By Carol Harada

Photo: Michael Marais

I can’t make it stop. Blood is constantly dripping from my tiny hands. Much darker than the scarlet of my China-made tie hanging long over my belly. Still, the color is close enough and the tie is right there, so I wipe my sticky fingers on it when the television cameras are off.

By Carol Harada
Photo: Levi Clancy on Unsplash

The hawks circled above, riding the thermals rising from the dark pit, tracking all the snaking movement down below. It had been days of this, streams of dump trucks, flatbeds, and oversized pickups flowing along the serpentine byways of forgotten America and bearing jagged things we no longer needed to this abandoned mine.

By Carol Harada

She started as an inspiration. A Frenchman had his heart pierced by the grandeur and beauty of the Nubian monuments at Abu Simbel in Egypt. Then he found his muse – a peasant woman, Egyptian, Muslim, dark. He decided to place the peasant woman with regal dignity as a colossal guardian at Port Said,

By Carol Harada

I am fourth generation Japanese-American, proud of it. Some of my great grandparents fled famine in southwestern Japan in the late 1800’s and one grandmother came over by herself on a steamer in 1920. She was fifteen. All migrated to Hawaii – first a sovereign kingdom,

By Carol Harada

Photo: Dorothea Lange

A pit of fear grew in my belly when Steve Malosky sat behind me in 4th grade, kicking my chair and muttering about ‘dirty Japs,’ only loud enough so that I could hear. My hair was glossy black.