Life, London, This Moment in June: Rereading Mrs. Dalloway, storySouth
Every morning that summer, on the hour bus ride from Nashua, New Hampshire into Boston, I read from Mrs. Dalloway again. Often, I only read those thrilling first couple of pages until I could nearly recite them from memory, and then I would gaze out the window at Boston’s approaching skyline, a sight that was equally stirring to me at the time. As I alighted the bus at Back Bay and walked to my office, the smell of diesel fuel surrounding me, I would say to myself, “What a lark! What a plunge!” Repeating Clarissa Dalloway’s exclamations gave each of those summer mornings the mark of great potential, as well as a sense of whimsy that didn’t come naturally to me.
A Good Swiss Name, Eclectica Magazine
When I noticed the old man looking out onto the Sea of Gibraltar from our riad rooftop in Tangier, I wanted him to like me in that gushy, breathless way that people like you. I wanted him to be impressed by the off-handed way I might mention all the languages I knew or cities I’d lived, wild accounts set in Lisbon, Moscow, Dubai. Your life’s stories—the one about learning Italian to impress your first love or losing a million dollars in the dotcom crash—were effortlessly thrilling and charming to everyone but me. I’d heard them too many times, during too many lonely lunches where you were the undeniable center.
Andres and the Jinns, Verity La
‘Miss, WALLAH, it’s true. They are everywhere. Every time you hear a noise in your house, or your TV stops working, or your computer beeps…’ Hana paused dramatically. ‘It’s a jinn.’
She searched my face for a sufficiently spooked reaction, and while I did my best to play along, I was more impressed by Hana’s descriptive abilities than frightened of these things called jinns. After our English speaking class one afternoon in May, Hana and Munerah stopped by my office to discuss the upcoming quiz. Our conversation quickly shifted to other topics, like Munerah’s brother’s upcoming wedding, Hana’s sisters in Sudan, our favourite movies and then, finally, to jinns.
I Never Want to Leave Here, The Manifest-Station
At 21, it was stomping through the streets of Bath under a perpetual pissing of rain, reading the obscure poetry of Anne Finch and Lady Mary Montagu, hanging around pubs in between class waiting for English men to talk to me. It was liking myself more than I ever had before. I had left Boston a shattered, friendless virgin, but after only a few weeks in England, I was rapidly turned into someone new: a version of myself I’d only dreamed of. I spoke up in class, made my new friends laugh, and managed to capture the attention of English men, at least for a little while. And this was only the beginning.
Khun Nee, Thread
“You want make baby?” Khun Nee asked me.
“Yes,” I replied, climbing onto her treatment bed. It was my second day in Chiang Mai, and my twin sister hadn’t wasted any time booking me a fertility massage.
“I’m worried that something’s wrong. That I won’t be able to …”
My words trailed off as Khun Nee drummed her fingers lightly over my stomach. “You will make baby.”
City of Promise, Fusion Magazine
Every Tuesday and Thursday at dawn, I rode the 57 Bus into Kenmore Square–home of Fenway Park, the Citgo Sign, and Landsdowne Street, the center of Boston’s nightlife. By the time the sun peaked through the gray buildings on Commonwealth Avenue, I’d persuaded myself into believing I’d made the right decision moving back to America, to Boston, a place that had once for me, held so much promise.
I Heart Yogyakarta, Two Cities Review
Chelsea Girl, The Summerset Review
I watched the Chelsea girls stalk down Kings Road. The street was hard and gritty under my feet, but the cement became gray velvet under their high-heeled shoes. I saw their packages from Harrods on Old Brompton Road. I imagined their walk down Sloane Street, chitchat in between the swish of boutique bags, as they finally wound their way to the road where I lived. My Chelsea girls ranged in age, from coiffed and powdered matrons with foundation caked into the wrinkles around their eyes and mouth to girls of twelve or thirteen who grew their hair long and lustrous, who had manicured nails to match their bright handbags. My friend thought these young girls looked atrocious, that children should not be dressing and acting like adults. I disagreed; I didn’t think these girls looked too old for their shiny lip-gloss or deep conditioned hair. They were the bright young things who were meant to own Kings Road. Their roles were carved out, while mine lays in limbo.
So Much for Loving, Quadrant
I’ve been reading Aphra Behn’s love letters again, the ones to John Hoyle. I am drawn to them in idle hours, imagining inky scribbles on thick, dusty sheets instead of photocopied print on thin white pages. Sometimes I read them aloud, trying out the soft whispers and passionate inflections I imagine from Behn, and hear the pleading, desperate desire in my own voice. I listen for those twists of language that mark the fine line between love and hate, devotion and dismissal, obsession and indifference. My cat Cleo perks up when I proclaim Behn’s reckless love alone in my bedroom.
Some Nights We Were Brash, Wet Ink
Every afternoon, I would wait for Vicky, Sarah and Maggie to drift into my dorm room so that I could admire the way they carried themselves: Vicky regal with her long, milky white neck bobbing like an ostrich, Maggie shuffling, shoulders hunched, her thick brown hair swiveling against her back, and Sarah, brisk and loose in flip flops and a pair of orange jeans, a bright green rain jacket and floppy hat, all mismatched and sturdy on her frame. At night, in our sweatpants and long-sleeved shirts, we’d slip into each other’s rooms, curling up on beds and chairs, stretching our shirts over our knees, and reminisce about the sports we’d played in high school, our favorite books and old summer jobs. We imagined the men we’d like to date – not the boys on campus, with their ball caps and polo shirts, their Dave Matthews posters and high school class rings – but men who would admire our intelligence and independence. We gave each other matches: a powerful businessman for Vicky, a movie producer for Sarah, a painter for Maggie, and an English professor for me, with salt and pepper hair and a tweed jacket. We giggled at the thought of these elusive prospects until everyone else on our floor had fallen asleep.
Teaching Errors, Brevity
I lean over Todd’s desk. His head is down, eyes concentrating on the tangle of words he’s produced. I read silently along with him, parsing out scribble and scratches. As my bitten fingernail zigzags over his sentences, I realize that even my fingers don’t match my image of a fourth grade teacher, who should be neat and composed, with a rosy complexion and trimmed, polished nails. She is not someone who must ask repeatedly for attention and good behavior, whose voice gets muffled in the chatter of children, who anxiously picks at her nails and tears at her cuticles until tiny red bumps appear.
Invisible Town, Fourth River
Erik unfolded a crumpled map of West Virginia on my kitchen table, sweeping the dust from its surface with a single breath, the particles swirl- ing in the pale light cast through my window. I hunched over the squiggly lines and solid masses, watching his thick fingers point to a town called Core. The red, wrinkled letters dimmed against the yellow curves and out- lines of blue. So this was the place.
Schmattes: A Memoir of Words, Alligator Juniper
When I was seven, a tall, serious child with thick brown bangs and a pale complexion, my mother took me to F.A.O. Schwartz in New York City. She held my hand as we crossed the street. Her grip was strong, tense, coating the skin of my fingers with anxiety, a pulsing film of worry. My mother only freed my hand when we passed through the store’s glass doors. Her stern look reminded me not to touch every toy, but to be careful, selective. I didn’t need the warning. Even then I knew the toys were too expensive, that we were looking around as if in a museum, trying to understand, at a distance, another way of life.
How to Become a Lifelong American Expat in 15 Easy Steps, Compose Journal