Stories

Personal essays, wisdom and ephemera

On being a denim disaster
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By Stacy Pratt In my culture — the Mvskoke (Creek) tribe — humor is a constant. There’s even a certain genre of humor which one of our scholars, Craig…
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Her name was Manju and she’d come to us on a rainy afternoon from an employment agency that specialized in hiring out domestic help. She wore a faded…
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In 1985, I was 16 years old and spent my weekend nights cruising the streets of Kansas City in my 1979 Fiat Strada. I realize now that a four-door…
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My earliest fashion-related memory is my dad taking me shopping for my first pair of glasses. My mom — perhaps unwisely — had opted to stay home. I was…
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At forty-nine, I was resigned to being over the hill: an overweight couch potato who avoided exercise and ate pastries with abandon. Walking up a flight…
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My quest to wear Parallel Red, forever
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