Bea was running late. She hoped it came off like a cute girl-next-door personality trait, like she’d show up all frazzled, tripping over her words, a little out of breath, her cheeks flushed and her smile wider than ever, like, I’m here, I rushed all the way here just for you.
Tom Casey’s letters from Vietnam are not merely a historical artifact, but a bildungsroman, the story of a man discovering the limits of his duty and the faults of his country.
I soon joined the club of licit pink-pill slipping girls myself, along with the 82 percent of teen birth-control users who rely on the drug for purposes, at least in part, other than pregnancy prevention.
There’s stillness: the whispers of trees and soft winds that make them heard. They’re talking to us; we’ve come to listen. Plantations are vast, empty, filled with invisible souls and their all-too-audible cries; these acres are not that.
Summer in the Bronx lasts forever, and it is like this: naked bodies that are at once child-skinny and child-swollen sprinting through spray-capped fire hydrants, stained popsicle sticks in neat piles on the sidewalk, asphalt that remembers the warm smell of rain long after it storms.
I hadn’t known the story of how Anna’s life had played out; how she had ended up working in the arts and how she had ended up becoming the Anna that I knew. I always saw her as having things figured out.
In “Who Is America?” Baron Cohen’s goal is no longer to illuminate the fact that people have racist, xenophobic thoughts, but to see just how far those views will go and the horrible things they will guide them to do.
