Mama called later and discrimination homepage

african american gays / public opinion, homepage, homosexual, inc., jobs, nurse gallereis, chicago classical music, asian group sex, interracial sex, candid drunk girls, chicago alternative newsweeklies, bisexual, sex (biology), city, mother, 'tis: a memoir, She flirts with the camera, poses like a beauty queen standing in a small wooden boat on the shore of Lake Seminole, barefoot, hands on hips, head thrown back, a wide and bright smile. Open. She's wearing short shorts and she's conscious: "This is how I want to be discrimination remembered; I am as marvelous as Miss America." She gives discrimination herself discrimination to the camera, maybe to the eyes behind the camera. I imagine my father before he was my father, smiling at my mother before she was my mother. He has a head full of glossy black hair. Squinting his eyes, bringing her into focus, he snaps this photo of her, thinks of butterflies resting on leaves, camouflaged, right before they are netted, pinned into boxes. In the next photo, she and my father are leaning against an enormous pine tree near the banks of the Apalachicola River, right on the Georgia-Florida line.
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Mama called later and talked to my sister, and I remember holding the receiver to my ear, listening to her homepage cry, saying she was sorry. I didn't say I was, though. After 21 years of dealing with her, I meant what I said. She was 48 when she died. It was 1981. She and my stepfather were driving home from Clearwater Beach, homepage drunk, still wearing their swimsuits at midnight, their bare feet grainy with sugary white sand. They ran their light-blue Plymouth under a tractor-trailer, shearing off the top. Both of them were thrown into the weeds on the homepage side of the road. The next day the sheriff handed my brother a brown paper bag with a stiff bloody bikini in it. Instant death, he said, but I knew better. My mother had been aiming for that moment for a long time. She couldn't have chosen a better ending to her story. Her trajectory began inside the white scalloped edges of a photograph.
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