Learning to Hate
You have your ticket. You have the t-shirt from your acceptance package. You secured a spot in a bound-to-be-uncomfortable carpool to Cambridge. You’re staying with “a great, responsible Harvard student, Mom.”
Don’t Sign on the Dotted Line
I remember kindergarten as a blurry collection of dotted lines. They sat between two solid ones on the soft, beige paper of handwriting worksheets, the kind that would disintegrate under too much pressure from an eraser. In class, we spent afternoons hanging letters on them as if on a clothesline. We wrote our names over and over, my papers reading “E-L-E-N-A” down the length of a page, shaky in dull graphite.
Seeing Ourselves in ‘Boyhood’
I went with my friend Gabe to a movie theater in New York City, and instantly I knew: I was part of an event. This was no fleeting Netflix stream—we were there to see, and to experience, “Boyhood,” the film about an American boy’s childhood and adolescence.