BETA

Personal essays

One last stroke

On the first day of my seventh grade health class, we watched a documentary about parents who were afraid to talk to their children about sex. “I don’t know...

The flicker of home

My house, nestled quietly in a hill town of western Massachusetts, was built in 1790. Found among its many quaint relics of the past are sagging ceilings, dusty fireplaces,...

A bassoon of my own

I think I played piano from the ages of seven to nine, but I don’t recall studying Bach or Satie. The only pages I can remember gracing my instrument...

Outrunning failure

This summer, I started running again after a year-long interlude of sloth. Last September, I could never have imagined that I would be physically or mentally capable of beginning...

An American education

Less than a week into my internship at the New Haven Independent, I found myself emptying my pockets for a security guard at the city’s federal courthouse. The newspaper...

What’s in a name

“I don’t have chlamydia. And since I have no desire to acquire it, it would seem strange, at least according to conventional wisdom, for me to have any interest...

Learning to act

ACT I Such a shy girl was I, but not in the theater. At seven, as Dirty Dan, I memorized lines backstage, at home, and in my friend Miranda’s...

Burning at both ends

It’s cold out here. I wind my fingers tighter around a mug of green tea to keep them warm and pull my hat down another inch so it covers...

Dream small

My dad is a handyman. He works for himself, fixes leaky roofs, and renovates bathrooms. He gets jobs by word of mouth because he does nice work and because...