By Molly McIntyre
For all of high school I wrote in the same teal, college ruled, spiral-bound Mead notebooks. In my early twenties I drew exclusively with F pencils on Strathmore 5x7” drawing pads. Now I make paper cut outs using Marcal transfer paper in red or white and Excel #11 blades (100 pack.)
All of this brand loyalty, to free my brain from having to decide the multiple choice questions and focus on the other kind, like the expression on a face or the width of a line.
By Sarah Brysk-Cohen
I secretly love all the Tupperware. This is the case even though it spills out of the sliding drawer every time I yank it out. I typically use more force than is necessary for this action (How is this material so strong, yet so light?), causing futuristic sippy cups and tiny, pastel modules for storing halved grapes to bounce about the kitchen floor. Occasionally, I curse when this happens, which might explain why my 21-month-old has taken to using the phrase, “FUCKING DAMNIT!” at random intervals. We don’t have the heart to tell her that doesn’t really make any sense. This Tupperware is instrumental to a meditative daily routine that keeps this little family whirring.
By Shani Gilchrist
Strangely, my grandmother didn’t enter my thoughts on my first journey from London to Paris. Instead of having my face pressed against the window as I rolled into the city for the first time, I was consumed by the novel I was reading when the train pulled into Gare du Nord. When my husband and I exited terminal we had to rush to a nearby restaurant for a meeting he had scheduled. My husband’s Midwestern boss and an ebullient French salesman were waiting for us at a table that had been converted into a riotous range of files, product samples and wine glasses. The Frenchman launched into his pitch after our glasses had been filled, pausing first to advise me not to order bouillabaisse because Parisian chefs don’t understand the regional nuances of such a soup. I sat back and nibbled on my salad and listened to the salesman’s mixture of humor, self-deprecation, hard data, and bullshit, stricken as I realized how familiar his performance was to me. All around us there were tables full of businessmen conducting conversations in a similar manner, and I fully understood the world I was occupying.
By Catherine Close
Yesterday, a typical October school day, hit our southern end of California with a blast of Santa Anas. I don’t know if it was the warm winds or the slow march toward Thanksgiving break, but students were acting twitchy.
One student, in particular, exhibited the symptoms we teachers dread: calling out, touching others. The list goes on. I walked over to his desk. I leaned down. Quietly, I asked him to walk outside with me. We stood in a puddle of sunlight. The hills behind him were brown but in the afternoon sun blazed golden. I looked into his eyes.
