The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Christopher Locke’s essay in this issue is from a memoir-in-progress called Speaking in Tongues. He hopes that a month in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, will help him complete the book. If not, he says, at least he’ll be able to indulge in some pulled-pork tacos and a little mescal.
There were strange hands on me. Some were small and cold; others seemed large and rough and smelled of sawdust and cinnamon. It was my third time at the new church, but I’d seen nothing like this before. The hands belonged to male church elders, who were encircling me in front of the entire congregation.
I hated my parents’ goats. I hated them because they were stupid and always looked at me as if it were for the first time. And that lack of recognition never changed, from the day they arrived until the night they saved my life.