Where racism lives and thrives: no complex diagnosis required.
I stay for the kindnesses in the classroom, the solitude at home, and the consolation in the countryside.
I can’t stomach it — the butchered syntax, the prepubescent vocabulary, the oblique threats, the incessant self-congratulation, the bare-assed ignorance, the bald-faced lies.
Dad died last September. We weren’t close. Never had been. States and ages and resentments separated us. In the last twenty years we spoke twice.