My father moved to Itacoatiara, a small town neighboring Manaus, capital of the state of Amazonas, in 1987 and for five months the Amazon Rainforest was his home. As we read about the most recent fires in the region, now three decades later, my dad paints me a picture of a completely different Amazônia.
It was a brisk but sunny day in the spring semester of 2016, in a Forms of Love seminar on the Symposium taught by Geoff Lehman, when my approach to my studies shifted entirely. The Republic, I admit, to my enduring shame, did little to convince me of its worthiness of study, but Beauty — ah!
Especially when fighting from the margins, it is imperative to be seen. And especially when having a platform — no matter its size — it is imperative for writers to bring those issues out from the margins and offer public support. That is what writing means to me.
I think creative writing can’t be taught, and so does Clare, probably. And probably so does every well-established writer in Buenos Aires.
I joined the cafeteria staff on a Wednesday this past semester for part of the day to see how they prepare meals for hundreds of students and staff members every day.
(Sick) boy meets (sick) girl. They fall in love. It ends in tragedy. It’s a story I’ve heard many times. Hollywood has a way of recycling narratives and tropes that have been moneymakers in the past, and I can hardly blame them. You have to do what works, right?
You kept thinking about this concept of a Berlin family ever since your mom said it. You felt that she was right. More than just being incredibly fun and laughing at your jokes, these friends were there for you when you needed them, and you have tried to do the same for them.
I firmly believe in the untapped energy of the M1 line: Along the tram tracks are some real jewels that are often ignored in favor of venues elsewhere in the city that require long, complicated transport routes. In this piece, we’re having international cereal, commiserate book burnings, and do some magic tricks.