Catherine Gigante-Brown

I go for checkups when I’m supposed to: every three months to the oncologist and every six months to the breast surgeon. I go to SHARE support group meetings to bolster myself. I try to get enough sleep, despite the occasional night spent wide-eyed with dread.

I’m a firm believer that Tiny Kindnesses can change the world, one sweet, loving gesture at a time.

I’m boycotting you until you start recognizing breast cancer survivors like me by carrying mastectomy bras.

" Sure enough, the doorbell rang one early June day and there she was: curvy, seductive body, smooth black skin, bright blue eyes."

Once upon a time, it was easier to keep track of gender. Today, not so much — the lines are blurred. For many, gender’s not so much about questioning your own identity as it is about questioning the very nature of identity.

I try. I really do. But whenever I attempt to embrace my husband Peter’s Cuban culture, I always screw up.

Alas, I am the lone female in a house full of men. Only two men, but they take up a lot of space.

Alexa is like a nosy neighbor: She’s always listening. That’s how she can respond when you ask her to do something. So, when you’re getting busy on the kitchen counter — Alexa’s listening. When you’re telling Capital One the last four digits of your SSN — Alexa’s listening. And who knows who else is.

In the photograph, my great-grandmother, Margarita Cirigliano, is sitting at a small table on the front porch of the family home in Borough Park, Brooklyn.

Why do we venerate individuality in adults but condemn it in children?