Body of Work

Photo: Jenni C

Nerve

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When I was 21 and working as a camp counselor, I was assigned to mentor a girl named Sylvie. “You both have epilepsy, see?” the camp director said. “It’ll be perfect.”

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Photo by Mike Mozart

Her Hair

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While riding my university shuttle, I used to stare at women’s hair. They were mostly young white women like me, who would sit in rows facing each other at the front of the bus, compulsively checking their phones.

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Photo: Stephen Driver

The Jagged, Gilded Script of Scars

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I am drawing at the kitchen table, tracing the outlines of a dinosaur, when I find that my hand, in defiance of the vision in my mind, makes a line that ruins the dinosaur. There will be no dinosaur. I begin to cry. My mom, who is a weaver and works from home, comes over to see what I am crying about.

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