The first time I met her, I thought she looked like a gypsy. She wore a neon orange peasant skirt that skimmed the floor when she walked, the objects inside her overstuffed sequined purse rearranging themselves with every step. Large silver hoops dangled from her ears. She flashed a wide smile, revealing a tiny and endearing gap between her two front teeth.
“I’m Tia!” She exclaimed, extending her arm for an anemic handshake our friend Bethany would someday lecture her about improving. It was probably the only weak thing about her. In the nine years that have passed since than moment in our college dorm, I have become well-acquainted with the ironclad opinions and unshakable resolve of Therissa (to me, forever “Tia”) Johnson. Continue reading