Here I was - 20 years old, eight months pregnant, handcuffed and sitting in the back of a police car waiting to be transported to the local precinct for booking. To the officer on the scene, I was a simple statistic: an unregistered vehicle, a revoked license, a failure to comply. For me it was the final, crushing weight of a systemic collapse that had begun years earlier with a single car accident and a missed piece of mail.

I no longer exist in a state of needing to understand the narratives or wounding behind stories that have obviously impacted me throughout my life. But I remain curious about them.