On the first Sunday of October in 1988, Mr. and Mrs. Suzuki drove my suitcases to the next homestay family, the Yashiros; I followed behind on my 50cc Honda Tact. Mr. Yashiro— a busier carpenter than Mr. Suzuki, judging by his absence— had built a home for his family with amenities like climate control in every room. In the front hall bathroom, he had also installed a washlet: an evolved toilet that directed a jet of cleansing water in the direction of my butt at the tap of a remote control. The …
Crunchy
After my mother dreamt that the cow she was eating was her own mother, bovine eyes terrified and crying, we went vegetarian. Tofu, tempeh, and seitan had yet to catch on in Atlanta, so she replaced our 8-ounce reusable container for bulk grind-your-own crunchy peanut butter with a 16-ounce jar. Creamy peanut butter epitomized the normal life I just knew was better. Jif’s predictably standard smell represented clothes bought from the Gap, not stitched together interior design scraps my …
Making Friends in Adulthood:
Why We Never Leave Seventh Grade Shortly before turning 50, I had an epiphany. It wasn't one of those full-blown, Network-style, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!" moments. I didn't wake up one day and suddenly decide that I needed to leave my husband or quit my job or move my family across the ocean. I'd already done two of those before turning 40, anyway. My revelation was physical in nature. After spending more than 30 years as a casual runner, my …
The Eleven Directions of Kansas
The author makes no claim as to the sanity, safety, or legality of any of the practices described in the following. Readers are advised to exercise common sense before attempting any of the practices here described while driving a motor vehicle. When the Kansas Turnpike opened in 1956, it was a magical passage through the Flint Hills. As a six-year-old from Wichita, I knew nothing of the concerns of ranchers, farmers, or the Department of Transportation. The Turnpike and the Flint Hills were …
Onizuka Street
I came down to Blues Alley tonight, where they serve things like steak and potatoes, and bread and butter. The menu is intentionally hearty, as if to tell us that this is the kind of relief a night here is supposed to provide. I’m not sure what it is I’m searching for relief from, but I did wake up this morning drenched in sweat, and with a sore chest to boot, as if a little gremlin had been out there overnight dancing from muscle fiber to muscle fiber while trying to rid me of a troubling …
Unmarked Car
Can I turn the canyon into a trampoline? I would say this is every writer’s quest, but Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf did not face an invisible amphitheater of internet editors. I envy my weird sisters of old, writing for joy and survival. They writhed with humid words. They were offered no shade from a masthead. They lacked the green visors of style guides. Out under the awning, they were driven to prophecy. Publication was a dandelion on a far continent. If their words …