Ling comes back from the bar with another Four Roses for me. “That bartender is busier than a one-armed paper hanger,” he says, then looks for my reaction, which is part of the lesson for him. “What does it mean?”
It’s Tuesday night so I’m in the West Gate answering Ling’s questions about English he’s heard watching TV shows and movies. I’ve learned that some lessons are more enjoyably taught under the influence, so we’ve worked it out that Ling pays me in drinks.
Ling’s in his 30s but looks like a teenager: hairless face, moussed hair, and excitement about what the world has to offer. He isn’t a paying student at the English center where I work, but they let him hang around because he contributes to the English environment, which means he talks to other students in English and never uses Chinese.…
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Once the laundry is finished drying, my mother will add the fresh, lilac-scented sweaters, socks, training bras, and embroidered jeans to our bags. We will gather our belongings, pack a few snacks for the drive, load up the car, lock the front door, and leave the key under the mat. She will heave a deep breath and look up at the house, squinting. I will look anywhere but the house, anywhere but her squinting face. I will pretend that I am not crying, that my eyes are merely itchy from the spring pollen in the air, and she will give me a modicum of privacy by pretending not to notice. She will be leaving my father, and I will be taken along.
For now, though, the laundry hums and shakes and rattles as it has always done, although never under such intense scrutiny from me.…
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On a rainy Saturday morning, the orchid Suna had been growing for the past few months pulled itself free from its pot, shook off the excess dirt, and declared that it was leaving now.
“Have at it,” Suna said from her spot behind the counter. She didn’t look up from her botany magazine. She thought the plant should have been gone at least three weeks ago and she was glad to be rid of it.
The orchid opened the door and walked right out into the rain, its head turned up to gather the water between its petals. Suna put the pot and its dirt into the compost pile. Whatever would grow from it next wouldn’t be any good and she wanted to save herself the headache.…
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When the swallow abruptly crashes
into the attic bedroom window,
its limp body cascades down to
wintered earth, in a
spray of shattered glass.
One by one, its sapphire feathers
are plucked away, nested into a stranger’s
tattered jacket pockets.
The first time my blood was drawn
my mother cradled my fevered head
in her lap. I hadn’t fully woken up
in weeks. All I can remember
is bleach-stained air, and iridescent
light bulbs, flickering.…
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Reflecting on his life and memoir
Conducted by Emily Bond
Michael Long was born with an intellectual disability and cerebral palsy. He’s an education advocate for people with disabilities and recently his memoir, A Life Like Anybody Else: How a Man with an Intellectual Disability Fulfilled His American Dream, was re-edited and re-released. I spoke with Michael about the anniversary of the Americans with Disability Act, his book, and his life right now.
The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) marks its 31st anniversary this July 27th. The act officially became law in 1990. In 1992, Governor Pete Wilson hired disability awareness activist and speaker Michael Long in the role of a Consumer Coordinator at the Department of Developmental Services (DDS), making Michael the first person to be officially hired by the State of California with an intellectual disability.…
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My house holds a place
on a hill. To my left,
terraces retain the earth.
Blocks interlock
above the lower alleyways.
To my right, the hill
slopes gently to the chain
links below. Between
these extremes, I wrangle
a push mower. Along
my left half I carve vertical
lines, letting gravity
pull my sputtering green
engine toward the hedgerow
where I swivel and drag
the handle behind me.
Along the right I go
horizontal. Nearest the gnarly
roots of the old maple,
where the chopper wants most
to flip in my arms, I leave
the tall grass to heighten.
– Cameron Morse…
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The stone floor is cold against her legs. Her thin dress, worn the entire summer, can’t keep the damp out. It sponges moisture out of the stones. For the first month, this bothered her, now she only notices at night when she stares at the small patch of moonlight on the floor, trying to sleep. No one visits. Her cell door is opened at mealtimes, a metal plate shoved in, the stone floor scratching against the bottom. She’s long stopped listening to the prison’s noises: doors slamming, boots stomping, rats scurrying in the walls. They’ve faded into the background.
She is alone in the stone room; everyone was too afraid to share a cell with her. The guards finally found a cell in the old, unused part of the prison.…
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