Sara Watson > Recent Status Updates

Her mind returns again and again to the questions posed by the man who spoke earlier today: Who can name a death that was not tragic? Is there a way for us to find the meaning in the losses we’ve suffered? Who can say that one soul has a heavier grievance than another? We were all victims. We need to forgive each other.

…again. She done so grudgingly. Sometimes everything you do is just pointless and as in effective of shouting into the wind.”

…my consolation had come from knowing I was giving my daughter, the best education possible. She was smart and ambitious. She knew things I would never know. But now I saw other realities: you can do everything for a child. You can encourage her to read and do her math homework. You can forbid her to ride a bike, giggle, too much, or see a boy. I just asked her to promise she wouldn’t see Yo-chan or Mi-Ja…

being punished by your anger.”

“But how can I forgive Mi-Ja after what happened to them? I live with that every day.” “We all see that now, and we all feel sorry for you, but everyone on the island was hurting those terrible years. You’re more than some, but also less than others. They did this to me. They did that to me. A woman who thinks that way, we’ll never overcome her anger. You are not being punished before your anger. You’re..

What I am saying is that killing happened on both sides here on Jiju and on the Korean mainland. Guilty and innocent died every day across our country. This has been happening for years now. Imagine that for a moment. Day after day. Month after month. Seeing and smelling death, while mothers still trying to feed, clothes, and comfort their children.

At the school, my son‘s confidence amazes me. Most of the new kindergarten children are clinging to their mothers, but Bobby saunters toward his classroom without a backward glance. At the last moment, he remembers me, sprinting back to whisper in my ear, “Will you be all right without me?“
No, Bobby. Let’s go home. We’ll try this another day, I manage not to say.

Lila has no maid of honor and Phoebe has never been a maid of honor. It has always been a mark of shame for her, that no woman in this world was willing to claim her.

But Phoebe is starting to understand that on some nights, Lila is probably the loneliest girl in the world, just like Phoebe. And maybe they’re all lonely. Maybe this is just what it means to be a person. To constantly reckon with being a single being in one body. Maybe everybody sits up at night and creates arguments in their head for why they are the loneliest person in the world.

Grace could have cheerfully stuffed the bitch in her own icebox and sunk it into the Volga. Where were the secret police with their pliers and cement blocks when you needed them?

Those of us who shout the loudest about Americanism in making character assassinations are all too frequently those who, by our own words and act, ignore some of the basic principles of Americanism.

“The trick of life, as I see it now, is to make what’s around you beautiful. It’ll grow from there. Took me a long time to see that.”

We were like all young people in that way, in full belief that we were revolutionizing the human experience. Those older models, all failures; let us show you how real living is done!

I looked at one woman who might have been intrigued by me or taken with me, the entertainer. I saw the surface of her, merely the outer shell, and realized that she was near surface all the way to her core.

“It’s a horrible world. White people try to tell us that everything will be just fine when we go to heaven. My question is, Will they be there? If so, I might make other arrangements.“ Easter laughed.

After being cruel, the most notable white attribute was gullibility.

Religion is just a controlling tool they employ and adhere to when convenient.

They wrestled clumsily about, giggled. Those boys couldn’t sneak up on a blind and deaf man while a band was playing.

Dad made a good living, and our house in Berkeley had every material possession. We could possibly need or want. But what we could never buy was chaos and bustle. We locked noise, and strife, and the joy of overstuffed plates, because everyone insisted that their favorite dish be made. Just inside their door we were pulled like metal to magnets into the madness.

We’re not 18, babe. We’re not coming into this without a few chinks in our armor. I don’t expect you to have room in your heart for me only.

I never got to fall out of love. I just had to move on when she walked out.

Treat your body carefully. Take care of it. Don’t let anyone abuse it and don’t abuse it yourself. Every inch of your skin I made diligently, months I slaved over you. You are my masterpiece.

Memory is a wicked thing that warps and twists. But paper and ink recurve the truth without emotion, and they read it back without partiality. That, I believe, is why so few women are taught to read and write. God only knows what they would do with the power of pen and ink at their disposal.

Memory is a wicked thing that warps and twists. But paper and ink recurve the truth without emotion, and they read it back without partiality. That, I believe, is why so few women are taught to read and write. God only knows what they would do with the power of pen and ink at their disposal.

I’m afraid of life.”

If you haven’t experienced it, it’s easy to fool yourself into believing that it could never happen. That was how people could look through you, how you became invisible. Because your story didn’t exist. ‘But they’re the physical wounds. They heal over time. Imperfectly, maybe, but they heal. It’s the constant fear he’s left me with. That’s the wound that won’t heal. I’m not just afraid of him,

If you haven’t experienced it, it’s easy to fool yourself into believing that it could never happen. That was how people could look through you, how you became invisible. Because your story didn’t exist. ‘But they’re the physical wounds. They heal over time. Imperfectly, maybe, but they heal. It’s the constant fear he’s left me with. That’s the wound that won’t heal. I’m not just afraid of him,

“I’m giving you the abbreviated version. My father’s alcoholism is like a footnote to every chapter of my life. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be free of it.”

The camp has been locked up all winter… The mice have made their annual nest in the silverware drawer. Mouse shit in the fork tines, afterbirth on the teaspoons.