Magazine Essays
The Sniper’s Sister, an essay for the SF Chronicle about my brother’s leave from Army service in Iraq, part one.
He was the same Emmet, only buffed. He zipped up the street on his tricked-out mountain bike, dismounting with unruly grace. He’d grown his hair well past Army-regulation length — it was fuzzy on the sides, like a puppy’s. Frayed cut-off corduroys stopped short of chiseled calves; a green T- shirt stretched across his muscled chest. He grinned with that brand of wry mischief that has always made my mother and me do whatever he pleased.
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The Sniper’s Sister, essay about my brother’s leave from Iraq, part two.
There were photos of Emmet holding a stray puppy his platoon had adopted, of his teammates loaded with 40 pounds of hand grenades in specially equipped vests, of the crew arrayed around the Stryker vehicle, the soon-to-be-dead platoon leader at the edge of the shot. Nothing remotely Abu Ghraib worthy, to my immediate relief.
And yet Emmet’s stories kept coming, about cars rushing toward the convoy, no way to tell if they were carrying bombs or if the driver was just plain scared. About swooping in on houses via Blackhawk in the middle of the night with only the most rudimentary language skills to help the soldiers find weapons, and physical force to fill in where words couldn’t. About women holding dead children in the street, little more Emmet’s team members could do but bandage wounds and stare with stricken faces.
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The Love Fast, published in O, The Oprah Magazine, September 2008:
“I walked into San Francisco’s Grace Cathedral on edge, full of worry. It was Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. Before I chose to be baptized into the Episcopal Church, in my mid-20s, I hadn’t even heard of the holy season of Lent; now it filled me with vague reverence—and befuddlement. In a few minutes I’d kneel at the altar rail, a priest drawing a smudgy black cross upon my forehead with his thumb and half whispering, Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Then would come the 40 days of penitence leading up to Easter, and with them a perplexing practice: 40 days of fasting.
Fasting confused me because it seemed in theory dark and serious—self-denial, self-punishment—and in action, totally trivial. As far as I could see, most churchgoers gave up something easy like chocolate or red wine, congratulated themselves for going without whatever they didn’t really need anyway, and then Easter came and they ate Godiva and drank Pinot and went on with their lives as before.
I wanted my life to be different.”
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Fear Factor: On San Francisco’s Commitment-Phobic Reputation, published in 7X7 Magazine, March 2010.
Despite the grass-is-greener tint, a picture of the SF singles scene emerged: The prevalence of online dating due to our tech leanings; the confluence of creative, migratory people; the area’s penchant for therapy (Joe had taken me to his therapist of 10 years to receive empathy for his commitment issues). It all amounted to a particular flavor of romance: one I was souring on.
But unless I was willing to up and move, what was I supposed to do about it?
Then one day it came to me—the obvious, that is. SF singles are trapped in this loneliness together. The women approach men as enemy combatants, and then wonder why they cower. The men sense the women’s disdain, and then wonder why they have trouble committing. We needed a cease-fire, and someone had to lay down arms first. Why not me?
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