Posts Tagged ‘The First 100 Days’


After the end

April 29, 2017

So many hundreds of days from now, she found herself floating on a raft she made by strapping together things taken from her house before the water consumed it. Somewhere below her lay Florida. Above her, the sky had turned to haze.

She always thought she would give up at the end, let go when the government and her community and family were gone.

But she still had some drinking water and a compass, and she knew, somewhere north, America still rose above the waves. She clasped one fist overtop her paddle, and began to row.


Doe-eyed daughter

April 28, 2017

Doe-eyed daughter, you speak of women and children, of things they need to be secure. You sparkle in your ballgown. You share photos of your artfully arranged body on a carpet behind your son, hands folded next to a true world leader, your saddest face cheated out ever so slightly as you put your hand on the most solemn of memorials.

Do you think we don’t see your father’s ear bend toward your mouth? Do you think we miss what he says next? You may be beautiful, but you are still as transparent as your crystalline life.


Revolutionary thoughts

April 27, 2017

She walked along the top of the high wall, her arms out to balance her.

This isn’t easy, she said, and he nodded, following her path from road’s lower vantage point. But the view is much better.

They had left for their walk without phones, without anything to track their location. No one knew where they were.

I had forgotten what it felt like to know only one person was listening, she said.

He nodded, already worried she’d discover he was passing information through shadowy channels, telling them all her revolutionary thoughts.



April 26, 2017

We stood around the kitchen table listening to stories from that day’s march. Those of us who had not been there shared, guiltily, our reasons why—obligations and specific applications and children who might struggle in the crush of signs and long legs.

Assuming there’s a country left in which to march, we’ll be able to do it another year, one of us said.

That assumes there’s a world left in which to march, another replied.

There will always be a country left in which to march, said another. It’s just a question of what the consequences become.


Mothers without relief

April 25, 2017

I come to work as many things, the panelist said. As a black woman, as a lesbian. But my son just turned 18, and so, I come to work every day wondering if he will come home safely that night.

I think about my son teetering at the edge of a concrete platform, his terror-filled eyes locked on mine until he reset his balance. I can still summon the rising bile as I waited, out of reach, to see whether he’d plunge backward. I am grateful my fear was momentary; I am devastated for mothers who never get relief.



April 24, 2017

They summoned productivity experts, asked them how to achieve their goals. We have 100 days, they said. We have promised big things.

One expert suggested one day a week with no meetings, and another suggested picking one big thing to accomplish each day before breakfast. Another recommended a clear, calm mind, and they all had a good laugh around the conference table.

What are your priorities? one expert asked, and a senior staff member slid across a contract, sold like any campaign half-truth.

These are specific, measurable and time-bound, the expert said. But they certainly aren’t achievable or realistic.


No good choices

April 23, 2017

She had dreamed of learning to play the flute, of writing a sonata, or maybe even a symphony. But then the coughing began, and every day, her lungs grow more raw, and she knew she needed medical care, but it would cost more than she had saved.

She waited, and felt her pants slip around her hips, felt the gap between her skin and the billowy shirts that had once been fitted.

Why didn’t you come sooner? said the doctor with the saddest eyes.

There are no good choices, she said. I lost them all along the way.