Gil Roth of The Virtual Memories Show talks with Charles Bivona about his evolution on Twitter.
It was several years before I joined her Dominican family, when I found myself in the backseat of a bigot.
“I’m no expert,” she reminded me for the second time in the conversation, “but life used to be about what you did for other people.”
High stakes writing is writing that counts, for a grade or some other value judgment. Low stakes writing is what you try to do to get yourself started.
It was one of those meetings in which a person comes to you for advice, praises your expertise and accomplishments for the first fifteen minutes, and then contradicts everything you say about your field of expertise for the next forty-five.
I used to skim five newspapers every day, digesting all the headlines and reading up on developing stories. That was before Twitter.
She graduated from one of the better-known journalism programs in the early 90s, used her business savvy to land herself a sweet job, used her charm and her talent to earn the beat she’d always wanted: Global Warming.
I remember a long bus ride to Washington D.C., en route to march in protest of the coming Iraq War. It was early 2003.
Years before my life without you, we were leaving the supermarket we worked for, heading out to look for drinks, to meet women, when you spotted one staggering to her knees outside the adjacent drug store.
Last week I told my students that I used to be suicidal. We were thirty minutes into discussing Kafka’s Metamorphosis.
Someone in the back of the class muttered what I assumed many others were also thinking.
Through my four years of college, and for one year after graduation, I worked in the meat department of a local grocery store.
At a lecture, presentation, orientation, whatever, quietly speed tapping notes into a word-processing app on my phone.
It was a simple shot—casual, yet dynamic. The reporter would speak his lines while strolling through Zuccotti Park. But Zuccotti Park was not cooperating.
War is still eating our families.
I walked into the NJ Peace Action annual dinner, a notebook in my hand, my head full of activism.