I hate how middle high schools are combined because then the middle school gets in trouble for doing the same as the high. (True story ) names changed. Issia and roses started dating ( in middle school) and ther in a combined middle/high they kissed they got yelled at by people high schoolers (9th graders) kiss and know one saids a word make scents ?
2014 has not been kind.
On a cold, snowy day in January, when my husband was in Tokyo, my 10 year old son received a lifelong sentence. It began with a sick visit to the pediatrician followed by another sick visit to a gastroenterologist. As I sat across from this woman, who I disliked as soon as she entered the room, I could not imagine that my son’s world was going to permanently change. After a brief examination and a denial of all symptoms from which she was sure he was suffering, she stoically pronounced “he has Crohn’s,” which only made me hate her more than I already did. She prescribed antibiotics and advised that he would need to be examined under general anesthesia.
That night, my son slept in my bed. I spent most of the night feeling his forehead, making sure he was still asleep, plotting the death of…
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I have an uncle who was a cop.
His kids, my cousins, were around my age and when we visited our family in Québec every summer I practically lived at their house. As soon as we got to my grandmother’s house, all rumpled and grumpy from our eight hour drive, I would start dialling my cousins’ number on her beige rotary phone. I spent the whole damn school year waiting for summer, and my time with my cousins, to come; we wrote each other letters all through the dreary winter, hatching plans for new summer exploits. Life with my cousins – swimming in their pool, family barbecues, playing hide-and-seek in my grandmother’s mammoth hedge at twilight – was lightyears better than my boring life in Ontario.
Pretty much every summer my uncle would, at some point, take us to visit the police station. He would pretend that we were criminals and…
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“If I forget to ask you to donate to
Susan G Komen For the Cure
You get a Coke
I am not petty enough to call out a minimum-wage worker on a promotion like this, so I don’t have the comped bottle of soda to prove it, but I was not asked to make a breast cancer donation at Kroger last week. And no, the clerk (let’s call her “Vera”) did not forget to ask. She simply refrained from making the request because she thought I’d say no. Of this I am certain.
Before I share with you the passive-aggressive ugliness that transpired last Thursday between Vera and me, and in my own defense (with the understanding that I come off sounding like kind of a jerk in this story), let me just say that I donate to causes like this every time someone asks me. Every. Single…
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It starts with the sources and stories; that’s where it always starts. Not stories that exist full-formed and discerned. No. These are stories that exist always-already in-the-process-of-becoming; stories that consist in half-thought ideas, half-glimpsed connections, half-baked moments. Intuition? Perhaps. Often I do not know where they come from. Always I suspect they are wrong but worth trying still.
It continues with the sources. Hard won over many years and forgotten long ago. To re-enter box files is to meet old friends or to be struck with the shock of the new. I told you I had forgotten these sources long ago. It continues as an archaeology of our accreted days and months in some dusty archive or other.
It stops. It stops just at the moment when you open a document to begin. The blank page takes on the haunting qualities of nightmare. The blank page seems a proxy for…
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