CREATIVE NONFICTION: Philistines, by Whittier Strong

  Philistines Whittier Strong   T-shirts bearing offensive slogans are strictly forbidden. Shorts, hats, and jeans with holes in the knees may not be worn to class or chapel. For women, the hem of the skirt must fall below the knee at all times. The list of prohibitions went on and on. But nowhere in the Guide to Student Life was there any mention of how I must wear my hair. Throughout my high-school years, my mother didn’t allow my siblings and me to present ourselves in any way that might reflect poorly on her parenting skills. It didn’t keep me from dreaming, though. I had thought, perhaps, a streak of blue through my bangs, until a classmate talked me out of it. She was mindful of my tenuous place in the high-school food chain, and worried that such a style would appear too feminine. I could not appear feminine. But now, as a Bible-college freshman—an adult—I was at last granted follicular freedom. My school allowed its students the right to don mohawks, dreadlocks, and rainbow dye jobs on the premise that those of us who exercised this right were best equipped to evangelize those who dressed their tresses in...
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REVIEW: Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, Claire Schwartz

  Ross Gay is the author three books of poetry: Against Which, Bringing the Shovel Down, and, most recently, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude. The following book review concerns Ross Gay’s latest collection, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude (University of Pittsburgh Press, February 2015). By Claire Schwartz   Listen to me. I am telling you a true thing. This is the only kingdom. The kingdom of touching; The touches of disappearing, things. –Aracelis Girmay, ‘Elegy’     There are no elegies in Ross Gay’s Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude. There are, of course, odes: “Ode to Buttoning and Unbuttoning My Shirt,” “Ode to the Flute,” “Ode to Sleeping in My Clothes,” “Ode to Drinking Water from My Hands”—not to mention the other poems not bearing the label, but nonetheless awash with gratitude. Crocuses and bees and bagpipes and ‘the quick and gentle flocking / of men to the old lady falling down’ are sanctified by the brush and burrow of thankfulness. As their titles make clear, Gay’s odes dwell in the ordinary, but in the poems’ vast ecologies, the quotidian surges toward the cosmological. The act of buttoning and unbuttoning a shirt gives rise to a meditation on the hand’s other gentlest pursuits:...
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Battling Tsundoku and Charlie Rose

  Battling Tsundoku and Charlie Rose (An excerpt) By Alejandro Varela   Toni I ran into Toni Morrison once on a Beaux-Arts staircase in a sprawling building full of office suites, classrooms, and lecture halls shamelessly named after people whose primary accomplishment in life had been the accumulation of wealth. It was a couple of hours before a guest lecture that she was about to give, I later learned. The building was empty, except for her and I and her small retinue. She had an aura—nothing paranormal, but how could I possibly know for sure? Auras might be a natural consequence to having your voice validated so indisputably and overwhelmingly. Hi, she responded to my blank stare midway up the spiraled, neo-classical single helix. We shared the same step. We were Guanine. Paradise had just debuted to acclaim, but not the same acclaim of Beloved. I hadn’t read either. The next day I awoke steeped in regret. I’d missed a unique opportunity to embark on a lifelong friendship with a living legend. I set out to read all of Morrison’s books, in case there was a next time. The campus store didn’t have Tar Baby in stock, but I bought...
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