Less than six months ago you had walked down the aisle of your home church, First United Methodist in Buckhannon, West Virginia, with your Chicagoan husband Rich Wiewiora. While he was used to diversified metropolises, LA wasn’t your small country town, LA was the inner city. It felt divided. You could feel the lingering static from the previous year’s riots. But it wasn’t like you hadn’t grown up with black folks—your freshman roommate was black—it was just that everyone was black there. And you, you were a white speck of salt.
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Read the rest of my second-person POV essay written about my mom’s cross-cultural missionary training in LA during 1980 by buying the anthology The Careless Embrace of the Boneshaker from great weather for MEDIA.
My greatest thanks to the prose editor Thaddeus Rutkowski–a fellow half-Pole–for including my piece.
In a forest, outside of Warsaw, two rows of metal faucets gushed water into white ceramic sinks. I stood in line holding Dad’s hand. One of the spigots squeaked closed; the flow stopped, and then a Pole left with a filled container. I could whistle more birdsongs than I could say Polish phrases that I’d memorized. I stayed quiet with Dad. Another Polish person stepped up and untwisted the valve, opening the flow again.
Read the entire essay for Father’s Day HERE.
On Beyond, I compare and contrast the drivers and walkers at my intersection where I worked as a crossing guard.
My grandmother cleaned for a living in an artist’s building. I cleaned to support my life as an artist.
Read my entire essay on The Billfold.
Water was supposed to continually gush from the pipe like a faucet. The water temperature would have been 55 degrees Fahrenheit because it tunneled underground all the way to the rock-lined basin under the pipe. I wanted a drink. Chickadees calledtee-hee, tee-hee.
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Read the entire essay HERE.