Personal Essays, Reviews, & Journalism

WBUR: In Praise of the Public Pool

When my son Finn wants to go to the pool he will point at a swimsuit. It doesn’t have to be his swimsuit. It could be mine, or his sister’s, or even a just beach towel left by the door. Without the benefit of language typical of boys his age — 14 going on 15 — Finn still makes his wants known. And he wants to go swimming.

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WBUR: The $50 I can never spend

On a recent deep clean to pass the hours stuck inside, I unearthed a bill in the back of my desk drawer. I turned to my husband, Jeff: “Look, here’s that $50 I can’t spend!”

I’ve had this $50 bill since 2006. Before that, it was my maternal grandfather’s. After my mom died in a freak car accident when I was three, I spent every summer at her parents’ home in Kewanee, a small town in central Illinois. My grandfather was the chief radiologist at the local hospital. Most people knew him as Dr. Binder, my grandmother called him Paul. I called him Grumpa.

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Thank You, Lawrence Ferlinghetti

When Lawrence Ferlinghetti died this week at age 101, nearly one month shy of his 102nd birthday, many of my friends, even writer friends, expressed surprise on social media. I didn’t even know he was still alive! Indeed, Ferlinghetti outlived all the younger Beat writers he once published, including Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, and Greg Corso.

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Lit Hub: Are Children of Queer Families More Than Allies?

My 11-year-old daughter Annabel and I were stuck in rush hour traffic driving from our home in Cambridge to an event in Brookline when Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side started playing on the radio. Sitting in the front seat, with Annabel in the back, I cursed the quality of Boston driving under my breath then got lost in Lou Reed’s verses to Walk on the Wild Side, a song which I’d long ago learned by heart…

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Longreads: Memories of a Singular San Francisco Girlhood

I called him Eddie Body. At four years old, language was my playground. “Eddie Body’s not anybody! Eddie Body’s not anybody!” I’d repeat, relishing the near symmetry of the sounds. Eddie Body was Dad’s new boyfriend, his first serious relationship after our move to San Francisco in 1974. There’d been different men—good-looking men, funny-looking men, almost always tall and skinny and young—that I found in Dad’s bed in the mornings. But it was different with Ed. He was the only one with whom I became close. He is the only one I can remember. We spent six months living with Eddie Body. I loved him.

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