February 2018 – Michigan Quarterly Review

February 2018

Writing My Way into Jewishness

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The thing about identity is, people are always trying to define who you are for you, to tell you what you mean. And we should be interrogating our positions in society, our privilege relative to our oppression, but we should also be skeptical of those who insist we are definitively one thing or another.

Writing My Way into Jewishness Read More »

The thing about identity is, people are always trying to define who you are for you, to tell you what you mean. And we should be interrogating our positions in society, our privilege relative to our oppression, but we should also be skeptical of those who insist we are definitively one thing or another.

“Here at the Starlight Motel,” by Andrea Barrett

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He’s brown-eyed and big: six-foot three, two-thirty or so, and running a little to fat, which I never liked in a man but didn’t much mind in him. He has beautiful hands, and a smile that says everything’s easy. And although he’s only twenty-eight, not much older than me, he has a wife and three kids and a beat-up car with a baby-seat in the back. He has responsibilities.

“Here at the Starlight Motel,” by Andrea Barrett Read More »

He’s brown-eyed and big: six-foot three, two-thirty or so, and running a little to fat, which I never liked in a man but didn’t much mind in him. He has beautiful hands, and a smile that says everything’s easy. And although he’s only twenty-eight, not much older than me, he has a wife and three kids and a beat-up car with a baby-seat in the back. He has responsibilities.

“Tourist at the Sisters of Charity,” by Gabriela Garcia

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She cried and I painted. And when I was finished,
she wiped that still-wet hand on my pants, left

streaks of drying varnish stinking the air.
Held her hand toward me. Said, again. Again.

“Tourist at the Sisters of Charity,” by Gabriela Garcia Read More »

She cried and I painted. And when I was finished,
she wiped that still-wet hand on my pants, left

streaks of drying varnish stinking the air.
Held her hand toward me. Said, again. Again.

Remembering the Forgotten Woman: The Twentieth-Century Life of Etta Moten Barnett

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To forget Etta Moten is to miss the chance to celebrate a life as eventful as the twentieth century she traversed, an American biography that boasted not only a second act but a third and a triumphant fourth.

Remembering the Forgotten Woman: The Twentieth-Century Life of Etta Moten Barnett Read More »

To forget Etta Moten is to miss the chance to celebrate a life as eventful as the twentieth century she traversed, an American biography that boasted not only a second act but a third and a triumphant fourth.

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