The firefighters carried that extra baggage in their already twenty-plus-pound sacks on each and every trip. Their backpacks held their survival gear doubled in the weight of their historical heartaches, with their generational trauma in tow.
I already miss home. As expected, moving was a mistake. This house is big and empty. I don’t like big houses; my mother knows that. They make me feel small.
My therapist, a woman in her mid-forties with short hair and small spectacles, clears her throat and finds eye contact with uncomfortable politeness. I admit that I enjoy watching how therapists bend over backward to maintain composure, “Jess, I think you might be Bipolar.”
"Isn't that scotland. / Don't blame the tweed. / You have never seen a fabric before. / I think it should be our fleece. / I appreciate fabric. / That is my fleece. / I am interested in having wool." A series of computer-generated mini plays.
“If you could be any kind of body, what would that be and why?” The ten MA students in “Bodies at Work: Gender and Labor in Contemporary Visual Culture” share their responses.