trying to make sense of this crazy intersection of race and justice and safety and parenting and teaching.

There is a major difference between being not bad and being good.

Today is not a Monday or Tuesday. It is only Today. Tomorrow and yesterday share its Today-ness.

If the relationships don’t persist, did the teachers only care because they were paid to?

What I’ll never be okay with is an arbitrary 50 minute cage around the learning in my room.

Now the pile of non-related shittiness is sort of throbbing at me, begging to be aggregated.

Between the years of 2007 and 2016 my car had the word “Bitch” keyed into the hood. I left it there as a reminder.

It’s not an oxymoron: an Uneducated Gifted Kid.

That smart kid is more kid than smart.

Texas will always be my heart’s home. But my body lives in Minneapolis.

Drowning was elegant—everything was the same except now you’re dead.

Mr. Huey was not cool, not even a little bit.

When a dysthymic person has a bout of major depression, it's called double depression. I don’t have any single depression to compare it to.

I cannot stop eating gas station food, despite it being, you know, gas station food.

I would wake up looking a total mess, something like Encino Man, unable to find my clothes, languid and gawking at her.

Blonde hair, wavy, put up in a messy bun. Her jeans had a hole in the knee, and she was wearing an oversized camouflage jacket. It was 1997.

Linda stepped out of the car, bewildered, and began walking back to see what they hit. She thought it was a moose.

My Mother's Eulogy.

She was short. And compact. Like a rock climber or something, and I’m sure she climbed rocks sometimes.

We’d watch Bob Ross paint a “happy little forest,” and make fun of his speech and his afro, but never his paintings. We liked his paintings.