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Shirley Moody got sick in our house that night from sunburn, and that night — two nights after my ninth birthday — my daddy had a little too much whiskey and drove the Austin-Healey through the fence down on the canal.
By Robin ScaffNovember 1992Random violence, as I practice it, is a delicate task. You want to injure the punchee just enough to make him or her think, without causing any major damage.
By Miles HarveyOctober 1992My father brought Jake’s body home from Colorado in a record-breaking blizzard.
By Lisa ZimmermanSeptember 1992I didn’t think I’d hear again from my grandmother’s second husband, Uncle Benny, and then he called one Wednesday afternoon, three years after my grandmother had left him. I was stacking money on my bed at the time — ones on the pillow, fives at the foot, and tens in the middle where I could see them easiest.
By Philip JosephAugust 1992The endless rows of cramped units were designed to house the maximum number of people in the smallest, most underdeveloped side of town. Most families were black. There were only two categories — the poor but not yet without hope, and the poor without any hope.
By Jerrold LaddAugust 1992In 1961, Nicaragua and I were still developing, both of us unsure of our desperate passions. I knew nothing of politics. When the U.S. Air Force needed my father to teach Somoza’s pilots to fly, my family moved to Managua. The State Department warned of the dangers: malaria, earthquakes, revolution, poverty, sharks swimming in fresh water. They left something out.
By Candace PerryAugust 1992Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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