Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
There were tattoos on his forearms. Not the new kind of fancy tats, multi-colored and expensive. These were a few grades below battleship tattoos. Crudely done. Almost like the inkwork inmates give themselves with guitar wire and BIC pens.
I was blue. I had just watched the news. Wars were raging. Bombs were dropping. People dying. All God’s children were bickering over the price of rice in China in the rain.
Dear Young Writers, You know who you are. You’re reading this on your phone, computer, tablet, or maybe a soggy newspaper you found in a gutter.
“Dear Sean,” the notecard began. The handwriting was very neat. “My name is John. I’m 14 years old… And I know your really busy but my dad committed suicide like yours. Maybe you can tell me what to do or be my friend. Love, John.”
A little girl. I see her in hotel lobby. She is maybe 10 years old. She has her luggage with her. Her gait is severely uneven and labored. She is having a difficult time traversing the lobby.
I was eleven. I was invited to try out for the Christmas community choir. A lady visited our church to conduct the auditions.
I had been practicing for three weeks, learning the lyrics to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
Dear Tara, I heard that your cancer has spread. They tell me you’ll need to undergo some invasive surgeries, not least of which is a mastectomy. They tell me you’re frightened.
It is the Gatlin Brothers 70th anniversary concert, and every Nashville A-list celebrity you can think of is here. I am supposed to do a song with everyone at the end. Larry Gatlin told me to bring my banjo. But I’m experiencing a bad case of “tiny banjo syndrome” right now. I don’t belong here. I don’t know how to act around famous people.
There I am, watching him. He sits on the steps of the Shell Station. A backpack beside him. His skin is rawhide. His beard is white.
JOHN—My angel story takes place when my wife was dying, and I watched everything go downhill in a matter of months. And every night, I would hear a voice tell me “You can get through this, John.”
Yeah, I believe in angels. I haven’t always. And sometimes I wish I didn’t believe. It would be easier not to.
The old man showed up to visit his granddaughter in the pediatric oncology wing of the hospital. He walked into his granddaughter’s hospital room. The little girl’s face turned 101 shades of thrilled.
Sometimes you meet people. People you feel like you’ve met before. Strangers whom you’ve mysteriously known all your life.
Somehow
I don’t know her name. I don’t know anything about her. She is a sign language interpreter. That’s all I know. She sits onstage during tonight’s keynote address for the Savannah Book Festival. She is translating speech into ASL. She interprets for upwards of an hour.
Her name is Joeann. She works at the Hampton Inn in Jackson. She tends the dining room, making the breakfasts, and cleaning off tables. She is easy to talk to.
Somewhere in Louisiana. The Best Western. It’s late. The temperatures are freezing. I cannot feel my extremities. I am pretty sure the rock rolling around inside my shoe is my toe.
To the woman who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. The woman whose particular cancer, the doctor said, is the “bad kind.” Whatever the hell that means. Is there a “good kind” of breast cancer?
The sun is shining in Austin, Texas. The hotel dining room is full of young people for breakfast. They are all tourists. I can tell this because they are wearing T-shirts that say things like: “Austin is Special.”
Today is National Puzzle Day. So, I bought a jigsaw puzzle at the grocery store. The box features an ornate cathedral with red roses and blossoming foliage. The cathedral is in Germany. The puzzle cost $9 bucks. I almost choked on my gum.
The transmission of her car has given out. Every day, she hitches a ride to work because she is broke.
She works hard. Too hard. And when she’s not cooking in the kitchen of the medical rehab, delivering trays to patients, she’s a full-time single mother.