She remembers when she was little, when she still looked up to her dad. That once, he drew a hybrid animal with the head of her mother, and a body of a crocodile. They conspired to avoid encouraging her wrath, and her mom just shook her head and went back into the kitchen.

Sometime after that, the little girl drew a woman in traditional dress colored with crayons, probably singing about the harvest, love in times of war, or the tenacity of nature. Her father declared it a masterpiece and that all her works would be pinned up on the walls with tape. She was proud.

She doesn’t remember why she stopped, but she remembers when she began again.

That time was years later, away from the influences of her parents. She didn’t have as much respect for her parents, learned that for each point they had, that just as many were outdated, wrong, or prejudiced.

When she draws now, her mom still doesn’t see the point, and when her father looks at it, his remarks are still encouraging, but she can’t bring herself to care.