they