“Extended Families” is an Excerpt from Ven Begamudré’s memoir, EXTENDED FAMILIES: A MEMOIR OF INDIA.
Somewhere in the U.S., a young man lives far from his family. True, he lives with his immediate family–his wife and child–but he often thinks of his larger, extended family: people he’s had no contact with for years.
His father was the youngest son of an Indian engineer, his mother the daughter of a Japanese soldier killed in the war. Their marriage was not arranged. They met in Yokohama while the father was in the Indian merchant marine. He used his earnings to purchase a flat in Bombay that he never got to live in. Now he accepted a transfer to London, a management position, then lost his job due to circumstances beyond his control. Their first child died. The second survived. (more…)
Attention Northern CA Wallies: Will you join us for an upcoming get together? It’s a low-pressure opportunity to gather with your fellow Wallies! It’s a fundraiser for Friends of Writers! It’s a respite from political chicanery and Twitter! However you choose to look at it, it’ll be fun. Please join us. Our readers will be Mari Coates, Shauna Hannibal, Meredith Martinez, Steve Mitchel, and Rebecca Winterer.
We’ll offer light refreshments. If you’d like to bring a snack or a drink to share, please do—but it’s absolutely not required. We ask for a cover of $20 per person; all proceeds to benefit FOW and no Wally turned away for lack of funds. Thanks to The Writing Salon for being our host.
When: Sunday, September 24, 5:00-7:00 pm.
Where: The Writing Salon, 2042 Balboa Street (near 22nd Avenue), San Francisco.
A poem by Ross White (poetry, ’08) appears in Foundry:
Of all lies, the worst is The truth will set you free.
I don’t think truth unshackled my father.
Truth paid his moving expenses, set him up
in his grandmother’s house with his new wife ―
his former secretary ― and two children he didn’t know
how to talk to. Truth banished him
[ . . . continue reading here.]
A poem from Nomi Stone (poetry, ’17) appears in Plume:
Sunlit & dangerous, this country road.
We are follicle & meat & terror &
the machines leave their shells naked on the ground.
One soldier makes a museum in his basement.
Each mannequin in brass, unburnable coats:
I am walking between their blank faces
[. . . continue reading here.]