My daughter has her father’s white skin, her grandfather’s dark curls, but nobody is sure how she got her blue eyes.
All eighteen students in my College Writing course this fall showed up prepared and on-time for their 15-minute, one-on-one meetings with me during week three of the semester.
“Mainly, I wanted to avoid talking down to an audience of new readers. My teaching experience had convinced me that as long as the writing was concrete, as long as sentences were sharply honed, as long as ideas were connected clearly, as long as the pacing had some momentum–in other words, as long as the writing adhered to certain well-known standards for good writing across the board–new readers could respond to it.”
by Monique Daviau
Last summer, I convinced my friend Chris that he and I should drive from Brooklyn to East Hampton, Long Island, to place a bundle of asparagus on the grave of a poet he had never heard of. I hoped to be very convincing when explaining that Frank O’Hara was my favorite poet, meant the world to me, and that I needed to make the pilgrimage. Fortunately, Chris is always open to using his Zipcar membership to drive down to the tippy-tip of Long Island for a day of cemetery-going, and on the day we’d planned to take the trip, the sun was shining and it was almost as if the city were throwing us out. Go see Frank! As a bonus: perfect beach weather!
ONE DAY THE DOCTOR TELLS YOU YOU’RE BLIND
to the truth. It’s physical; something about
the retina, rods, and cones. Truth is a wave-
length in the spectrum you’re unable to detect.
All your life you’ve been compensating,
convincing yourself you could see what you
could not. Suddenly you’ve got questions