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Clara Schumann bore humans and great works of art. My childbearing years are over and I hope the same is not true for me of teaching.
The changes in our trailer make me forget that I was always afraid before my cousins came.
Like many lost weekends, mine started on Thursday. I was twenty-six years old by now, co-producing a Swahili hip-hop festival in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
There’s a certain hot rage when a man shows up at the door to take your mother on her first date since the divorce. The moment he says, “Hi, I’m […]
Her shape—long, rotund, dark gray except where damp sand smears her pelt—is the first mass we see at Tunnels Beach on Kauai, Hawai’i.
Wander around Washington, DC long enough in a bow tie and a flag pin, you can land any number of free five-course meals replete with stemware and a salad fork. This luncheon was something special though.
Causes, in many ways, similar to those that felled the young men I knew: jungle rot, youthful folly, despair, and gunfire.
“White expats like to say there are three types of us in Africa: missionaries, mercenaries, and misfits. I was, obviously, the misfit.”
This is a scared man’s bet.