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I used to think “Don’t cry over spilled milk” was a warning not to cry from the beating you got for spilling your milk. My father’s violence at the dinner table was breathtaking. He would grab the offender by the arm and yank her out of her seat.
By Jan-Ruth WhiteMarch 1996It was 4 A.M. and I was walking home from the bar with another man’s wife. I’d been in love with her since she was a little girl, but my good friend had snapped her up very young. I never had a chance.
By Poe BallantineFebruary 1996On a hot summer day when my brother was eight months old, my father carried him to the top step of the back porch, lifted him over his head, and tossed him into the weeds.
By K. A. KernFebruary 1996A prescient daughter, an exhausted and drained nurse, an unlikely marathon runner
By Our ReadersFebruary 1996We’re standing in the drizzle — me and Uncle Oscar and Daddy and the chaplain and two soldiers who look like they’ve marched right out of the toy box. I half expect their feet to be welded to plastic platforms wedged into piles of sand.
By Randall PatnodeDecember 1995“My name is Alexandr Davidowich Berman,” he wrote in the space above Lenin’s vest. “My mother’s name was Sophie. She knew Hebrew and gave me my first needle; we made a suit for a doll.
By Lawrence RudnerDecember 1995Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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