“Passing”: GWU’s Annual English Graduate Symposium
| Director of Graduate Studies Tara Wallace responds to (L to R) Farisa Khalid, Brian Dumm, Emily Lathrop |
| Julia Asami Smith, part of our undergraduate panel. |
| Director of Graduate Studies Tara Wallace responds to (L to R) Farisa Khalid, Brian Dumm, Emily Lathrop |
| Julia Asami Smith, part of our undergraduate panel. |
Nikki Giovanni at the microphone; Toni Morrison seated in the wheelchair on the right, with Maya Angelou (less visible) in the wheelchair on the left. In Blacksburg, Virginia, on October 16th, 2012, James Madison University presented the Furious Flower Lifetime Achievement Award to two of America’s most recognized authors, Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou. This…
Dear English Department students, Professor Maria Frawley I am writing to introduce myself as the new Chair of the English Department and to welcome you back to campus for the start of the 2019-2020 academic year. After nearly ten years in the Honors Program, it is a real pleasure to return to my English Department…
Annie Liontas’ non-fiction workshop. Best known for her work as founding Editor-in-chief of literary and art magazine No Tokens, and her debut memoir, LONG LIVE THE TRIBE OF FATHERLESS GIRLS, Madden visited the writing workshop to provide insight into the inherent power and worth of nonfiction storytelling. In a statement from Professor Liontas, it becomes clear that…
Vacation on Mount Desert Island Nina Gilden Seavey, Sunset on Bar Harbor, 2015 So where would we go for vacation in 2015? Various considerations set aside the old pattern of the northern Minnesota lake. My daughter Eleanor (GWU 2010) has been living for a while with her boyfriend Greg Fortier in Manhattan. Greg has…
If We Must Die If we must die, let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die, O let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed…
Digging Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills…