Monthly Archives: April 2017
I feared my grandfather’s model ship, meticulous and as long as my body.
Are those not good enough reasons to study history?
Equation A: be ambitious and industrious, do not leave the workplace to the mercy of the weak minded men. Fight + win + conquer, all while rocking 6 inch stilettos and maintaining strong sex-appeal^10.
I don’t know. Two albums that have ripped my heart open, made me cry, left me at a loss for words. I think that’s transcendent.
“Chillermania,” I whispered to myself with reverence. “The World Headquarters.” My heart leapt with excitement.
This is where we are. The reduction of a decades-long debate with life-changing ramifications to a billboard. Or a bumper sticker. Or a sound bite.
Like many a literary grouch before him, Ove’s icy winter of life thaws before his final curtain.
Comfort is a much needed salve, and respite for the parched and thirsty, but it’s good to remember we can also drown.
“Something happened when the White House got demystified. The impression was left that anybody could do it.”
Christmas is always the musk of dusty angel robes and glow of Christmas tree lights on the hardwood floor. Easter, however, is rarely the same twice.
I didn’t cry at this graduation, like I did all those years ago on the stage of my elementary school, but I would cry later.
I’ve found that the mundanities of teaching quickly and quietly bleed a name of its import.
As readers might recall from Season 1 and Season 2, I’d allowed podcasts to become a steady burble of background noise flowing through my waking, non-working hours.
There are other surmised explanations for the rooster’s place on church steeples, but this account seems the most plausible to me.
There is something about watching people pick out spaghetti sauce, and knowing they will cook and eat a meal together, leave dirty dishes in a sink together, that makes me ache.
So much of poetry is naming things.
When I get a job, I will have a brand-new wardrobe to match my brand-new job. I’m not sure where all these new clothes will come from, but most likely Olivia Pope’s closet.
I know which cashier is the fastest, which one is the nicest, and which one packs my reusable grocery bags like her own personal Tetris championship.
My students rarely say “no,” however. They say “It’s difficult” or “I’m tired,” because from their perspective they are trying.
I didn’t know how to write about a rain jacket on Palm Sunday after forty-four people died in their churches.
When you start to recognize people and places, and you start to be recognized, you start to feel home. Re-cognize—from the Latin cognoscere, “to know.” To re-know, or to know again.
I have so many half-baked ideas rattling around in my brain, interesting websites bookmarked for inspiration, words and sentences hastily scrawled on Post-It Notes.
Mostly, I pace. While I pace, I think about what I’ll make for dinner. I think about the fact that I’ll have time to make dinner because we test again tomorrow so that means no lesson planning.
I recently discovered the healthy, frugal, “have my shit together” magic known as a crockpot, specifically, a brown-and-tan, floral relic from my parents’ wedding that in a roundabout Oedipal way, led to the traumatization of my penis.
I would even go so far as to say that tidying, a good spring cleaning that freshens any staleness that has settled in over a long winter, can be a spiritual practice.
For Christianity, press one. For Judaism, press two. For Islam, press three. For Atheism, please hang up and try again.
So I understand the benefits of the simple, unfussy communion of my childhood. It’s much neater, less ripe with possibilities for awkwardness.
Every spring, Notre Dame holds a half-marathon called (surprise, surprise) “The Holy Half.”
Here I’m asked to explain it: why we talk so loudly, why we dress so sloppy, why we elected Donald Trump.