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Search Results for [Yellow Coloring Book]Gold is a prominent moving force in California. The first week of school, our APUSH teacher told us to write down what we deemed the most important part of American history was—what we wanted to learn most about, she said. I wrote down the history of immigration in the United States, but my fellow classmates wrote down the American Revolution, slavery, the Gold Rush. We had learned about the Gold Rush in history lessons, units on a history unique to California— the pursuit of gold was placed in juxtaposition to Spanish missions and the Oregon Trail. Gold aligned with the American Dream in a way few events do as a physical manifestation of opportunity. Everyone, regardless of race, gender, or identity — is searching for gold of some sort. I’m searching for gold too, but the gold I’m searching for is hard, brittle, and tangible.
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I’m Gonna Have to Penalize YouIn that crowd of sixth grade boys, I saw my neighborhood friend Steve walking toward his classroom, growling. Snarling.
Still, I had to ask: “Did you guys win?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Planning My Father-Daughter Dance Without My DadWhen I thought about the part of a typical wedding reception where the groom dances with his mother and the bride dances with her father, I seriously considered not having a reception at all. I came home crying one night, revealing to my fiancé that through all of our wedding planning, part of me had been dreading having a wedding without my father there. I didn’t know how to explain the guilt I felt about starting this whole new chapter of my life as an adult who he didn’t live to meet. “I know it’s not logical,” I prefaced. “But it kind of feels like leaving him behind.”
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Autumn, a MemoryThe memory clings to my mind, as vivid and fresh as the orange autumn leaves that hung far above me. The air, cool and dry, brushed my cheeks with color and bathed me in the scent of firewood and potential. What a simple thing it was to lie back in the hay and watch the sky, fingertips touching, dreaming of nothing in particular and the whole universe all at once. The sky grew smaller, the leaves became brighter, and my heart flooded with a thousand feelings I could not yet even name.
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#notmyamerica, #notmypresident, and #notmyprotestBy Mari Asai QuailBellMagazine.com In the wake of the surprise election of outsider candidate Donald Trump to the office of the presidency, activists and allies have taken to the streets in a series of campus-led protests under the umbrella names of #notmyamerica and #notmypresident involving rallies and walkouts in cities and at many schools, including my own.
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Shadows of TimeBy Raymond Greiner QuailBellMagazine.com In the early 60’s I lived and worked in Detroit. During this time Detroit was an active, vibrant and thriving metropolis not the distressed place it is today. As I drove to work daily I passed a small deli at 5AM; the light was on, they opened each morning at 6AM. Inside two figures were moving about in preparation for the day’s business. I habitually had lunch at this small deli, and they served corned beef sandwiches like I had never experienced before or since. Each sandwich was cut to order, and served hot on a choice of exquisite breads baked nightly by a neighboring business the Carrini family Italian bakery. This was a small place, a counter, with a few stools, tables and chairs, simplistic and immaculately clean and orderly. The proprietors were two elderly folks, man and wife. They emitted brightness with constant smiles and friendly greetings. This kind of place is not commonly found today, it’s a different world, as we approach plastic counters with uniformed employees greeting us like trained seals, programmed, infusing synthetic, corporate sincerity and politeness. This deli couple amazed me; they seemed connected by an invisible filament as they jointly performed daily tasks. The wife was the greeter, waitress and cashier, and the husband was the cook and dishwasher. They both mopped the floor and cleaned restrooms. They opened each day at 6AM, and closed at 7PM, with an hour’s work after closing, six days a week. As I conversed with them I noticed each had a tattoo on their forearms, a series of numbers that were beginning to fade with time. Of course, there was no need to ask their significance, these numbers were symbolic of a dark time in their lives, and I wondered how they could show such joy in the present.
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Annie, Get Your GunBy Ren Martinez @renthemusical QuailBellMagazine.com My boyfriend’s been talking about getting a gun.
I was raised around guns my whole life. My dad is a hunter, and he would take me and my sisters to my Uncle Kevin’s farm in Nottoway County. The first gun I ever held was a .22 rifle, light even in my twelve-year-old hands, and my dad coached me on aiming it towards the target and the gun firm against my shoulder. The target was a gopher, staring at me from twenty yards away. My first shot was between his eyes. “That’s my Annie Oakley,” Dad whooped. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Why a Donald Trump Presidency Proves My Rape Doesn’t MatterBy Morgan Barbour QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This piece could be triggering and traumatic to some people. Ms. Barbour would also like to acknowledge the great impact this election will have on people with mental health concerns and disabilities. This piece is a follow-up to this anonymous piece published on our site here. On June 4th I was raped. On November 9 th I woke up to a Donald Trump presidency. In the time between I have spent countless hours reading and listening to the people around me denounce the women who have come forth and accused Donald Trump of sexual assault, cry foul about allegedly rampant false rape claims, and reduce the passion of the women in their lives to hormonal irrationality. Earlier this year I wrote an anonymous article documenting the details of my assault and explaining why I had yet to report my rape. My rape kit was botched. My rapist is a well-respected ‘family man.’ I have made a career off of modelling in various stages of undress and playing lascivious women on stage. I have grown up in a world where I have heard people I respected question what the victim was wearing, how she was acting, what she possibly could have done to have caused a man to toss aside his morals for 'twenty minutes of action.’
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Presidential Choices Matter: Kid EditionWords by Ruth Ebenstein Photos by Michael Fried QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: First published on Medium. “Would you like a president that encourages people to recycle, or one that drops trash on the ground?”
“Would you like a president to help everyone, or only some people?” “Should a president use his/her words to solve problems? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Outskirts of CoolBy Leah Mueller QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: First appeared on Maximum Middle Age. It's difficult to attend Bumbershoot for the entire Labor Day weekend, especially when you're nine months pregnant. In 1995, before Seattle's software explosion, four-day passes cost only 45 bucks. My due date was a week away, but I was determined to see as many bands as possible. I figured it would be my last chance to rock and roll for quite awhile.
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I Know 27 People in Ohio and Don’t Know if They’re Voting for President By Allison Moon QuailBellMagazine.com There are 27 people in Ohio, 3 in Florida and 1 in North Carolina who I know well. I don’t know if they are voting for Donald Trump for president or whether they are voting at all.
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The Last of Her — A ReviewBy Erynn Porter QuailBellMagazine.com When I first looked at the cover for The Last of Her by Kim Dana Kupperman I wondered what a forensic memoir was. I was familiar with memoirs, one of my favorite types of book to read, and I was somewhat familiar with forensics due to my love of crime shows. I was curious as to how the two would mesh to tell a story and if I would enjoy it.
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