Wanted/Needed/Loved: Nathan Stocker’s Best Birthday Gift
A truly personal letter is really something different than a song. It’s intended only for the person it’s written to. A song is a way to share that emotional experience with others.
Posts by tag
childhood
311 posts
Rumpus Original Fiction: The Pet Store
The boy is looking for something specific. I can tell. It shows on his face when he scans the shelves and doesn’t find it.
In Between the In-Between: Talking with Jenny Zhang
Jenny Zhang discusses her story collection Sour Heart, trying to escape the past, collective versus individual responsibility for trauma, and love as imprisonment.
Death, Memory, and Other Superpowers
There was no cedar chest filled with tissue-wrapped rattles, handprint art projects, and bronzed baby shoes. Our parents never spoke of our missing sister.
A Specific Kind of Loneliness: In Conversation with Geeta Kothari
Geeta Kothari discusses her debut collection, American xenophobia, and the immigrant narrative.
TORCH: My Father’s Mansion
I love the United States, too. Like a house I was raised in, though, I know it up close and can spot its many fissures.
Voices on Addiction: Shame Is a Treble Hook
Shame is a treble hook that tells me that 1) I not only fail but am a failure, that 2) I not only damage people but I am damaged, and that 3) I not only lie but I am a lie.
The Rumpus Mini-Interview Project #89: Isabel Greenberg
Isabel Greenberg is a London-based illustrator and writer. She studied illustration at the University of Brighton and has written for a variety of outlets including the Guardian, Nobrow Press, The National Trust, Seven…
My End of the World at Rajneeshpuram
I used to play a game with myself: who should die first, me or daddy? When I was very little, I could never come up with a good answer.
The Saturday Rumpus Essay: The Diggins
I was told that I was “a good digger” if I was behaving as a young child, working hard, and not talking back. Like nursery rhymes, the rhythm of racism cannot be forgotten.
TORCH: My American Playground
I left the car by the roadside and ran up the slope, in tears now, reaching the picnic tables and swings and, as bright and vivid as in my dreams, my purple-shaped climbing frame, exactly as I remembered it.
Repel the Wind
Why would I ask for my sanity from the Devil as I sleep walk, only to give it up again to the Holy Spirit?