Libby Day was seven when her mother and two sisters were murdered in “The Satan Sacrifice” of Kinnakee,Kansas.” She survived and famously testified that her fifteen-year-old brother,Ben,was the killer. Twenty-five years later,the Kill Club,a secret secret society obsessed with notorious crimes locates Libby and pumps her for details.They hope to discover proof that may free Ben.Libby hopes to turn a profit off her tragic history:She’ll reconnect with the players from that night and report her findings to the club for a fee.As…
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The following post is about ambivalence and remembrance. It is comprised of unstructured vignettes, loosely tied with my thoughts on identity, family, and cultural legacy. These thoughts were inspired by the fact that today is April 24, and we are 100 years removed from the beginnings of the Armenian Genocide.
I am not an authority on the Armenian Genocide. I can only speak from my perspective as a fourth-generation descendant of someone who lived through it. There are numerous scholarly, pop, and fiction texts on the subject, as well as recent media coverage of the history and current issues surrounding remembrance. I encourage you to read widely.
Here we are.
A century removed from the dawn of a genocide that massacred individuals, stolen family legacies, and endangered an entire culture.
Here we are. Here. Now.
We are, still.
The nation-state of Turkey does not publicly refer to the atrocities…
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When I stay in a hotel, there is a tacit agreement that I (the guest) will pretend to not know that someone slept in the bed and used the room before me, and in return they (the hotel) will do everything they can to remove any evidence that somebody has been in the room prior to my arrival.
A stay in a hotel is, in its way, something akin to the willing suspension of disbelief.
If we both comply with that little bit of fantasy, it tends to work. But, ultimately, we are all playing a role – actors in a piece of theatre that allows us to dismiss the uncomfortable reality of the situation.
Life is a little bit like that. We go through life playing particular roles that suit the circumstances, while processing information that seems to help us to understand our little piece of existence, and ignoring information (whether…
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By Jon Weisman
In 2007, I wrote the following piece for SI.com on what it was like for Jackie Robinson on April 15, 1947.
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For most of us who didn’t live through Jackie Robinson’s first day in the major leagues, black and white images have embedded it in our memories. A stark snapshot of Robinson in his Brooklyn Dodgers cap, or frames of newsreel footage showing him running the bases.
According to Jonathan Eig’s new book, Opening Day: The Story of Jackie Robinson’s First Season, when Robinson awoke early that day at Manhattan’s McAlpin Hotel, the sight before him, his wife, Rachel, and five-month-old son, Jack, Jr., was vivid and suggested anything but the historic day that was upon him.
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My mother’s first husband, who was the first mentally ill person I ever met, rents storage spaces all over D.C. He saves in crate after carton after crate: paper towel tubes, his son’s second grade science projects and college term papers, broken air conditioners, hammers, screwdrivers, curtain rods, weights, spatulas, pots and pans, old cans of paint, drills, sandwich bags, magazines and books and paper clips, window panes and big, long rolls of pink insulation and leather gloves and half-empty cans of shoe polish and arm chairs and tube tops and baby aspirin and vinyl records as well as the files of the court records (as well as their Xeroxes) of what was said before the judge between he and my mother more than forty years ago. When I saw him a couple of years ago, he was standing in my sister’s dining room organizing boxes of National Geographic, which…
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