"The Dead of September 11" by Toni Morrison

The Dead of September 11 - Toni Morrison

Some have God's words; others have songs of comfort for the bereaved. If I can pluck courage here, I would like to speak directly to the dead--the September dead. Those children of ancestors born in every continent on the planet: Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas...; born of ancestors who wore kilts, obis, saris, geles, wide straw hats, yarmulkes, goatskin, wooden shoes, feathers and cloths to cover their hair. But I would not say a word until I could set aside all I know or believe about nations, wars, leaders, the governed and ungovernable; all I suspect about armor and entrails. First I would freshen my tongue, abandon sentences crafted to know evil---wanton  or studied; explosive or quietly sinister; whether born of a sated appetite or hunger; of vengeance or the simple compulsion to stand up before falling down. I would purge my language of hypberbole; of its eagerness to analyze the levels of wickedness; ranking them; calculating their higher or lower status among others of its kind. Speaking to the broken and the dead is too difficult for a mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts. Because the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be seduced by blitz. To speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed just in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear, knowing all the time that I have nothing to say--no words stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you have become. And I have nothing to give either--except this gesture, this thread thrown between your humanity and mine: I want to hold you in my arms and as your soul got shot of its box of flesh to understand, as you have done, the wit of eternity: its gift of unhinged release tearing through the darkness of its knell. http://www.legacy-project.org/index.php?page=lit_detail&litID=83 Originally published in Vanity Fair magazine.

Boomerang: A Short Story

Once upon a time, Little Dude got a boomerang. His Mom bought it for him at the Air & Space Museum in Washington, D.C. It was multi-colored and all the way from Australia.

He can only play with it outside. This makes him sad. He would like to play with it inside.

Little Dude let Twerpy Neighbor Child play with the boomerang.

Twerpy Neighbor Child threw the boomerang in a tree. His Dad got it down.

"Do NOT throw the boomerang near the trees or the neighbors or the roofs!" Mom told Little Dude and Twerpy Neighbor Child.

They listened, for a bit. Then they threw the boomerang at the front glass door of the 86-year-old neighbor lady. She was not pleased.

Today, Little Dude could not find his boomerang after Twerpy Neighbor Child came knocking, asking to play with it.

"Where is the boomerang? Where is the boomerang? Where is the boomerang??" Little Dude cried.

"Look around," Mom said. "Keep track of your toys."

He looked and looked and looked and couldn't find the boomerang. He was sad.

Mom found the boomerang. It was in the living room, next to the computer, in the open.

"Do not throw the boomerang near the trees or the neighbors or the roofs!" Mom said.

Five minutes later, Little Dude came in.

There was a problem. The boomerang "somehow" landed on top of the neighbor's roof.

"We should get a ladder!" Little Dude said.

Uh, no, Mom said. You were told not to throw the boomerang near the trees or the neighbors or the roofs. And where is it now?

"On the roof," he said.

Mom and Little Dude went to the neighbor's house to tell him there was a boomerang on his roof and when it eventually fell off, to please let them know.

This did not satisfy Little Dude.

"We need to call 911 and ask the fireman to get the boomerang down!"

Uh, no, Mom said. You were told not to throw the boomerang near the trees or the neighbors or the roofs. And where is it now?

"On the roof," he said.

And that is where it will stay, Mom said, until the wind blows it off.

"When will that be? When will it rain? when will there be wind?" Little Dude asked.

Soon, Mom said.

She hopes.

Meanwhile, she is keeping Little Dude away from ladders and roofs. Where the boomerang remains.

"How Did I Get Here?"

In the car, driving on Tyson Avenue, coming back from the doctor.

 "How did I get here?" Dad asked.

 "Where? Tyson Avenue? I didn't want to take Bustleton the whole way," I said.

"No, to this place I'm at," Dad said.

 Ah, a more existential "How did I get here," coupled with memory loss. He meant how did he wind up in an assisted living home.

 "Well, you were having trouble with the steps in your house. You kept winding up in the hospital for your tube and bag (catheter). You fell down the steps. You weren't eating right. And you didn't like being alone," I answered.

 I left out the part about him being robbed in the middle of the night.

"Oh, I see," he said.

 "You were very stubborn," I told him. "You didn't want to leave your house. You told me 'They are gonna have to carry me out of here!'"

 "I did?" he asked.

 "Oh yes," I said. "You did. But you like where you are. You like your room and TV and the meals and the nurses."

 "That's true," he said.

 "It was just hard getting you there," I said.

 "I am sorry about all that," Dad said. "I'll remember you in heaven," he joked.

"That's good, Dad, but while you are up there, send me some winning lottery numbers, too," I said. "That would be a bigger help."

"I'll see what I can do," Dad said.

Life As A Sandwich

Here is an essay I wrote for "Rowan Glassworks," the graduate literary magazine at Rowan University. It's about being part of the "sandwich generation" - women who care for their young children as well as their elderly parents. My essay starts on Page 9:

Open publication - Free publishing - More art

They asked the writers to reflect on their essays:
 
"Life as a Sandwich" My essay, "Life As a Sandwich," came out of my daily experience caring for my young son and my elderly father. The phrase "sandwich generation" is often bandied about as an apt description for those of us who care for children and parents at the same time. I remember thinking to myself: "This is a rotten sandwich."I just re-read the essay and am struck how honest and blunt I was. That is how I am as a journalist, but I usually write about things from my own life with a veil of humor. I am glad this essay came out as raw as it did. Clearly, I needed to say it. And people in my life needed to hear it.

An Ode to My 20s

I like these scrunchy ankle boots
I like Philadelphia
I miss Villanova
Do I like this guy?
Should I date this guy?
When will he call?
Screw it, I will call him.
He wasn't home.
Fuck him, I am going out dancing!
Beer
The Cure
Laugh
I like this guy
I love this guy
He dumped me
I hate myself
I hate my body
TV
Movies
Beer
I will  now call all my friends and cry
Depression
More crying
Feeling better
Fuck him, I am going out dancing!
Shoes
U2
Travel
I like myself
I like writing
I love writing
Laugh
Beer
U2
Why the hell are my parents so weird?
I like this guy
But I also like THIS guy
I will date both these guys!
Wait a minute, they both came to see me tonight at my apartment!
At the same time!
I think I will drink this whole bottle
Wine
Pick one guy
That was wrong
Pick the other guy
Move to a new apartment
Then another
Travel
I love him
He loves me
He dumps me
Cry
Call all my friends and cry
Beer
Write
Write more
Travel
Work
Work more
Why won't they fucking edit my story already so I can GO HOME?
Oh my God. It's the copy desk calling at 11 p.m.
The mall
Move to a new city
New job
Move again to another city
Beer
Karaoke
New job
New friends
Lots of friends
Laugh
Is every single one of my friends getting married?
Bridesmaid seven times
Sang "Ave Maria"
Sang it again
And again
I like this guy
Now this guy
Dumped
I hate him
I hate myself
Write a personal ad
Date
A lot
This time, I do the dumping
Beer
More writing
Am I any good at this?
Am I any good as a writer?
As a journalist?
I just wish I knew
Maybe I stink at this
I think I stink at this
No, I am good at this
My boobs look good
My boss hates me
Insomnia Anxiety Depression Therapy
No more beer
No more guys who make me cry
I like myself more now
I can write
Fuck it, I am gonna sing show tunes!

(My birthday is coming up soon. While I am not all that thrilled to be aging or to be over 40, there are MANY aspects of being older that are great. For one thing, a lot less angst! I know who I am, and what I am capable of, and how strong I am. I know I will survive. Hey, hey.)

Sean Holton's Half-Assed Guide to Journalism Mediocrity

Sean Holton

My former Orlando Sentinel colleague, Sean Holton, died today after battling brain cancer bravely and with an intact sense of humor. Sipping Jameson's probably helped too. Sean was a great editor, funny guy and very nice man, among many other things. He kept a funny and honest blog while he was sick and you can read it here.

Here is Sean's obituary from his friend Craig. Here is Jeff Kunerth's detailed and awesome obituary in the Orlando Sentinel. (There is also a Guestbook to sign).

In 2003, he created his "Half-Assed Guide to Mediocrity" and passed out copies to his fellow reporters and editors at the Sentinel. Thanks to Lisa Cianci and Mark Schlueb at the Orlando Sentinel for passing this along. It is good advice for my fellow journalists and my journalism students.

Your goal for today is to neither be half-assed nor mediocre. Oh and maybe to sip some Jameson's. Do it in memory of my friend, Sean.

SEAN HOLTON’S HALF-ASSED GUIDE TO MEDIOCRITY

(Version 3.0: Release date, Jan. 6, 2003)

40 ways to promote mediocrity

1. Don’t care.

2. Don’t try.

3. Be negative.

4. Tolerate mediocrity in others.

5. Rationalize mediocrity in yourself and others.

6. Hide out in your job.

7. Build up a small piece of your job into more than it is, and hide behind that.

8. Be blithe about your mistakes.

9. Hide your mistakes.

10. Make people afraid to admit and correct their mistakes.

11. Don’t connect the quality of everything you do to the quality of the overall paper.

12. Don’t connect the quality of your colleagues’ work to your professional self-interest.

13. Don’t respect deadlines.

14. Don’t learn and respect the newsroom process all the way through the copy desk.

15. Don’t make that next phone call.

16. Don’t read that story printout one last time to make sure everything is exactly right.

17. Believe “good enough” is actually good enough.

18. Dwell on the shit that flows downhill, and don’t set the fires that will burn uphill.

19. Kid yourself that mediocrity deserves an “achieves standards” review.

20. Take no responsibility for your decisions, especially the stupid ones.

21. Cultivate your own martyrdom and encourage martyrdom in others.

22. Be a duplicitous backstabber.

23. Relish the blame game.

24. Be afraid to speak your mind.

25. Be afraid to think big.

26. Be afraid to be an aggressive editor.

27. Be afraid to kick back a story when it’s not good enough.

28. Be afraid to be edited aggressively.

29. Throw a snit when a story is kicked back to you.

30. Hoard power.

31. Confuse power with leadership.

32. Manage through fear and control.

33. Kiss up to your bosses and kick down at your subordinates.

34. Treat full-grown adults like children just because they happen to work for you.

35. Forget about all the people around you who are working their asses off.

36. Don’t treat colleagues with professionalism and respect.

37. Don’t get reviews finished on time.

38. Make everything personal.

39. Take everything personally.

40. Bitch about the law of gravity.

I Want a Journalism Internship

I want a Journalism Internship
by: RandomReality
Here is a funny video I made about my sometimes-silly college journalism students.


The video has been viewed nearly 3,000 times (!!!). It was re-tweeted a bunch of times and the awesome Jim Romenesko did an interview with me for his column.

 

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Xtranormal: I want a Journalism Internship

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