The past is buried deep within the ground in Rabat, although the ancient walls in the old city are still standing, painted in electrifying variations of royal blue that make the winding roads look like streamlets or shallow ocean water

Janet Mock's honest and sometimes searing journey is a rare and important look into la vida liminal, one that she manages to negotiate remarkably well, with grace, humor, and fierce grit. Mock doesn't only redefine what realness means to her, but challenges us to rethink our own perceptions of gender and sexuality, feminism and sisterhood, making this book a transcendent piece of American literature.

A mother isn’t the person who births you; it’s the person who rears you and shows you love.

I remember feeling that pieces of me were scattered around the world; I belonged to her, Mother Earth.

For some, excavating the past isn’t an adventure, it’s more akin to tearing a Band-Aid off an open wound.

This is what I know about my parents. They spent the next several years trying to forget each other, and me.

To me, travel is more valuable than any stupid piece of bling money can buy