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The problem is I don’t talk at a seventh-grade level. I mumble and swallow words, sucking them in instead of spitting them out. Mrs. Handy wants me to work on my breathing. She says I gulp air like I’m afraid the world’s running out of oxygen.
By Paul NastuMarch 1998My mother wasn’t from the cooks. Her measuring cups were chipped, her pots dented, her pans blackened and bruised. She used the bottom of her shirt as a potholder. When she burned or cut herself, she’d give a yelp, but never put on a band-aid. She was always in a hurry.
By Janice LevyFebruary 1998A spare tire, a Shirley Temple doll, a bruise in the unmistakable shape of a hand
By Our ReadersFebruary 1998An Easter-bonnet contest, a bright green baker’s hat, a naughty hat
By Our ReadersJanuary 1998My mother thinks her boyfriend is a father figure for me. I think he’s a derelict. His name is David. I call him the Big D — D for Derelict. He’s always trying to help me with things.
By Lolly WinstonJanuary 1998Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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