2024 NATIONAL MEDAL
for Museum and Library Service Finalist
Tenth birthday. Everyone knows it's my big day. Just throw my ball. You, then you, then you. Everyone gets to throw.
Mom ignores me as she hands out the drinks. Dad tells his silly jokes. Baby tosses the ball too far and I cannot reach it. Neighbor thankfully kicks it back within reach.
I quickly snatch my great smelling, wet new ball, sigh and happily plop in the corner. Happy birthday to ME.
THE FIRST MONDAY OF EVERY MONTH. MY HEAD IS REALLY SPINNING AFTER LAST NIGHT . ONE DAY A MONTH MIGHT BE THE SOLUTION. IT HAS REALLY KNOCKED ME OFF MY FEET COMING ON SO SUDDEN LIKE IT DID.
BUT IF ONE DAY A MONTH IS WHAT SHE WANTS, THEN LET IT BE. AFTER ALL I GOT TO MAKE HER HAPPY. THE DOCTOR IS ALWAYS RIGHT AND VERTIGO IS NOTHING TO PLAY AROUND WITH.
The sphere rushed towards him at an incredible speed. In front of him were two warriors. The one nearest him wore an outfit that included a mask and a padded leathery article on one hand. The second warrior simply wielded a swinging stick to ward off these projectiles – but missed.
The projectile hit the leathery protector with a resounding “thud” cueing the man to respond with the all familiar “Strike three, ‘yer out!”
“It’s just a toy,” she says to her inconsolable daughter.
When she was her daughter’s age, halfway across the world, she had lost a blue shovel at a beach in Taiwan. It was cerulean blue with scalloped edges, and it had been swallowed by the ocean. It was the first of many losses her heart would come to endure.
“You’ll get over it soon,” she says, but she knows that’s a lie.
The bottom of a long hill has a steel mill, at the top is a college.
In May of my senior year, father asked what did I plan to do after graduation?
My reply, join the army or work in the mill.
Dad said, ""I came from Italy and had to stop at the bottom of the hill, you can make it to the top.""
The next day I applied to college.
I smell earth boiling.
Hawkeyeing the women around the table, I hear shrieks and laughter.
""Artichokes!""
And three large green flowers appear.
The cacophony dies to a movement so fine- leaves flittering in pooled butter.
Then, feral- leaves ripped and scraped on teeth.
I watch astonished as they work to the heart.
I digest my visual meal. Always, from then, remembering the beauty and brawn of getting to the heart of the matter.
“There’s no such place as Fillateens! You’re Chinese! My mommy said so!”
(shrug) “It’s PHILIPPINES and it’s real! I’m not lying!”
(multiple glares all around) “Fine, Fillateens! You’re it!”
(scattering)
I chase them all, my black hair like a flag waving proudly with each tag.
“You run good and talk good!”
“That’s right! Better get used to me and watch out!”
EB 1984. Too different for many then, and still for some now.
After a controversial populist candidate is elected president over an increasingly partisan America, the assassination of his chief of staff reveals a far-ranging conspiracy involving insiders at the highest levels of government.
When novelist Paul Ricard comes into possession of information he believes could help the Allied Forces, he tries to get it to the French Resistance, in the process becoming a Resistance agent and working with a spy named Leila.
Haunted and haunting, Jones's memoir tells the story of a young, black, gay man from the South as he fights to carve out a place for himself, within his family, within his country, within his hopes, desires, and fears. Through a series of vignettes that chart a course across the American landscape, Jones draws readers into his boyhood and adolescence, into tumultuous relationships with his mother and grandmother, into passing flings with lovers, friends, and strangers.