Women Writers on Body and Soul.
I notice the sharp angle of his knees, one elbow folded close, the other jutting out. What was he like back then: I have only two pictures of him as a boy in Worcester, Massachusetts, and never met his family now deceased. Why did his past seem so mysterious, so plagued by trauma?
Why did the place feel smudged by sadness, shuttered in silence and anger? What had happened so long ago to this man I love? Of course what I really want are the twists and turns of story, the little sidesteps of memory, hints of reckless affection or hidden vulnerability, a boy, perhaps, in dirty sneakers with a ripped elbow seam in his new winter jacket.
What was he like back then?
The bad kid, you know. This late-nineteenth-century building would be crumbling in places—perhaps water stains on the ceiling, the bathroom walls streaked with moisture, a cracked concrete step—but still recognizable as a Catholic school with its formidable nuns, its rules and regulations, its discipline based on hierarchy and order, the kind of absolutist authority a misfit kid in a wrinkled uniform and trouble at home would instantly resent.
Sometimes the gods had animal heads, the arrogant, hooked beak of an eagle, a falcon, a condor, something so scary and fine, he stared in silence. He loved these stories carved in stone and woven into cloth so much better than learning about dangling participles or the propagation of plants or the death of St.
Cecilia, even though the nuns insisted St. Cecilia survived a beheading, which, in itself, was very cool. Still, he came to the museum to stare at the bas-reliefs again and again, hanging out with the men going into battle, soldiers with defiant profiles, silent and stoic.
Then you fight the kids in your caste. But he knew the score: Not that the Sumerian soldiers gave a damn. He pretended the same. Stay Away From This Kid. He stopped squirming, a dark fury circling his brain as he shifted his gaze to the gaping kids, some with hands over their mouths to keep them from laughing, others zeroing in, sizing up a new target.
Automatically, he pressed his finger into an old bruise, one faded to yellow. It hurt only if he found its center, its secret heat. At eleven, he was small for his age but wiry and quick, with a good aim, a sharp tongue, a talent for remembering, and a sixth sense about the other kids. Within ten minutes of seeing a group of boys, he knew who would beat him up, who would jockey for attention, who would brag, gloating over victories, and who would try to fade into the woodwork—boys too small, too smart, too diverted to be anywhere but at the bottom of the pecking order.
He might be different, just a boy with curious blue eyes and a crew cut, sitting somewhere in the middle row, reading about the 54th Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry in the Civil War and trying not to stare out the window at the squirrels chasing each other through the elm trees like bored, restless kids.
Immediately, he was singled out. A problem to be solved? A problem to be punished?
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A problem about to become a bigger problem? The boy in the second row held out a finger to jab him as he passed. The girl with the freckled face who sat beside him pulled in her skirts as if even touching him might make her a problem too.
He sat very still, seething, though he pretended indifference, only doing what everyone else did, flipping to page 29 and reading to page 35, then opening his arithmetic workbook for exercises one through ten, though he was only waiting, waiting for school to be out, waiting to run clear of its boundaries, waiting to create his own surprise.
When the last bell rang, he darted out of class, racing across the street, and then slowed as he came to a nearby neighborhood, where he stopped in Sprags to browse the comics, count how many sodas he saw through the glass door of the fridge, watch the people buying newspapers and cigarettes, teenagers jostling each other, laughing, flirting.
Only near dusk did he dare walk back toward the school. He idled, gazing in the windows of stores, at the display of fishing hooks, Monopoly and Sorry! Squatting down, he thought of his favorite bas-relief, the one of the Sumerian soldiers: He was one of them now, dressed in their armor, the hooded cap, the protective cape, a shiny brass plate pressing hard against his thick chest.
Like them, he carried a weapon, though his were merely rocks stuffed in his pocket. Hidden, he watched the doors.patricia foster building the basic essay reading essays critically paper airplane research paper photography criticism essays parts of expository essay research paper online sources.
RidgeOrew Mensajes: Registrado: Dom Feb 21, pm. Arriba. Publicar una respuesta. "Understanding the Essay is a magnificently intelligent examination of the essay's diverse pleasures, with fresh, revealing looks at writers from Montaigne to David Foster Wallace. Bravo to Patricia Foster and Jeff Porter for providing .
Book patricia foster building the writer if image: 5: 15 we were recently laid abroad, write about scientific writing a sizeable income. Show you a simple ordering experience and most. Difficulties with a global media company, and make a 4-year college essays in simple to write about. Renée Kathleen Zellweger (/ r ə ˈ n eɪ ˈ z ɛ l w ɛ ɡ ər /; born April 25, ) is an American actress and caninariojana.com has received critical acclaim and numerous accolades, including an Academy Award, a BAFTA Award, three Golden Globe Awards, and three Screen Actors Guild caninariojana.com was also named Hasty Pudding's Woman of the Year in , and established herself as one of the.
Norman Foster was born on June 1, in Manchester, England. An only child with an avowed interest in structures and design, he grew up in a working-class neighborhood and left school at the age.
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