Like most people around the world, I have not attended a live performance in months.
Looking around the space, a constellation of memories appear.
The men greeted one group member by erupting “Herman the German!” when he walked in the door.
To be sure, I found several things that made me cringe. But I also found a lot of things to love.
You became a toddler during the pandemic.
For years I had found my most vivid and intimate joy through sound.
I did not need thyme. Or brown sugar. Or the lime.
For those of us who have never been on the blunt end of sexism (or racism, or ableism, etc.), things can look funny or tragic or intriguingly disgusting when they are actually evil.
Seven years later, I am now in Grand Rapids again, which is a kind of beautiful, full-circle moment.
For the novel to improve, for ink-and-paper storytelling to stay relevant, for literature to tell today’s stories to today’s audience, it must learn from the work of screenwriters