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The Weird Sisters
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by Eleanor Brown (Goodreads Author)
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Cambodia Noir by Nicholas Seeley
Cambodia Noir
by Nicholas Seeley (Goodreads Author)
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Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil
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Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire
“Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. God, do you know how difficult it is, to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair, past the old prison, past the school gates, past the burning torsos erected on poles like flags? When I meet others like me I recognise the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. I’ve been carrying the old anthem in my mouth for so long that there’s no space for another song, another tongue or another language. I know a shame that shrouds, totally engulfs. I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.”
Warsan Shire
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Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire
“They ask me how did you get here? Can’t you see it on my body? The Libyan desert red with immigrant bodies, the Gulf of Aden bloated, the city of Rome with no jacket. I hope the journey meant more than miles because all of my children are in the water. I thought the sea was safer than the land. I want to make love, but my hair smells of war and running and running. I want to lay down, but these countries are like uncles who touch you when you’re young and asleep. Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate. I’m the colour of hot sun on the face, my mother’s remains were never buried. I spent days and nights in the stomach of the truck; I did not come out the same. Sometimes it feels like someone else is wearing my body.”
Warsan Shire
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Our Town by Thornton Wilder
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Three Plays by Thornton Wilder
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The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick
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More of Whitney's books…
Warsan Shire
“Document the moments you feel most in love with yourself - what you’re wearing, who you’re around, what you’re doing. Recreate and repeat.”
Warsan Shire

Warsan Shire
“They ask me how did you get here? Can’t you see it on my body? The Libyan desert red with immigrant bodies, the Gulf of Aden bloated, the city of Rome with no jacket. I hope the journey meant more than miles because all of my children are in the water. I thought the sea was safer than the land. I want to make love, but my hair smells of war and running and running. I want to lay down, but these countries are like uncles who touch you when you’re young and asleep. Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate. I’m the colour of hot sun on the face, my mother’s remains were never buried. I spent days and nights in the stomach of the truck; I did not come out the same. Sometimes it feels like someone else is wearing my body.”
Warsan Shire, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth

Warsan Shire
“Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. God, do you know how difficult it is, to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair, past the old prison, past the school gates, past the burning torsos erected on poles like flags? When I meet others like me I recognise the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. I’ve been carrying the old anthem in my mouth for so long that there’s no space for another song, another tongue or another language. I know a shame that shrouds, totally engulfs. I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.”
Warsan Shire, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth

Warsan Shire
“The Kitchen
 
 
 
 
 
Half a papaya and a palmful of sesame oil;
lately, your husband’s mind has been elsewhere.
 
Honeyed dates, goat’s milk;
you want to quiet the bloating of salt.
 
Coconut and ghee butter;
he kisses the back of your neck at the stove.
 
Cayenne and roasted pine nuts;
you offer him the hollow of your throat.
 
Saffron and rosemary;
you don’t ask him her name.
 
Vine leaves and olives;
you let him lift you by the waist.
 
Cinnamon and tamarind;
lay you down on the kitchen counter.
 
Almonds soaked in rose water;
your husband is hungry.
 
Sweet mangoes and sugared lemon;
he had forgotten the way you taste.

Sour dough and cumin;
but she cannot make him eat, like you.”
Warsan Shire, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth

C.S. Lewis
“But suppose that what you are up against is a surgeon whose intentions are wholly good. The kinder and more conscientious he is, the more inexorably he will go on cutting. If he yielded to your entreaties, if he stopped before the operation was complete, all the pain up to that point would have been useless.”
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

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