From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
I gripped the rough, wool-blend edges of my tattered coat, my knuckles white as I stared at the news of these Radcliffe graduates choosing twenty-four different occupations. While those girls find careers, I’m scratching together eleven cents for a loaf of bread that feels more like sawdust than flour every day. My fingers brushed the coarse red yarn hair of a Raggedy Andy doll in the window, its cheap cotton skin a luxury I can’t afford while gas sits at thirty cents. It’s hard to stay hotsy-totsy when the world is changing so fast it makes my head spin.