As a mother and a woman of color, I read Camille Dungy's book as a personal roadmap.
Westworld’s claim is that memory leads to consciousness, which leads to violence.
We thought her only stern and rigorous and dry—until one afternoon in October.
In the midst of a procession of well-known stories is an image marking what's been forgotten. That's most of history, isn't it?
Honestly facing the conflict of self with self—and choosing words that reveal its particular manifestations in one life—is hard, hard work.
Critics view genealogy as a kind of ersatz historiography, an individualistic reconstruction of the past. But there is more to family tree building.
A memoir becomes explicitly Christian when it derives its literary power from the power of the gospel. It doesn't preach, it shows.
As I watched Inside Out, I found myself thinking about Augustine's assertion that we are what we love and what we hate.
My first trip to Turkey, the place where so many Armenian Christians were killed, found me in a land both strange to me and known in my bones.
We can't remember Jesus the way we can remember, say, Bonhoeffer or the lavishly photographed St. Thérèse of Lisieux.