I think back to the tailgate: the man blowing cigar smoke in my face, the man who mockingly yelled, “Thanks for letting us use your name!”, the group who yelled at us to “go the fuck home,” the little waif who threatened to cut me, the dude who blew the train horn on his truck as I walked by the hood. I think of all of that, and I think back to O’Dell crying and trying desperately to get out of the room full of calm Natives. I thought she was crying because she was caught unawares and was afraid. But I realized that was her defense mechanism, and that by overly dramatizing her experience, she continued to trivialize ours. It was privilege in action. And as I realized these things, something else became incredibly clear: She knew she was wrong.
Blogs I Follow
- Chang-Rae Lee’s On Such a Full Sea is a readable dystopia that really pushes the reader to think hard
- Enjoyed Cynthia Ozick’s story “The Coast of New Zealand” in The New Yorker
- Boneland by Alan Garner
- Encadrement du responsable du centre multimédia de Houndé (CMH) sur les techniques de rédaction des livres pour enfants
- Funny in Farsi by Firoozeh Dumas
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