Slumping deep into the least dilapidated chair in the teachers’ lounge during her lunch break that rainy afternoon in late October 1975, having consumed little of the organic hummus sandwich she had packed, Miss Wyant, the subaltern substitute, worried (after futilely attempting to make the Declaration of Independence’s history relevant to three consecutive classes of bored, ahistorical students) that Center Elementary School would opt not to retain her services once the academic year concluded a month before America’s two-hundredth birthday, July 4, 1976, thus providing her with yet another excuse to loathe herself in an atmosphere of rampant celebratory patriotism.
Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews
I now present a new feature: comments I’ve posted upon websites. (The dates refer to my contributions, not necessarily to the sites themselves.)
The Comics Journal, May 25, 2012:
No one–not Clowes, not the book’s editors, not any reviewers–has mentioned the World War Two-era racial content in these strips. [More]
Uncensored John Simon, November 27, 2017:
Simon could have written the above passage more clearly. I doubt he thinks–well, I hope he doesn’t think–that some Jews, ROMA, or homosexuals deserved to die during the Holocaust. [More]
Me Write Blog Good, March 19, 2019:
You do know she’s an eight-year-old girl, right? [More, more, more]
Salvation Army, South Side, Pittsburgh, February 23, 2019, 1:17 PM. Photo by David Matthews. (I’ve never read Dear Mr. Henshaw by Beverly Cleary. Should I?)
Goodwill, East Liberty, Pittsburgh, January 3, 2019, 11:04 AM. Photo by David Matthews.
Jess liked her job, except for the printed-out meme taped inside the cubicle to her right: a photo of a snarling gray kitten, fur standing on end, above THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES. As a survivor of corporal punishment during her childhood, from parents and teachers alike, she wished people would not treat physical abuse so flippantly, a wish she would have expressed to that neighboring coworker, if Jess hadn’t noticed something that (to her) precluded discussion: the TRUMP THAT BITCH bumper sticker on the coworker’s SUV—the perfect sticker for such a vehicle or vice-versa, Jess thought.
Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews (currently 53 himself)
I love my brother, but he can be a real dumbass sometimes. Like, one day, this girl I know named Livvy was walking home from school, when she saw my brother and his friend Ryan. Those last two call themselves the Dudes, after that movie about the hippie who bowls? Anyways, my brother told her, he said “Hey, little lady! Wanna join us for a threesome?” Oh, she’s twelve, and the Dudes are eighteen. So Livvy, she went home and Googled “threesome” and freaked out, then told her parents everything, and her parents, they freaked out and then called the cops. So the Dudes, they had a little talk with the cops, separately. Ryan said all that threesome shit was my brother’s idea, while my brother said it was all Ryan’s. But they both said they were just joking around, that they didn’t go for young girls. So as it turned out, neither of them got arrested or nothing, maybe ’cause they’re white and Livvy’s black, which sucks—not her race, my boyfriend’s black by the way, but the whole thing sucks ’cause the Dudes, like, didn’t go to jail and get beaten or waterboarded or whatever happens to pedophiles behind bars, even fake pedophiles. Maybe a little of that rough treatment would have worked wonders. I really don’t care about Ryan, but my brother, he needs some of the dumbass-ness knocked out of him if he doesn’t wanna end up with life without parole for being a dick. My family, like, values its reputation.
Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews