Essay by Marie Alfonsi
I wonder if all living things need a self-portrait.
I wonder if all living things need a self-portrait.
Even on the loveliest days, there’s a feeling like the poignancy of watching your toddler waddle across a summer lawn.
I’d been living in a mine field, it seemed, and now all the bombs were going off at once.
Privilege and racism are real, and not just in South Africa.
You’re what the white folks hate, the races mixing, and the girl knows better.
On the Fourth of July, I convinced myself there was hope.
Every purchase must be tracked to dispel any ugly merchant tricks and ensure that our meager tips were never misread.
It’s only a ride until we make our first U-turn—then it’s an adventure.
The nice thing about magic, from what I could tell as a young reader, was that it gave such an order to existence.
But I have reason to believe moments of intense clarity and energy have a rhythm that can be experienced in the here and now.