Twenty-two years and some number between one and 365 days before this article was published, I, William Pinke, bungee-jumped out my mother’s womb and into the world, a mindless, hairless, obese blank slate. I was given only four things that day: my name, my brain, my body, and a blanket. Since then, I have carried each through every stage of my development, but of the four only my name has remained unchanged.
There is a stain on our wall in Wilson and we haven’t spoken about it for a few days, my roommate and I. Streaked and coarse, a stain ground into the whitewash like graphite. It’s not visible if you don’t look for it, not something Building Services would fine us for. A stain, the length of two bobby pins held end to end. The diameter of a champagne grape. It doesn’t come out with Windex or Seventh Generation dish soap or OxiClean, left instead as a perpetual effigy of my fury and my guilt.
Spotted on Prospect Avenue: old white dudes trying to convert drunken college students to the Way of the Lord. Holding signs proclaiming, “Atheism is a temporary condition,” they spend the night stopping Street stumblers for fruitless conversations of the ecclesiastical nature.
Take off your underwire bra and your prison tattoos. Thank you. Put in these earplugs please. You’ll hear us; we’ll speak very loudly and with gestures.
The people who introduced us to everything “social” and all things “innovative” have political positions and ideological stances that impact policy in real and tangible ways. As the language of entrepreneurship creeps into our vernacular, the politics of the entrepreneurial class creep into the halls of government.
My last name is Sexton. I started Kindergarten a year early, so I was always younger than my classmates. With an extra year on their side, most of my classmates towered over me. In fourth grade, we played kickball in gym class, and whenever I would sock the ball real well and it would soar far, my stubby nine-year old legs worked their way around the diamond fast, while a group of my classmates would begin to chant, tons-of-sex, tons-of-sex.
Every muscle in my body tensed, and a knotted cocktail of fear and nerves pushed my stomach up into my chest. I wasn’t there to make a scene, but I prepared to transition to a sprint at a moment’s notice. I tried vainly to resist making eye contact, but neither of us could resist the strange magnetism of the other’s presence.
When I was young my mother would take me to the local theater for the free weekly movie. I watched everything they showed, sobbing through Peter Pan, laughing through Shrek 2, openly weeping at the death of Mufasa. It was my mom’s love of cinematic tales that really sparked my interest in film.
In the “About Us” section of their website, the creators of theSkimm proclaim: “We see ourselves as a part of a generation where women are out-earning men in paychecks and degrees. We’ve grabbed our seats at the table, now it’s time to Skimm to the head.” I researched the daily newsletter after it was recommended to me as something “super helpful” by my brother’s wealthy, educated girlfriend who works in an art gallery.
Philadelphia, 1962. “Dirty beatnik,” he muttered under his breath. Maurice Povich sat with his roommate on the balcony outside his dorm at the University of Pennsylvania. It was the night before graduation, and Al decided to light up a joint. … Read More
