I knew this girl in middle school. I’ll call her Sam, but that isn’t her real name. Actually, to say I knew her is an overstatement. I knew of her. I shared classes with her. We walked the same halls, had the same classmates, took notes from the same teachers, navigated the same hell of...
We have an art gallery in our living room. Twenty-six handmade pieces of one-of-a-kind art secured to the wall with Scotch Tape, hanging, slightly crooked, under our stairs for all the world (or our family) to enjoy. The gallery began about two weeks ago, during a winter storm. The wind whistled outside while snowflakes danced...
It began with a family meeting. At least for my siblings and I, that’s how it began. Surely my parents had been discussing it for months or even years before that late winter evening. I think it was February. It could have been March. It was dark outside and the kitchen was illuminated by the...
It was the summer of 2010 when I first began writing like this–in a public space. I use the word “public” loosely. Do a few close friends and family count as public? Either way, it was the first time I wrote outside of the bound pages of my journal–outloud–for anyone to see. I remember...
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