Akron Quotes

Conner Lassiter. Scheduled to be unwound the 21st of November-until you went AWOL. You caused an accident that killed a bus driver, left dozens of others injured, and shut down an interstate highway for hours. Then, on top of it, you took a hostage AND shot a Juvey-cop with his own tranq gun." ..."He's the Akron AWOL?!

I think that ’twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. —Words popularly attributed to SOJOURNER TRUTH, the Woman’s Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio, 1851

He could think of the world beyond Akron, which wasn't such a bad place but was, you know, Akron.

I was a little bit worried when Phil started talking about Akron, what with the snow and everything, because you know how I hate the cold, but now Jacksonville!

Well, it would come in time. Rome wasn't built in a day, nor Akron, Ohio, for that matter. And the place didn't matter. The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there... and still on your feet.

Akron, was home to almost 50,000 members, including the mayor.

...the kind of love that picks you up in Akron and sets you down in Rio...

The Akron AWOL in my storm cellar. Can’t be an accident. It was fated, man! Fated!” “You kicked me in the nuts. That wasn’t fate; it was your foot.

How to describe the things we see onscreen, experiences we have that are not ours? After so many hours (days, weeks, years) of watching TV—the morning talk shows, the daily soaps, the nightly news and then into prime time (The Bachelor, Game of Thrones, The Voice)—after a decade of studying the viral videos of late-night hosts and Funny or Die clips emailed by friends, how are we to tell the difference between them, if the experience of watching them is the same? To watch the Twin Towers fall and on the same device in the same room then watch a marathon of Everybody Loves Raymond. To Netflix an episode of The Care Bears with your children, and then later that night (after the kids are in bed) search for amateur couples who’ve filmed themselves breaking the laws of several states. To videoconference from your work computer with Jan and Michael from the Akron office (about the new time-sheet protocols), then click (against your better instincts) on an embedded link to a jihadi beheading video. How do we separate these things in our brains when the experience of watching them—sitting or standing before the screen, perhaps eating a bowl of cereal, either alone or with others, but, in any case, always with part of us still rooted in our own daily slog (distracted by deadlines, trying to decide what to wear on a date later)—is the same? Watching, by definition, is different from doing.

Mr. Akron,” says a girl, fourteen or so—he can’t get over the fact that so many of the kids, particularly the younger ones, are not only ridiculously respectful, but think that Akron is somehow part of his name—

He’s been fighting a lot on the Midwest circuit, but Vegas is the big-time. If he ever wants to get anywhere, he has to fight here. And since we’re here, we thought we’d get married, since Vegas is so romantic.” Ivy could think of a dozen cities more romantic than Vegas—Akron, Ohio came to mind—but she didn’t argue.

The day after Congress declared war, the Socialist party met in emergency convention in St. Louis and called the declaration “a crime against the people of the United States.” In the summer of 1917, Socialist antiwar meetings in Minnesota drew large crowds—five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand farmers—protesting the war, the draft, profiteering. A local newspaper in Wisconsin, the Plymouth Review, said that probably no party ever gained more rapidly in strength than the Socialist party just at the present time.” It reported that “thousands assemble to hear Socialist speakers in places where ordinarily a few hundred are considered large assemblages.” The Akron Beacon-Journal, a conservative newspaper in Ohio, said there was “scarcely a political observer . . . but what will admit that were an election to come now a mighty tide of socialism would inundate the Middle West.” It said the country had “never embarked upon a more unpopular war.

This druid feeling I get in the woods’s so thrilling it makes me want to crap, so I dug a hole with a flat stone inside a clump of mitten-leafed shrubs. I pulled down my cacks and squatted. It’s ace shitting outside like a caveman. Let go, thud, subtle crinkle on dry leaves. Squatted craps come out smoother than craps in bogs. Crap’s peatier and steamier in open air, too. (My one fear is bluebottles flying up my arsehole and laying eggs in my lower intestine. Larvae’d hatch and get to my brain. My cousin Hugo told me it actually happened to an American kid called Akron Ohio.) “Am I normal,” I said aloud just to hear my voice, “talking to myself in a wood like this?” A bird so near it might’ve perched on a curl of my ear musicked a flute in a jar. I quivered to own such an unownable thing. If I could’ve climbed into that moment, that jar, and never ever left, I would’ve done. But my squatting calves were aching, so I moved. The unownable bird took fright and vanished down its tunnel of twigs and nows.

In September 2019, actress Felicity Huffman was sentenced to fourteen days in jail for shelling out $15,000 to rig her daughter’s SAT scores so she could get into a top university. In 2011, Kelley Williams-Bolar, a single black mother living in public housing in Akron, Ohio, was charged with multiple felonies and sentenced to two five-year sentences for using her father’s address to enroll her daughters in a better public school. That same year, Tanya McDowell, a homeless black mother living in Bridgeport, Connecticut, was sentenced to five years in prison for enrolling her five-year-old son in a neighboring public school.

People talk about Eisenhower's golden age.... It all happened without me. What is the vice presidency? The Constitution dictates only two duties: casting the deciding vote if the Senate is deadlocked and replacing the president if he dies or is impeached. apart from waiting for those two things to happen, you made the rest up and were duly forgotten by history. The exception being Aaron Burr, who shot someone, decisively lowering the bar for the rest of us. What I remember is small pieces of the world: the West Wing, the insides of planes and hotel lobbies and conference rooms. My life was dinners with Pat and the children; airplane flights; placeholder meetings with foreign dignitaries during which I nodded and reminded them I had no power to make and agreement but would speak to the president. Stomach-turning formal breakfasts, speeches to party elders and tradesmen. I opened factories in Detroit and Akron, breathing the various stinks of canneries, slaughterhouses, or rubber plans and bestowing that vice presidential combination of glamour, flattery, and the tacit reminder that they didn't quite rate a visit from the top guy.

Ohio hadn’t gone through the same real estate boom as the Sun Belt, but the vultures had circled the carcasses of dying industrial towns––Dayton, Toledo, Mansfield, Youngstown, Akron––peddling home equity loans and refinancing. All the garbage that blew up in people’s faces the same way subprime mortgages had. A fleet of nouveau riche snake oil salesmen scoured the state, moving from minority hoods where widowed, churchgoing black ladies on fixed incomes made for easy marks to the white working-class enclaves and then the first-ring suburbs. The foreclosures began to crop up and then turn into fields of fast-moving weeds, reducing whole neighborhoods to abandoned husks or drug pens. Ameriquest, Countrywide, CitiFinancial––all those devious motherfuckers watching the state’s job losses, plant closings, its struggles, its heartache, and figuring out a way to make a buck on people’s desperation. Every city or town in the state had big gangrenous swaths that looked like New Canaan, the same cancer-patient-looking strip mall geography with brightly lit outposts hawking variations on usurious consumer credit. Those entrepreneurs saw the state breaking down like Bill’s truck, and they moved in, looking to sell the last working parts for scrap.

If you’re going to give me the third degree,” she tells him, “let’s get it over with. Best to withhold food or water; water is probably best. I’ll get thirsty before I get hungry.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Do you really think I’m like that? Why would you think that?” “I was taken by force, and you’re keeping me here against my will,” she says, leaning across the table toward him. She considers spitting in his face, but decides to save that gesture as punctuation for a more appropriate moment. “Imprisonment is still imprisonment, no matter how many layers of cotton you wrap it in.” That makes him lean farther away, and she knows she’s pushed a button. She remembers seeing those pictures of him back when he was all over the news, wrapped in cotton and kept in a bombproof cell. “I really don’t get you,” he says, a bit of anger in his voice this time. “We saved your life. You could at least be a little grateful.” “You have robbed me, and everyone here, of their purpose. That’s not salvation, that’s damnation.” “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Now it’s her turn to get angry. “Yes, you’re sorry I feel that way, everyone’s sorry I feel that way. Are you going to keep this up until I don’t feel that way anymore?” He stands up suddenly, pushing his chair back, and paces, fern leaves brushing his clothes. She knows she’s gotten to him. He seems like he’s about to storm out, but instead takes a deep breath and turns back to her. “I know what you’re going through,” he says. “I was brainwashed by my family to actually want to be unwound—and not just by my family, but by my friends, my church, everyone I looked up to. The only voice who spoke sense was my brother Marcus, but I was too blind to hear him until the day I got kidnapped.” “You mean see,” she says, putting a nice speed bump in his way. “Huh?” “Too blind to see him, too deaf to hear him. Get your senses straight. Or maybe you can’t, because you’re senseless.” He smiles. “You’re good.” “And anyway, I don’t need to hear your life story. I already know it. You got caught in a freeway pileup, and the Akron AWOL used you as a human shield—very noble. Then he turned you, like cheese gone bad.” “He didn’t turn me. It was getting away from my tithing, and seeing unwinding for what it is. That’s what turned me.” “Because being a murderer is better than being a tithe, isn’t that right, clapper?” He sits back down again, calmer, and it frustrates her that he is becoming immune to her snipes. “When you live a life without questions, you’re unprepared for the questions when they come,” he says. “You get angry and you totally lack the skills to deal with the anger. So yes, I became a clapper, but only because I was too innocent to know how guilty I was becoming.” ... “You think I’m like you, but I’m not,” Miracolina says. “I’m not part of a religious order that tithes. My parents did it in spite of our beliefs, not because of ii.” “But you were still raised to believe it was your purpose, weren’t you?” “My purpose was to save my brother’s life by being a marrow donor, so my purpose was served before I was six months old.” “And doesn’t that make you angry that the only reason you’re here was to help someone else?” “Not at all,” she says a little too quickly. She purses her lips and leans back in her chair, squirming a bit. The chair feels a little too hard beneath her. “All right, so maybe I do feel angry once in a while, but I understand why they did it. If I were them, I would have done the same thing.” “Agreed,” he says. “But once your purpose was served, shouldn’t your life be your own?” “Miracles are the property of God,” she answers. “No,” he says, “miracles are gifts from God. To calthem his property insults the spirit in which they are given.” She opens her mouth to reply but finds she has no response, because he’s right. Damn him for being right—nothing about him should be right! “We’ll talk again when you’re over yourself,” he says.

As a congregation of 2,000 church members sang a hymn on Easter Sunday 1941, police detectives silently entered and began searching the North Hill Methodist Church in Akron, Ohio for pretty, twenty-three-year-old Ruth Zwicker.

«Se non tornassimo ad Akron? Se rimanessimo a vivere qui? Vicino ai miei genitori?» Mi girai per poter incrociare i suoi occhi spaiati. «Dici davvero?» Lui annuì. «E se volessi vedere mia sorella?» «La inviteremo qui, o ti porterò ad Akron. In fondo, non è molto lontana.» L’idea era allettante. Il mare le sarebbe sicuramente piaciuto. «Ma… non ti mancherà casa tua?» chiesi, per esserne sicuro. «A me basta stare con te» mormorò dolcemente. “Tu sei la nostra casa.” «Davvero?» balbettai di nuovo, tremendamente emozionato. «Papà mi ha detto che la casetta poco più avanti è in vendita…» borbottò nervoso, grattandosi la testa. «Inoltre avrebbe bisogno di una mano a cacciare gli animali e conciare le pelli da vendere al mercato» continuò. «Potrei aiutarlo.» «Penso che sia un’idea splendida!» mi entusiasmai, rubandogli un bacio veloce. “Ti sembra il modo di baciarci? Puoi fare di meglio.” Trattenendo una risata, unii di nuovo le mie labbra alle sue, ma questa volta la nostra fusione fu passionale, travolgente, impetuosa. “Ora vogliamo molto più, di un cazzo di bacio!” Quella frase mi sembrava di averla già sentita, pensai con il cuore colmo di felicità e tanti sogni per il futuro.

This milestone was the founding of Alcoholics Anonymous in Akron, Ohio, in June of 1935.

And in 1854, after Brown had moved to Akron, Ohio, he wrote an extraordinary epistle to Douglass in the voice of an Old Testament prophet chastising the evils of American leaders and their poisoned institutions. It was as though Brown wanted to join Douglass in condemning the Slave Power, but to do so with even more biblical rage. Worried about the fate of the American republic, Brown had no doubt about what stood in its path: the proslavery “extreme wickedness” of political and religious leadership at all levels, even the “marshals, sheriffs, constables and policemen.”6 We do not have Douglass’s direct response to this letter, but what he read in Brown’s condemnations of American perfidy was a denunciation, even beyond higher-law doctrine, that left only violence as an option. American leadership was taking the country into “anarchy in all its horrid forms,” Brown argued. Therefore, he had a ready answer

Speaking to Ohio Democratic Women in Akron in February 1946, he contrasted a conservatism that was “putting the brakes on progress” with the progressivism of Roosevelt and Truman. “Laws and institutions must go hand-in-hand with the progress of the human mind.” He warned that Republicans were “settling ever deeper into the mold of conservatism.” Instead Gore wanted to look forward; his populism led him to be pro-worker, but he was ambivalent about labor unions, at least in the first decades of his federal legislative service.

Sue, ended up running off to get married with one of the first guys to get sober in Akron, Ernie Galbraith, AA number four, much to the chagrin of those around there. He was staying in their house—that is really taking advantage of your sponsor, when you take off with his daughter.

Excuse me? Who here had the bright idea of healing a gunshot wound with the bullet still in it?” All eyes turned to another doctor that had stepped into the hallway. Toriel narrowed her eyes. “That was my doing. You must be Doctor Akron. Doctor Ross mentioned you might stop by.” “I'll bet. Listen to me. What you did put that girl's life in danger. You left contaminated shrapnel in an open wound and sealed it up without even trying to sterilize it.” “I... I am not familiar with the details of human medical treatment-” “Exactly! You have no business making those kinds of calls! All you did was make things worse! Even with the X-Rays we had to perform exploratory surgery to find all of those bullet fragm-” Hal Greene suddenly pushed past the queen and stood face to face with Dr. Akron. “Hi there doctor! You sound cranky, you could use some fresh air!” Before anyone could respond, Hal grabbed the doctor's shoulder, knelt down, pulled, and twisted in one seamless movement that left the doctor in a fireman's carry across his shoulders. “What in the- PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!” “I can't put you down here, you silly billy! The fresh air is outside the building! Let's go! DAH NAH NAAAAAH DAH NAH NAHHHH....” Every person in the hallway watched in confusion as Hal carried the angry doctor on his shoulders, running down the hallway, into the lobby, and presumably outside the building. “...WAS THAT THE ROCKY THEME HE WAS TRYING TO SING?” Papyrus scratched his skull in confusion. “Yeah.” Justin shrugged. “Hal loves underdog stories.

think that ’twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. —Words popularly attributed to SOJOURNER TRUTH, the Woman’s Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio, 1851

COEFFICIENT The nonparametric alternative, Spearman’s rank correlation coefficient (r, or “rho”), looks at correlation among the ranks of the data rather than among the values. The ranks of data are determined as shown in Table 14.2 (adapted from Table 11.8): Table 14.2 Ranks of Two Variables In Greater Depth … Box 14.1 Crime and Poverty An analyst wants to examine empirically the relationship between crime and income in cities across the United States. The CD that accompanies the workbook Exercising Essential Statistics includes a Community Indicators dataset with assorted indicators of conditions in 98 cities such as Akron, Ohio; Phoenix, Arizona; New Orleans, Louisiana; and Seattle, Washington. The measures include median household income, total population (both from the 2000 U.S. Census), and total violent crimes (FBI, Uniform Crime Reporting, 2004). In the sample, household income ranges from $26,309 (Newark, New Jersey) to $71,765 (San Jose, California), and the median household income is $42,316. Per-capita violent crime ranges from 0.15 percent (Glendale, California) to 2.04 percent (Las Vegas, Nevada), and the median violent crime rate per capita is 0.78 percent. There are four types of violent crimes: murder and nonnegligent manslaughter, forcible rape, robbery, and aggravated assault. A measure of total violent crime per capita is calculated because larger cities are apt to have more crime. The analyst wants to examine whether income is associated with per-capita violent crime. The scatterplot of these two continuous variables shows that a negative relationship appears to be present: The Pearson’s correlation coefficient is –.532 (p < .01), and the Spearman’s correlation coefficient is –.552 (p < .01). The simple regression model shows R2 = .283. The regression model is as follows (t-test statistic in parentheses): The regression line is shown on the scatterplot. Interpreting these results, we see that the R-square value of .283 indicates a moderate relationship between these two variables. Clearly, some cities with modest median household incomes have a high crime rate. However, removing these cities does not greatly alter the findings. Also, an assumption of regression is that the error term is normally distributed, and further examination of the error shows that it is somewhat skewed. The techniques for examining the distribution of the error term are discussed in Chapter 15, but again, addressing this problem does not significantly alter the finding that the two variables are significantly related to each other, and that the relationship is of moderate strength. With this result in hand, further analysis shows, for example, by how much violent crime decreases for each increase in household income. For each increase of $10,000 in average household income, the violent crime rate drops 0.25 percent. For a city experiencing the median 0.78 percent crime rate, this would be a considerable improvement, indeed. Note also that the scatterplot shows considerable variation in the crime rate for cities at or below the median household income, in contrast to those well above it. Policy analysts may well wish to examine conditions that give rise to variation in crime rates among cities with lower incomes. Because Spearman’s rank correlation coefficient examines correlation among the ranks of variables, it can also be used with ordinal-level data.9 For the data in Table 14.2, Spearman’s rank correlation coefficient is .900 (p = .035).10 Spearman’s p-squared coefficient has a “percent variation explained” interpretation, similar

RED JACKET, SAGOYEWATHA (Seneca) “We like our religion, and do not want another” (May 1811) Red Jacket (c. 1751-1830) addressed Reverend Alexander, from New York City, during a Seneca council at Buffalo Creek. Brother!—We listened to the talk you delivered us from the Council of Black-Coats, in New York. We have fully considered your talk, and the offers you have made us. We now return our answer, which we wish you also to understand. In making up our minds, we have looked back to remember what has been done in our days, and what our fathers have told us was done in old times. Brother!—Great numbers of Black-Coats have been among the Indians. With sweet voices and smiling faces, they offered to teach them the religion of the white people. Our brethren in the East listened to them. They turned from the religion of their fathers, and took up the religion of the white people. What good has it done? Are they more friendly one to another than we are? No, Brother! They are a divided people—we are united. They quarrel about religion—we live in love and friendship. Besides, they drink strong waters. And they have learned how to cheat, and how to practice all the other vices of the white people, without imitating their virtues. Brother!—If you wish us well, keep away; do not disturb us. Brother!—We do not worship the Great Spirit as the white people do, but we believe that the forms of worship are indifferent to the Great Spirit. It is the homage of sincere hearts that pleases him, and we worship him in that manner. According to your religion, we must believe in a Father and Son, or we shall not be happy hereafter. We have always believed in a Father, and we worship him as our old men taught us. Your book says that the Son was sent on Earth by the Father. Did all the people who saw the Son believe him? No! they did not. And if you have read the book, the consequence must be known to you. Brother!—You wish us to change our religion for yours. We like our religion, and do not want another. Our friends here [pointing to Mr. Granger, the Indian Agent, and two other whites] do us great good; they counsel us in trouble; they teach us how to be comfortable at all times. Our friends the Quakers do more. They give us ploughs, and teach us how to use them. They tell us we are accountable beings. But they do not tell us we must change our religion.—we are satisfied with what they do, and with what they say. SOURCE: B.B. Thatcher. Indian Life and Battles. Akron: New Werner Company, 1910. 312—314. Brother!—for these reasons we cannot receive your offers. We have other things to do, and beg you to make your mind easy, without troubling us, lest our heads should be too much loaded, and by and by burst.

I’m almost forty, and I’ve been living off the assumption that I’m still fifteen years old. I don’t think much has changed. I just did something that finally worked...and I got fatter.

What I like about Akron is that it is cool, but not too cool. We are cool enough to have street festivals all summer long, but not cool enough to have a disruptively huge music festival like South by Southwest that all the locals loathe. We are cool enough to attract young professionals and artists, but not cool enough to entice detrimental gentrification complete with skyrocketing rent prices.

Don’t we have nets somewhere?” I asked Donald. “Don’t think so,” he said. “We should check the Shelf of Random Ass Things,” I said. “I love the Shelf of Random Ass Things,” Donald said.

If history has taught Akron anything, it’s that success guarantees nothing and the well of good fortune can run dry at any moment. Growing up surrounded by so many boarded-up factories and storefronts gives Akronites an inherent humility. A whiff of mortality.

In north east Ohio, nothing is given, everything is earned

These gigantic, silver vehicles were the USS Akron ZRS-4 and the USS Macon ZRS-5 dirigibles. These monsters roamed the skies over America for just five years, being based at the Naval Air Stations at Sunnydale and North Island California.

Retailers use various strategies, policies, and procedures in timing their markdowns of Christmas merchandise, adds Dale Lewison of the University of Akron. “Some retailers start taking small and early markdowns before Thanksgiving, while others wait until after the weekend following Thanksgiving —the biggest shopping weekend of the year. Still other retailers wait longer to mark down merchandise.

There’d better be a blimp in here. Seriously: if there is not a blimp in this book, I’m going to return it to the library I stole it from.

I find that a lot of photographers see Ohio as an endless sea of dead malls and salt-crusted cars on fire in front of rusted-out steel plants. It’s more than that.

Everyone thinks about before. Before the plants closed, before the people left, before the university started the world’s first corrosion engineering institute. We have plenty of rust around to study.

In all of U.S. labor history, few years rival 1934 for drama.59 There had been rumblings in 1933, as rubber plant workers unionized in Akron, Ohio, and prepared a large strike, and Mexican, Japanese, and Filipino fruit pickers struck in California. However, 1934 was an eruption: in 1,856 work stoppages, 1.5 million workers demanded the upholding of Section 7(a). In Toledo, Ohio, auto parts workers won recognition, despite a violent clash that brought out the National Guard. In San Francisco, the Communist-influenced longshoremen won recognition. In October, under pressure, Hugh Johnson succumbed to mental illness, resigning from the NRA after delivering a farewell address to baffled and demoralized staffers comparing himself to Madame Butterfly.60 In the White House, FDR equivocated, as the left continued to agitate.

he never could resolve the divinity of Jesus. Bill just debated that until he died. It wasn’t as sudden as that out in Akron, where on your first day, you were taken up to the bedroom upstairs with three guys who’d go, Do you believe in God? Get on your knees. Hey, we’re going to pray. Nice job, son. Done.

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Magician's Girl You’ll know when. My gossamer singlet flushes to its ends in fire. The black hats, too, begin to hate you. One wrong word & they curl their brims to reveal knives. By Thursday, the floor translates your footfalls as Morse code. At your slow soft shoe, the oubliette opens. Another narrow not-death & the curtains become girls again. They leave you again. They don’t love you like Mother does, bound to the velvet board, febrile Mother willing your water-tank, your white-gloved touch, the part of her night where she is finally a half of you. Despite the involvement of blades. Despite my holding-down hands, their quiver. She knows about your knob-kneed bedmates, their soft white hair. Girls lost in the long warren of your arms. Big-toothed girls, girls who disappear & disappear. You blame yourself. Why? You don’t know that what you do in the dark of your room—I do it too? Watch closely. Here are my man’s hands. Here is my girl’s mouth, speaking—

LOVE POEM In your childhood bed and in your cups— when you think of me am I abstracted? Is the pear white when in slivers? Is the drawing quartered? Am I refusing again to take off the last slip I’d bought for tonight— I loved you most in the next room, in the hallway. A shower. The almost of you, without the eyes. What if I wished it very much? When I couldn’t eat, paper nests, your smallest finger.

Love Poem(continued) A girl edged up to every open window. 46 In the other story we kept the flat, the child. I kept the rope in the shed. In the other story where I didn’t leave I left you. Here. The beginning you wanted.

SELF PORTRAIT AS SHERLOCK HOLMES I am aware that in this performance I star as myself. You place your scalpel in my hands then take the appropriate number of steps toward the door, through which enough light shines in to illuminate my accumulated soot. Yet they will remember me cat-clean. When we return and rewind the mantle-clock, I begin again in my customary chair. Again you will forget that you have married, that the room is no longer yours. I can see you fear it never was, and so with my mouth I confirm it. Write again of my limits, the end, the slow approach. In these rooms I carve out other rooms; there, I litter as I’d like. Know that I only direct what you set down. From these lines I make my music.

YOUR TWENTIES The framed art creeps along the wall, the cat wants another cat, you make bowls that I eat from— I could eat, since your ask always comes at four. The plants outside grow. They tumble down to the water, wanting water. I wake up in your arms. I remember not to look back when leading a man out of darkness. A girl outside asks me, do you know where and then blanches sudden as the morning. Years ago I lived in a city built onto itself. Each street ate its own tail. When I marry you I am making a promise. A mirror bought isn’t bought alone.

FOREVER It wasn’t so hard to want it, while the ancient stove smoked and our friends slept under their coats on the linoleum. The door’s warped wood meant it never shut completely, so each snap of wind masked my movement toward you on the sofa. We hadn’t kissed, wouldn’t—we both had partners—I undid my hair from its braids and shook it out over my burning shoulders. Our friends woke. They read tarot on the floor; someone tuned a guitar, another broke down some boxes and threw them on the fire. My suitcase was brought in and dismembered, and my green party dress, and the table where I’d drafted a letter home, of which there was then a staged reading. I was told I could direct my own production, as there was time. There was time for me to move myself so minutely that I would never reach you. I could have what I wanted. The impossibility, the creeping forward all the same.

HOLMES, ON SPIRITUALISM A sitting room is not the proper setting for a spiritual awakening. As a horse forgets his shoes (he is not, after all, the one to nail them to his feet), so can a man forget his deceased wife despite previous adoration. Adoration: the sudden attention to such details (unbrushed coat, needlemark in the crook of an arm) in a lady’s appearance when these have not been marked before in one’s closest companion. When you assumed my death, you quit me after a quarter hour. I have trained you well in observation and distance. There are certain well-carved tables, excellent china, there are vessels for the quiet governesses of tragic good breeding who are pleased to rise from the dead and come back to their husbands for a justifiable fee. Come back. See, I am fond of charlatans. There is a certain amount of pleasure in disguise and the caught-breath escape from water and chains. The drowning or how it is imagined. If you had been watching closely? Then I could have returned sooner. Here I will differentiate between legerdemain and what meager love I have witnessed. What desire, to call back the dead to watch you take your tea.

PASTICHE WITH LINES FROM CONAN DOYLE Milwaukee, 2012 I have pinpointed the particular flaw in our relations: it’s how you transpose each small riot into sadness but have no Stradivarius to mourn on—you have my ears, and my feet freeze in our bed, and the knocking in the night is just a dear friend looking to score, our cat is named for a knave. We tweak our epaulets, we make margaritas in rooms populated by the ephemera of other lives that I cannot shore up my own against. This fashion rag tells me to think of the highlands so I eye-drop water into my Laphroaig and when later, for work, I stand on the Scottish street on which I once lived, it is blue melodrama or it is not real, and if the stories tally I’ll watch it again on the plane. This may appeal to your lurid taste in fiction, darling: I am your constant companion, and we have never both lived within these same walls.

Points of Issue Errors or peculiarities in a book that help to differentiate it from other editions. No one else's marginalia inside. An unbroken spine and a pliable binding. No one else's marginalia unless it was penciled into her first pages then thoroughly erased. No ellipses but in the last chapters and then only in soliloquy. No strands of hair in the meadow chapter, nothing ripped out in the two after that. And halfway-a blank page, and a scrawl and dash from the girl. The final story of the back garden and her coiled braids and the dappled grey you kept too long. The harmonica on the dashboard and the girl who taught you your scales. And the book you were always reading, the pulled-off, pockmarked cover, the weight. The night you left it in the trunk bed and in the morning its swollen pages. The girl reading your father's Wordsworth, the scrolling clouds in the meadow, your hands steady on her heaving chest. The final story of the back garden and the coiled girl telling you no. The pages after that.

only was this decisive game tied at 89, but at that very moment, each team had scored 699 cumulative points in the series. Everything was deadlocked. Something had to give, though. There could only be one champion. For LeBron, losing wasn’t an option. He’d come too far to get to this point, to have this opportunity. He knew it meant too much to everyone not just back in Cleveland, but in all of Ohio, including the city of Akron, where he had grown up with a single mother and been a highly publicized star athlete since he was a kid. He’d

A GATE It originates at the detail, the hinge of the door to the museum. Not the landscape or the figure that might be art, might be a coin-collector, maybe both. How you’ve taken us to twenty such places in the name of teaching me. The titles were always better than their canvases, all that blank sincerity. Their voices— if voiced—would spiral up into sincerity, and I never liked a sound for what it signified. I lost you in the impressionists. Found the gate to the pleasure-garden behind the museum. There, I named no flowers, no birds. Let the world be a worse sketch, left untitled.

Then, in November 1934, Bill Wilson had his last drink, and in May 1935, he happened into Bob Smith’s life. On that Sunday evening, as the two men alternately sat and paced for more than five hours in the library of Henrietta Sieberling’s residence in Akron, Ohio, something was added to the Oxford Group message. The identification that sprang from their listening to each other helped both Bill Wilson and Dr. Robert Smith to the understanding—the vision—that the purpose of life wasn’t to get but to give … for only when you give, do you get!

Words attributed long afterward to Sojourner Truth, who spoke to a Woman’s Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio, in 1851, put the struggles of the day well: “I think that ’twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon.

lección: los defensores de la democracia liberal no se impondrán a los populistas mientras parezcan estar ligados al statu quo. Cuando Donald Trump se enfrentó a Hillary Clinton en 2016, los frentes políticos estaban todo lo claros que podían estar. Por un lado, había un candidato radical que quería traer el cambio: Trump lamentaba la «masacre estadounidense» que veía en «las fábricas abandonadas y oxidadas dispersas como tumbas por todo el paisaje de nuestra nación» y «la delincuencia y las bandas y las drogas que tantas vidas han arrebatado y que tanto potencial no materializado han robado a nuestro país».15 La solución, como Trump dejaba bien claro, era un cambio radical. «Yo os pregunto lo siguiente —clamó en un mitin de campaña en Akron (Ohio) ante un público básicamente blanco— a los afroamericanos, [...] a los hispanos, gente fantástica: ¿qué diantres tenéis que perder? Dadme una oportunidad. Yo lo enderezaré. Yo lo enderezaré. ¿Qué podéis perder?»16

Progress in America does not usually begin at the top and among the few, but from the bottom and among the many. It comes when the whispered hopes of those outside the mainstream rise in volume to reach the ears and hearts and minds of the powerful. Words attributed long afterward to Sojourner Truth, who spoke to a Women's Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio, in 1851, put the struggles of the day well: "I think twixt the negroes of the South and the women of the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon." And those voices carry the farthest when they call for fairness, not favors; for simple justice, not undue advantage.

considered Wisconsin’s Scout Player of the Year thanks to weekly honors for his efforts in the practices leading up to the Badgers’ contests against Akron on August 30, 2008 (38-17 win); at Iowa on October 18, 2008 (38-16 loss); and when they hosted the Minnesota Gophers on November 15, 2008 (35-32 win). Even though he wasn’t making the main Badgers roster who played on Saturdays, Watt was still invited to watch film in the office of defensive coordinator Charlie Patridge after dinner every night. During an interview with ESPN – The Magazine’s Elizabeth Merrill, Watt

I smiled at the young woman with the warmth and goodwill that only the pure of heart, or the people who’ve recently swallowed a handful of OxyContin, can muster. “I’m Allison Weiss. Are you Beatrice?” I had gotten the call the night before, from a woman who’d introduced herself as Kim Caster, a producer for The News on Nine, the local evening newscast. “Did you hear about that mess in Akron?” she had asked.