Every family has its black sheep, a fact made immeasurably more palpable during each and every holiday celebration or dreaded family reunion. Every hug (or handshake), every warm look (or lack thereof), each and every laugh (or sinister snicker) comes loaded with accidental intent, long-lingering feelings that peel back the jaded historicity of who we are: the stories that define us and the rumors that plague us. In the immobile stasis of familial arbitrations, lines are always drawn in the sand, alliances cropping up and breaking down like an especially dramatic episode of Survivor. In Krisha, we find a hunched carpetbagger of a woman reentering the wary arms of the same family that turned its back on her years ago, unable to put up with one more manic fit brought on by her unwavering addiction. Read More