queen of the road

Ten minutes into my first solo trip as a licensed driver, I got stuck in a parking lot. I had chosen a spot in the corner that was open only because everyone else knew better than to try it, a fact I discovered when I started to back out and realized that there were cars… Continue reading queen of the road

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putting away childish things

Adulthood, I think, is a matter of learning how to hold truths that contradict one another, because each truth was at one point valid. Every truth, in its own time and its own context, is how you become yourself.

these changes ain’t changing me

It occurs to me now that this story is wasted on the young. As a child, I found it overwrought. Then again, I was the kind of insufferable pedant who insisted on pointing out that I was ten and a half or turning thirteen next month. To me, the delta between just-turned-twelve and twelve-plus-eleven-months was… Continue reading these changes ain’t changing me

city mouse, suburb mouse

“Master-planned community”: a euphemism for “white people and expensive trees, arranged along streets that are cleverly named so that a typical set of directions sounds like 'make a right on Timber Rose, then a left on Heirloom Rose, and then another right on Scarlet Rose.'”* This is where I was raised, on a parcel of… Continue reading city mouse, suburb mouse

bathrooms of the great midwest

I have a small bladder. Perhaps it's more proper to say that I am a small woman and then let you infer the rest, but I've never pretended to be proper, so let's just be frontal about it and move on. I have to pee often enough that I'm a bad person to bring on… Continue reading bathrooms of the great midwest

freshman disorientation

Nothing prepared me for the first time that I tried to walk from one building on Vassar's campus to another alone. It was before smartphones or even the proper signage that the fire department recently forced the college to install. I was hell-bent on finding my own way, no way was I going to ask… Continue reading freshman disorientation

ain’t nothin’ but a number

When I was seventeen, the sleepy-eyed 26-year-old sound engineer who taped a microphone cord to the back of my neck every night before I went onstage as Peggy in 42nd Street fell hard for me. “I shouldn't be telling you this,” he'd start, his thumbs pressing the tape into the back of my neck for… Continue reading ain’t nothin’ but a number