My son Anthony Sterling Rodgers, who I called “Lali,” died in my arms on the night of January 11, 2005. He was exactly six months old.
In terms of his eyes, they were blue.
I have never felt such fierce love as I did for Lali. He was a pure spirit of love.
It was my second day of work at Beyond Shelter and I had stayed late to meet the board of directors. It was also one of the rainiest periods in Los Angeles history and I struggled to drive home in near-hurricane conditions.
Twenty minutes before I got…
I was an independent student on full four-year scholarships during my undergraduate years at Scripps College, an “elite” liberal arts college for women in Claremont, CA. This college is one of the five Claremont Colleges, a high-priced group of schools theoretically based on Oxford’s college system. Scripps is often noted as one of the most physically beautiful campuses in the U.S.
I was sexually preyed upon by a Scripps faculty member (now deceased) and I was raped by one of his friends, who at the time, was the chair of Pomona College’s literature department. This man, too, is now deceased.
Unlike some of my school friends who found schoolwork to be fast and easy and who got angry or bored when class moved too slowly for them, I never felt resentful that other kids took longer. If I finished a lesson early, I could easily entertain myself or find other things to do. I even — get this — would take time out to help others or cheer them up if they were frustrated.
And I’m not angry or bored right now. But I feel vastly different about what is taking place so very quickly around and to us.
I’ve kept my mouth shut about the “Karen” thing except for a brief mention in my recent article about how Joe Biden’s crude, animalistic dominance behavior over female adults and children is overlooked by his enthusiastic upper-middle-class white supporters.
I get the “Karen” stereotype. Now that I have short hair again, I regularly get called “Karen” by Red and Blue MAGA alike whenever I question any of their deeply-held assumptions and cultural tenets.
Every time I see the “Karen” stereotype I think of my school friend Karen. This girl was one of the nicest, most caring, generous and humble friends…
I finished what I regarded as the best book of my life in 2013, right before I met my husband (in person). I wrote this book with all the passion of a woman in love, a woman who in a way, invented the man she loved and — indeed. Bruce is Broos.
I’ve always believed that the majority of humans share common feelings and experiences. I believe that the things we think separate us, are in reality, common experiences. When I rail against elitists, I am railing at that part of myself, the part that wanted to be “elite.” I…
All we want is happiness
We don’t want your dirty cash
We just want to live our lives
Without an endless money dash
The things we value
Your money can’t buy
We’re not the same as you
We have no need to lie
We don’t ever get a charge
From putting others down
We believe that living large
Means lots of friends in our town
We may hate school
Because it wastes our time
We don’t need to follow rules
That cover up your crimes
We don’t believe in telling
Others what to do
Taking but never giving To enrich…
It’s not a lot of fun being a survivor of sexual assault or escaping a close brush with a killer CHP officer who targeted young blonde women. When I visited Washington, DC in 1993 to testify (pointlessly, uselessly) in the “Welfare Reform” process, I was afraid to go because of the already-bad reputation of then-President Bill Clinton and his Vice President Al Gore. A little-known politician at the time, much better-known now, spent the boring time of my useless testimony and Q & A trying to see up my skirt. His name? Andrew Cuomo.
At least for me, it’s hard to eat right, exercise enough, and feel good about myself if my feelings aren’t in the right place. I had an unpleasant experience recently. Years ago, events like these would have set me back for months, and maybe even years. I can still remember bad things that happened to me when I was young. These seem laughably trivial in hindsight. For example, my grandparents liked to go to Solvang, a small Danish tourist town north of Santa Barbara. There’s lots of pictures of four- or five-year-old me riding in the front of the “Danish…
Discussing the history of propaganda with a charming, cultured friend on the birdsite this a.m., I received a phone notice about a Medium story with this title: “I Lost My Best Friend of Two Decades to Trump” by Felicia C. Sullivan.
I was going to read it, because way back in 2015 corresponding with one of my best writing friends ever, I made the awful error of commenting, “I don’t think Trump is all that stupid — I watched several episodes of the first season of The Apprentice and he actually gave some pretty good — bzzt!”
— -auuughahhhhh augguuaahhhh…
What does a cute dog on the phone have to do with service stations of the future? Bear with me: I hope you’ll like the journey and its destination.
I barely remember the service stations of old. I can pull up small, distant memories of 33 cent gasoline, the Sinclair dinosaur, Phillips 66 signs, and service station attendants who washed the windows, filled the tank, and helped in emergencies. I remember driving to Palm Springs with my grandmother and a sandstorm that pitted our windshield and forced us to stop at one such station in Whitewater. I recall a trim…
According to Harlan Ellison and my grandmother, “You’ll go far Amy, because you have heart.” Author of 40 books, former exec., Nebula Award nominee, Poor.