Frida Kahlo and My Left Leg is not a linear narrative, it circles back to loss--both Rapp Black and Kahlo are amputees--but the the loss here is not that simple.
When I was eight, I started to become obsessed with the Holocaust. I read every book I could get my hands on voraciously and would often go to the library checking out enough books on the subject that I was asked if I was doing a report. And the obsession never left. To this day, I am working on an advanced degree on the Holocaust and also work with Holocaust survivors in the local community.
I’d heard The March of the Brigadier General, courtesy of Miss Simon several times. Jaunty, is how she described it. “Practice those staccato notes,” she’d said.
I’d heard The March of the Brigadier General, courtesy of Miss Simon several times. Jaunty, is how she described it. “Practice those staccato notes,” she’d said.
The MRI room reminded me of the Chilean miners, trapped for days without light or contact with the “real” world, struggling to stay sane while facing off with death in a very small space.
Extending deeper for many women and girls, the crux of period poverty is caused by the long-standing cultural stigma that menstruating women are dirty.
After twelve hours of standing, gravity pulled blood into the veins of my feet, my ankles, my calves. I felt as if there were weights in my shoes––I was tired.
I have spent so long trying to gauge my boss’s taste, making recommendations and edits based on what I think she wants to see, that I have no idea what to tell people when they ask me what I’m hungry for.
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