Vagaries of English phraseology: A personal essay

Journey of an autistic through grammarland

My introduction to the world of academics was rather late, since I learned to communicate via typing for the first time in my life only after I was a teenager. I was stuck in a silent, noncommunicative world of autism until then.   My first attempts at typing were, at
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I Sea: A poem

Flow ocean — Wash away the shards of glass in my eyes And take with you the garnet currents gurgling out of my soul. So that I can finally find solace in slumber Without seeing his face looking back at me Me Me Who pushes past men and women dressed
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Not your inspiration

Muscle Memories

But I am not someone to look up to simply because of my experience with myasthenia gravis. In fact, focusing on that diminishes my other accomplishments.
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Garden bodies: A poem

I’m a redhead down there too. It’s coarse, curly and gleams golden and copper in the right light. Just the right length, overcrowded and protective. I thought it was beautiful until the world told me it wasn’t. So I brought an axe to the forest. No… more like the maple
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Instructions on Building a Home: A personal essay

An Armenian diasporan reflects on intergenerational trauma

I have been ripped out of nothing and tossed into a new world. The smooth arch of my eyebrow, the bump of my nose, the earthy tones of my skin proclaim a wealthy heritage of people crossing rivers and oceans to reach America. Their beauty is mapped onto my body
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Plaid tablecloth with heart shapes

The Fabric of Love: A poem

The Cosmos woven together Fabric of strings unseen Binding force knits the in-between Love is the Fabric of Life Interspersed in most everything This quite fascinating thing A verb, seldom a noun — never stands still! By thought, deed and action Just present in everything Love showered by Nature Upon
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Black Girl Magic

I see it in my sister’s face, when she smiles with that quiet grace I see it when I’m with my friends, and their supply that never ends   I see it in a stranger’s stare, attempting to find out precisely where It’s like they’re trying to figure out the
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san andreas: A poem

Tonight is a beautiful night to open old wounds. Re-examine the scars that have long since healed — barely visible, but still there, old haunts. They permeate like fault lines, quiet and unassuming until they’re not. Until one wrong move, one shift of the tectonic plates deep inside you, shakes
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Artist, interrupted

Work in Progress

Life is really funny: I watched “Girl, Interrupted” for the first time just a few weeks before I landed myself in a psychiatric ward a month and a half ago.
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Portuguese daydreams

Work in Progress

I was sitting in Portuguese 103 one dreary winter day last semester when it occurred to me — and this thought was not in English, but in the Portuguese-Spanish cocktail pseudo-dialect known as “Portunhol” — that I was, in that moment, a visitor to the Portuguese language.
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