At the beginning of my sophomore year, I was on the phone with my grandmother when she asked me if I’d gotten a term-time job. “Yes,” I answered her. “I’m stripping at CRG.”
When faced with uncomfortable displays of grief or jealousy-inducing accomplishments, bearing witness is the bravest act of love.
I hesitate to call “Dictee” anything but an autobiography. It is nothing if not a lifetime condensed into pages, a reclamation of all that is lost in translation.
As I felt pounds of my hair slide off my head, I cast my mind wildly for a positive spin on my new reality. But I could latch on to only one thing: At least this would be the beginning of something new.