Book Dedications

Dreamt up by Liat Kaplan, made real by Stefan Bohacek.

📚 This one’s for you.

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For Allan Cameron, Fredi Lajvardi, and America's teachers, all of whom are on the front lines of the American Dream.

If you need this book, it is for you.

For the sisters & the sistas & the sistahs & the sistren & the women & the womxn & the wimmin & the womyn & our brethren & our bredrin & our brothers & our bruvs & our men & our mandem & the LGBTQI+ members of the human family

My father passed away without leaving a dedication for this novel. On his behalf, I am including the following dedication that I think my father would be pleased with: To Georgia Killens, my great-great-grandmother Granny (seven years old when freedom was declared). She would say to my father, "Ah lord honey, the half ain't never been told." With that challenge he would tell part of that other half. - Barbara Killens Rivera, Brooklyn, New York

For my mamá, and her fighter's heart

To Martha. I said having children would mean I would stop writing these. You didn't want me to, I couldn't, and thank you for enabling (in both senses) my habit.

For the Witches who do not know they are Witches. And for the ones who do.

To Riccardo, Edoardo, and Alessandro. To all the boys and girls with the future in their eyes and all our hopes in their hearts

For John, in love and debt

For anyone who has ever felt at war against their own body

For Grimoire William Gwenllian Headley, who gestated alongside this book, changing the way I thought about love, bloodfeuds, woman-warriors, and wyrd

For Carl, who understands that science is magic

For Geoffrey, who makes me remember how young and how old children can be

To my mother, for your love, for everything. To my father, for never leaving me, even though you are gone. And to Marco, without whom none of this would have been possible.

To: Beyoncé Knowles Carter, lover of black people, genius and greatest living entertainer, feminist and global humanitarian. Solange Knowles, lover of black people, amazing artist, fearless advocate for the vulnerable. Tina Knowles-Lawson, lover of black people, gifted fashion dsigner and philanthropist, loving matriarch.

To all the mariners who have sailed the Great Lakes.

To divorced cis women, who, like me, had to face starting their life over without either reinvesting in the illusions from the past, or growing bitter about the future.

For the women in my life & for anyone vulnerable to flight

This book is dedicated to my mother, who is always kind even when incredibly stubborn. This book is dedicated to my sisters, who are two halves of the sun that warms me. This book is dedicated to my father, who is a gift from the universe and an actual genius, and without whom this book would not even exist at all. And this book is dedicated to Quinn, who is my heart's little mother and the dearest friend of my truest self.

For my parents, Francine Dunbar Harper and Marvin Bernard Flournoy, for being real. In loving memory of Ella Mae Flournoy who saw more than I can make up and loved more than I can imagine.

For my daughters, Skyla Emerson and Cassidy Rilke—and for my mother, Jacqueline. – D.B. For my mother and my sister, and for the women who braved this world before us, brave it beside us, and who will brave it after. – I.M.

To the two who gave me life and the one who made me free.

For everyone who would like to be someone else.

This book is dedicated to the Anonymous programs in gratitude for the miracle of recovery that they offer.

For my parents. And for the kid with the map.

This is for you, whoever you are. Because you deserve the world, but all I have is this book and the one I imagined.

For two courageous women: My Mom, Phoebe Kunst Franken, and my Mother-in-Law, Frances Doyle Bryson. Thanks for my life and my wife.

For Carol, though she be but little she is fierce.

In memory of Sonia Marguerite, with lasting love from a world without you

This book is dedicated to me. Without my selflove it could never have been written.

In memory of the wonderful Wendy Weil, champion of books, animals, and, in both categories, me

DEDICATION Frank: come on in—read novel—it's on table in front room. I'll be back in about 2 hours. Richard.

To my parents, who taught me how to be a thinking human, and so much more

For Mom, who always believed. For Rose, who always knew. And for Dad, who will never know how much.

For my father, who wanted me to live a happy life

This book is dedicated to that kid Maurice in my US history class junior year who called me a fucking idiot. LOL, BRUH

This book is dedicated with love to Hindeleh Pivko, who was only a little girl.

For Charlie Marie Moore Karr and J. P. Karr, who taught me to love books and stories, respectively

If you're lonely, this one's for you

This book is dedicated to Eliza, may she always be surrounded by love, joy and compassion, the demon vanquishers.

To Sufiya, My World Requires You

For Kabir, Rumi, Tagore, Paulo de Tarso, Hafez, Who have been with me ever since I first discovered them, Who have written part of the story of my life, Which I tell in the book that follows—often using their words.

For my parents, Jeff and Else; the survivors of war; and all the ships that follow them.

For Kelley, my warp and weft

For those who have survived history and those who haven't.

This book is dedicated with affection for but no patience with those who would protect our children through humorless moralizing and paranoia about fantasy.

For those who need a reminder to make every day count. Shout-out to Mom for all the love and Cecilia for all the tough love. I've always needed both.

I dedicate this book to Alana Devich Cyril (April 17, 1976–October 27, 2018), who I loved and learned from during the journey of creation and pleasure research for this book (and include as a teacher in these pages). She said, “Drink in beauty. Pleasure is a practice. Practice pleasure like your life depends on it.” I also dedicate this book to Prince for the awakening. He said “I only wanted one time to see you laughing.”

For my mother, Katherine Florio Vorona, whose compassionate heart and boundless empathy taught me that no amount of love is too much. If she had not raised me, and embraced everything I am—with all my excess, unruliness, and contradictions—I cold not have written this book.

This book is dedicated to people everywhere who know, have known, or will know suffering, desperation, or loneliness.

For Herrick, and those who continue to struggle to make cities a home for all

For James, James, Luc James

For my first reader, my wife, eyes bathed in clearest light; three black gems smile in your irises. For my children like the fingers on a hand. For my parents, bearers of this métisse life.

For every person who has been scarred by rape culture and survives, nonetheless.

It is to my mother, Harriet Ruby Ross by way of Goldstein, that I dedicate my book, my whisk, my chutzpah, and my journey.

For our daughter, Una, an old Irish blessing: Nár mille an sioc do chuid prátaí, Go raibh duilleoga do chabáiste slán ó chnuimheanna. May there be no frost on your potatoes, nor worms in your cabbage.

For the men. For some of the men.

To the devoted teachers and librarians who help guide us in our quest for truth

For my nana, Miriam Ruth Christie, who was a feminist despite the confines of her generation. A “from the can” cook, she was not known for her kitchen skills but did make a mean Chicken à la King. Which I miss, though not as much as I miss her. And to all the women who have come before me, thank you for lighting the pathway. For those coming after—especially you, Addison Mae—I'm sorry the work is not done. I hope we've left you with enough to finish the job.

I wrote the last one mostly for me. This one's for you.

To my wonderful parents Betty and Kal, and my also wonderful sister Carolyn, who, when they heard I wanted to become a comedian, thought it was a great idea.

This book is dedicated to Kathryn, my woman, my wife. I remember when I almost lost you. It was 1994, James Arthur was six. We went to Canada with hope of a cancer treatment. I contemplated losing you. Losing my lover. Raising James without you. I couldn't handle it. It was my absolute darkest hour—the deepest saddest trough I ever knew. Thinking there might be no mother, no You in our lives, I felt the huge Something you are. As big as my life. But you are here, in all your magnificent mystical Substantiality. Mom was right—God is good. 10/13/16

For Dahvi, the house where my heart lives.

FOR SHEP, WHO ALWAYS GETS IT, EVEN WHEN IT'S POSSIBLY JUST HIM AND ME

In appreciation of all the young people who would not bow down

To James, for his wavering support. And to me, without whom this book would not have been possible.

To my parents: Thank you for all the books, phone calls, free meals, endless patience, and boundless love.

To Doris and Esther, grandmothers who could, and did

For my parents: This is all your fault

FOR JACK GILBERT IT WAS LIKE BEING ALIVE TWICE

FOR MY MOM, ANNE, an elegant wordsmith, AND DYLAN, as consummate a questioner as Kipling

Still and always, for Toyin Salau. You deserved a better world.

To Michael, U R lucky 4 me

To my family, the Femme Collective, and all the black and brown and Jewish and Muslim and queer and trans kids, who deserve to grow up in a world without hate. And to Diane, the warrior.

Dedicated to Tilikum (Tilly) the whale who perhaps had his own name in whale language. 1981-2017

This book is dedicated to our mothers, Mrs. Mabel Carmichael (affectionately known as May Charles) and Mrs. Viola White, and to all the black mothers who have struggled through the centuries so that this generation could fight for black power.

For all the migrants, immigrants and refugees suffering from the border installations within the United States, at the border crossing and throughout Latin America. for a borderless society and world, made of relentless unity and kindness and giving. For Margarita de Las Flores, the seer, love. for Mama Lucha and Papa Felipe, pioneers, givers of life. For my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. for all my familias in California, Oregon, New Mexico, Arizona, and New York. For my agent, Kendra Marcus, and my editor and publisher, Elaine Katzenberger at City Lights, San Francisco. Countless gracias. For all my friends, bards and artists, teachers and professors, editors and publishers, for the many gifts you offered. For my dear companions at the Library of Congress, the Poetry and Literature Center, and all who greeted me and guided me while I was Poet Laureate of the United States. Warm-hearted appreciations for Dr. James Billington, Head Librarian of Congress, for inviting me to be the Laureate, and for director, Rob Casper, and the Poetry staff for their friendship and for mapping the journey. And once again, many bows to all the beautiful students and schools that opened their doors and hearts.

For Lena, who was a bell

I dedicate this book to my board of directors, My Ancestors, without whom none of this would be possible, but more specifically: with respect to my Mama, with respect to my Daddy. For Meredith, for Fallan, for Gideon, for Kennedi, for Grace and Jack, for Malcolm, for Ben—souls in and out of the Newest South.

For those who died in Spain, or left their hearts there; and for Tom.

For all those who have been fucked over by neoliberalism and suffered as a result of its abhorrent violence. Fuck it to hell.

Much has changed in this revised and expanded edition—but not its dedication, which remains steadfast: to my wife Karen, with love and loyalty.

Dedicated to whomever's worn, warm afternoon hands come upon these pages—wherever you may find them—and that you may remember that the world is conspiring for you and to act in a manner as such.

For everyone who feels alone: you're not.

For Marina and Teresa, who were girls both luminous and dark, like these.

To Linda, who reads Hesse and drinks clam chowder

FOR YAMA, WHO COMES FROM A DIFFERENT GENE POOL ENTIRELY

We dedicate this book to all those who have suffered from miscarriages of justice, and to all victims of crimes whose perpetrators went unpunished, due to the misuse or misunderstanding of mathematics in the legal process.

Dedicated to my mother and father, another great love story

For my grandmother, Rita Pagenkopf. This should hopefully make up for at least some of the times I didn't call.

To Leila and to all the fire city children

To Bob & Vanette, Mary Ellen & Patti, and Doonie. And to St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.

Dedicated to my husband, Clive Thompson, and my sons, Gabriel and Zev, the world's biggest fans of Jane the Virgin and Parks and Recreation

For my sister Nova, the first star I ever wanted to be.

For Aïda. For Ikbel. My open eyes

To Ryōsuke, Sōsuke, and Emilio, To the voices that will always be with you.

For believers of justice in intimacy

To my parents, who taught me: it is a tree of life. And to Daniel, who taught me: be happy, hold fast.

For Zelda. Hey, honey, welcome to the party.

This work of pure fiction is dedicated to the memory of EUGENE VICTOR DEBS 1855–1926. “While there is a lower class I am in it. While there is a criminal element I am of it. While there is a soul in prison I am not free."

To my family and Sarah, and to hurrying home

To IOWA

To my daughter Margaret, Child of the Locust Years

I dedicate this book to all my teachers. The scope and range of your skills have had an immeasurable impact on my life. The best thanks I can offer you is to present a book that is beneficial to other bakers. And if I achieve that goal, I will have succeeded completely.

THIS BOOK IS FOR THE MEMORY OF A BOY WHO WAS BORN IN BERLIN DURING THE LAST MONTHS OF THE WAR. HIS NAME WAS PETER FECHTER. IN 1962 HE WAS MACHINEGUNNED BY HIS OWN PEOPLE AND LEFT TO BLEED TO DEATH BY THE SIDE OF THE MOST TRAGIC MEMORIAL TO THE ALLIED VICTORY—THE BERLIN WALL.

To my parents, on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary, with gratitude for their beautiful example.

J AND Z : YOU ARE MY COUNTRY.

For my mother, Jin Ai, in awe

For Cory. All that we survived. Don't think I forgot about you filling a water gun with piss and shooting it at me just because it didn't make it into this book, though.

A mes enfants, Michel, Bernard et Yveline Tesnière, je dédie ce livre dont leurs curiosités d'élèves de sixième A ont hâté la maturation. 'To my children, Michel, Bernard and Yveline Tesnière, students at the sixth grade level, I dedicate this book, the development of which has been promoted by their curiosities.

To Steffanie, who helped me get used to the dark. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see lots of possibilities.

To my wife, Tessa, and my son Christopher, with great and awful love

For Boom—whenever Boom gets here

For my mother, Susan, who taught me to read; and, for my father, Peter, who taught me to write

This book is dedicated to the memory of David Sattler, who didn't love golf, but who absolutely adored his children. It was an honor to call him my brother for twenty-seven years.

for michael michael motorcycle

To the teenagers who starred in my own adolescence

My wife, Alice, appears as a character in many of these pieces. Before her death, in 2001, even the pieces that didn't mention her were written in the hope of making her giggle. This book is dedicated to her memory.

With thanks to Declan Denny for his invaluable attention to my details

For the weirdos & the dreamers

To my mother and father, who thankfully are nothing like the parents in this book, and let me build my girl how I wanted.

For Billie Holiday, whose death changed my life, and Gloria Swanson, whose life changed my death

In memory of Melina Romero and Araceli Ramos. For the victims of femicide, for its survivors.

To my grandmother who grew me with stories. To my mother who loves me with and through everything. To my uncle who gave me the courage to leave. And to my father who gave me the humor to survive it all.

For Anonymous and all the stories she told

For LaKeyma and Emilie. All power to the feminist sleepover!

To William C. Gordon, my partner in love and crime

To Mom and Dad, who never forced me to go see Santa Claus

It is sheer good fortune to miss somebody long before they leave you. This book is for Ford and Slade, whom I miss although they have not left me.

To my sister, LESLIE FRIEDMAN (a great cook) and to JURIS and ROSA (great eaters)

To my mother, father, sister, and grandma, all of whom suffered more than they will ever let me know, and whom I love more than they will ever know...

For Sandra Bland. For all our beautiful fierce feminine bodies also, in memory and in celebration of Ntozake Shange. I told you: I wld not exist if not for you. you replied: what's a girl to say, I'm honored... Thank you, Tz. Now... what?

To my wife, Michele, for making the sacrifices this book entailed

In memory of my father, who was a wonderful storyteller, my mother, who believed fervently in the beauty of life, and my brother, who was my guide to all things American

To the guys that made me crazy. And to my mom, for being a badass and undercover crazy.

This book is dedicated to William Woodrow Kramm, drinker of martinis & Brendan Kennedy, more of a beer man. Models of honor in a world full of men.

To my parents, who taught me to always look beyond myself and to do the right thing

ln the grand scheme of things, this book is necessarily dedicated to the unhappy memory of the millions of civilians on all sides during the times portrayed, who became victims of the numerous death marches, movements of refugees,campaigns of persecution and extermination, and exchanges of population. More personally, it is also dedicated to the memory of my maternal grandfather, Arthur Kenneth Smithells, of Nelson Battalion, the Royal Naval Division, who was severely wounded at Gallipoli, and in whose steps I trod while researching part of this novel. Manet in pectus domesticum.

In memory of my grandmothers: Pauline Gottesfeld Kaufman (1887–1969), who finished buttonholes at the Triangle Waist Company in 1909, and Kay Swift (1897–1993), who made wonderful music.

For the middle-aged women of America. You're not imagining it, and it's not just you

For my grandparents, who taught me the opposite of disappearing. And for Jonathan, my life.

To my dad, Vincent Mosco, who grew up in a Manhattan tenement and only knew three kinds of birds: the gray ones, the little brown ones, and seagulls. Dad, thanks for helping me see the connections that make the world work. Here are some more connections for you.

To the bots and trolls, all of you, with love.

To my most cherished menstruators—my mom, Sophia, and my two younger sisters, Ameya and Issa.

This book is dedicated to Wellbutrin.

For every woman resurrecting herself. For the girls who will never be buried. Mosly, for Tish.

To Martin Meyerson (1922-2007), city planner, teacher, valued colleague, and Martin Pawley (1938-2008), fellow garbage architect, writer, friend.

In memory of Mary Lou Livingstone (March 20, 1925-January 8, 2006). A most wonderful lady full of love and encouragement, who always believed in me. I wish she could have lived to see this book. She would have loved it.

To all the women who have traveled with me along the river.

To my past and future selves, and to my family.

To Mommy and Tom, who gave me language, with love.

To the ravens of Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress the Tower of London and to the memory of Martin Harris.

This book is dedicated to its other daddy.

For Amanda, wherever all the pieces of you are…

To my parents, for feeding me stories.

For Granny, who drove me eighty miles round-trip to get the next book in the series

This book is dedicated to: Dr. John Sharpe, of London who in 1957, a decade before physicians in England could legally perform an abortion for any reason other than the health of the woman, took the considerable risk of referring for an abortion a 22-year old on her way to India. Knowing only that she had broken an engagement at home to seek an unknown fate, he said, "You must promise me two things. First, you will not tell anyone my name. Second, you will do what you want to do with your life." Dear Dr. Sharpe, I believe you, who knew the law was unjust, would not mind if I say this so long after your death: I’ve done the best I could with my life. This book is for you.

For Arlene, my love and my pal

For my twins, Marian, Ricky & Johnny

This book is dedicated to my mother, Cele, for teaching her children that they could do no wrong; To my glorious Thea and our love that changed history; To my beautiful Judith for a second gift of love and joy; And to LGBTQ+ people everywhere for your courage, strength, and inspiration

To the memory of three dear friends, great givers of laughter: Terry Collits (1940–2009) Tony Errington (1944–2009) Graham Rees (1944–2009): Who now will set the table on a roar?

For anyone who has misunderstood or felt misunderstood

For Mike, who knows I could never quarantine the past

For Jela, with a compulsion to repeat

For all the daughters, forgotten and unloved

For Norma Stallings Nolan Santangelo, the bright bright

This book is dedicated to my father, who died on New Year's Day, 1993. I miss you, Dad.

to my master, to my wife, to my mother, to my fathers, to my sisters, to my nephew, to my teachers, to my friends, to my exes, to my shrinks, and to my doctors

To Mary, for investing in me

For Alex, for this broken nation, and for everyone who has ever loved

for Chris & for everyone who has been touched by the schizophrenias

Dedicated to Maricla Moyano, my lover of ten years from 1973 to 1983, who taught me how "Lesbians Ignite!" In memory of Sadie, my cat, who sat on this book for years. 18 July 1970-18 July 1985.

To all the bad girls, but especially Molly and Katelan

In memory of my mother, Martha Harris née Finkelstein, who knew estrangement

To those for whom utopia is a rallying call

For Melissa Carroll and Max Ritvo—the ink behind it all And for all the others who crossed the river too soon.

To Anya and Ezra, my very favorite Oddities

To the guilty dead. To their innocence.

To my sister Linda, who let me steal her typewriter when I was eleven. And to Deborah, who let me steal her heart when I was older.

For young people whose rivers of dreams are so varied. And for Laura Godwin with gratitude.

I dedicate these erotic meanderings to playful lovers and, why not? also to frightened men and melancholy women.

These essays are for my godchildren, Ellie and Cal Shearer. And also Lucy Reynolds. Lucy is studying the past in order to understand the present and the future. (That is what the humanities are for.) Ellie is writing her own books now. Cal is in a lab in Oxford, building a brain.

For Mary Roy, who grew me up. Who taught me to say "excuse me" before interrupting her in Public. Who loved me enough to let me go. For LKC, who, like me, survived.

For everyone who underestimated me, including myself. Oh, and Alex, my love.

To Chris, Kristen, Lauren, and Erin, for making it all worthwhile—and to Molly, whose lust for socks kept us all on our toes

For everyone who wishes they could eat a piece of blackbird pie.

This book is dedicated with affection and sympathy to all young people (including my own son and three daughters) who are going through that long and difficult metamorphosis when they are no longer children and have not yet become adults

For Alexandra, who comes of age with the millennium. May we leave your generation a world better than the one we were given.

To Tiffany and Richard and to 51.7519°N 1.2578°W

For G, my inverted me.

FOR MY PARENTS, WHEREVER THEY ARE OR AREN'T

For my family, who should not read this book

For Effie and Emily, with apologies to Bernard Malamud

FOR ALISON RICH who made people pick up a book about elevator inspectors

This book is dedicated to my daughter, Leonora Gale. Leo, I wrote much of this while you were napping on or near me, in the first year and a half of your life...

For everyone who's been diagnosed—and misdiagnosed and overdiagnosed

To feminists everywhere—including those of our generation who say, “I'm not a feminist, but...” and others who say, “I am a feminist, but..."—with the faith that young women transform the world in ways we haven't yet imagined.

For my mother, Carol Roupenian, who taught me to love what scares me

To the railroad of bones

This book is for - and written through - Andy and Miles Mingo.

To Mindy, for all the usual reasons and six unusual ones

To Jeff LaHoste, without whom beauty would be impossible

For my mother, who knows who she is

FOR CORINNE, my gambler wife and MY FATHER, the original gambler

Dedicated to my husband, without whom this book would not exist. Mainly because he would not quit yelling at me to stop binge-watching Netflix and get some fucking work done. But also because he's funnier than I am in person, gives me incredible material, and loves me even when I don't always love myself. Thanks, mister.

For my wife, Clare, and children, Alex, Jack, Daniel, and Kate, who make living longer worthwhile.—M.M.
For Ned, Lily May, and Paul—my Brighton rock. And for my parents, who have always known that food is love.—M.S

For the women who ride the early bus, who work the late shift, who teach the children, clean the offices, nurse the sick, who stand guard and keep watch, who build, create, and sustain, who cut new paths and swim in unchartered waters, who light the path and lead the way, who stand up, step up, sit down, and always keep moving, who do the everyday extraordinary work of family, community, and liberation. We sing this song for you.

Simply and impossibly: for my family

To all the once-in-a-lifetime dogs

To the people of New York City, I always knew the great sacrifice and kindness my neighbors are capable of But now the rest of the country knows, too.

To John, for convincing me that everyone who is interesting has a past.

For my BizMgr

To my nana, who always loved my voice

Dedicated to all of those who were born in the wrong era

TO AVA AND MATEO, the baby bird that died on our back porch, & LUNA

For Dani, without whom none of me would be possible. We're just two badgers in search of acorns.

This novel is dedicated to the center of my universe: Will, Sara, Julia, and Elise; and to my own twin star, Steve.

TO STAN REITER AND CARL SIMON: Two bright shining lights that haven't always pointed in the same direction. For that I am ever grateful.

TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER, TWO TRAVELERS AMONG THOUSANDS IN THE GUATEMALAN DIASPORA

For John Costas, who saw the dice go cold too often

Dedicated to the following, in no particular order: Fiona Apple, Stevie Nicks, Nina Simone, Diana Ross, the Cranberries, Dolores O'Riordan, Garbage, PJ Harvey, Sarah McLachlan, Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, The Craft, Scream, Letters to Cleo, Living Single, Moonpools & Caterpillars, Harold and Maude, Strangers with Candy, Mr. Show, Janeane Garofalo, Marya Hornbacher, Lauryn Hill, Selena, Alanis Morissette, Ani DiFranco, the Cure, Wonderfalls, Sheryl Crow, Dinah Washington, Sinéad O'Connor, Cyndi Lauper, John Waters, Prince, Reality Bites, Lesley Gore, the Dixie Chicks, Matilda, Girl, Interrupted, Julie Doiron, Winona Ryder, Patty Griffin, Patti Smith, Mazzy Star, the Crystals, Tori Amos, Wet Hot American Summer, Michael Showalter, Michael Ian Black, A League of Their Own, Angelina Jolie, Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, Anne of Green Gables, 10 Things I Hate About You, Brittany Murphy, Natalie Imbruglia, Poe, Ella Fitzgerald, Radiohead, Sam Phillips, Neko Case, Kathleen Edwards, Faith Hill, Gin Blossoms, Better Than Ezra, Cameron Crowe, the Go-Go's, No Doubt, Heart, Portishead, Late Night with Conan O'Brien, Amy Poehler, Depeche Mode, Aretha Franklin, Cat Power, Bic Runga, Debbie Harry, Parker Posey, The Breakfast Club, Empire Records, Veronica Mars, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Arrested Development, Deana Carter, Shania Twain, Jo Dee Messina, Patsy Cline, Margaret Cho, and Rosie O'Donnell. And the small voice in my head that never let me give up.

For Micah, who constantly reminds me of the infinite joy of learning

To Sharon, my weaver of dreams

To my grandmothers Rakeli, Yeeko, Abisaagi, and Milly on Father's side, and on Mother's side, Batanda and Kaamida, all of them sisters to my “real” grandmothers. For that thick traditional love, which would not allow me to see that my "real" grandmothers had passed when my parents were very young. Not until all of you had passed. To Catherine Makumbi-Kulubya, whose fierce independence, sheer tenacity and quiet intelligence first inspired me.

To the brave barefoot woman, whose name I don't know but whose rational arguments saved me from being sliced by a mob of angry men with machetes.

To Matthew and Julian Wild. The end of this story and the beginning of the next.

This book is dedicated to everyone who has ever Googled the words am I gay?

To all the fans who've written me about this series. Thanks for telling me what was right, what was wrong, and which bits made you throw the book across the room. (You know who you are.)

For the restless. But not the young.

For Paul, my isle

For my father, Joshua B. Stein (1944–2012), who taught me to love cities and question authorities

For the hundreds of gay men I have worked with over the past thirty years, for the hundreds of thousands of gay men who have fought to be themselves against all odds, for Matthias, and for Robb and for his parents, Charlotte and Arthur, who supported him in being himself.

To the memory of my mother, who told me stories of a real town drowned beneath a lake; Of what it was like to live there before, and to swim above it, after.

For Frank, who knows the world by the songs it sings.

For Eugie, my first love and still the most beautiful woman. I've ever known. For Daddy, who has always been my hero. For the loves of my life: Kanke, Jesam, Kebe, and Elaiwe. All I've ever wanted was to make you proud. I hope there's still time.

for those seeking whole with the holes they see

For Anna. I had no idea taking the Fung Wah bus ride would be so lucky.

For Hazel and Zuri-Siale who bookend my survival

For Cassandra Clare, who was finally lured into Faerieland

This book is for our city of New York

Thank you to Celia Sánchez's family, here and there, for their anecdotes, words, and hospitality. To my mother, for her lost pages and recovered poetry. To Celia, for not allowing herself to be forgotten, for soaring. To Marco, my counsel. To Julio Carrillo, for his style. To the Cuban archives, to the two coasts, to all the friends who hold on to their memories. To you, secretly.

To my mommy, Rocco, and the Bronx. - Desus
TO PAPI, MAMI, HEATHER, ADRIAN, AVERY, AMARI, AZALEA, TITO, INGRID, VICTOR, &THE BRONX. I LOVE YOU. - MERO

For my mother, Jessica Flynn, artist of loving kindness

To anyone who would rather be doing something useful with themselves

These words and drawings are dedicated to all whose hearts have felt the weight of a falling leaf

This book is in memory of Marilyn Nank Eyman and Vincenza Giannetti, who took us to the movies for the first time, and who loved them, and their sons, very much.

This book is dedicated, with pride and delight, to four very special young women: my daughters Beth, Ellen, Phyllis, and Jill. Fine cooks, and thoroughly confident in the kitchen, they have given me endless satisfaction by their interest in and appreciation of good food, lovingly prepared

This book is dedicated to my big and only brother—he rode on ahead—Carl. For our sister, Marie.

For your Carson

For Ariel, who rocked my vagina and exploded my heart

For my family: Mom, Dad, and Mark & André, for teaching me how to write love

For Brian, who will find at least a few of the family treasures here

FOR LISA, MY SISTER WHO HAS YET TO READ ANY OF MY NOVELS, WHICH EXPLAINS WHY SHE CONTINUES TO ACT LIKE I'M NOT TOTALLY AWESOME

For Robert— lightning twice

Dedicated to Linda Sanders-Wells for believing that one big girl had so much potential

To Maia and Dylan, who showed me childhood all over again.

For my dad, who is dead but hopefully taking a break from smoking weed and eating fried chicken on the astral plane to read his daughter's book

for e, my true north

To Alef, the letter that begins the alphabets of both Arabic and Hebrew—two Semitic languages, sisters for centuries. May we find the language that takes us to the only home there is—one another's hearts. To my parents, Suleiman and Mirriam, who did their best, and to my brothers, Basel and Muhammad, the two heroes of my childhood. And to children everywhere.

To three good people I love to walk with: Fred, Ira, and Julius. Kamina kon buenos, te hazeras uno de eyos. Walk with good people and you will become one of them.

For Caspian, who might really be Sirius

To Asher—this one will always be special, because you came into our world somewhere between Chapter 1 and Chapter 10. And maybe, just maybe, by the time you're old enough to read this, together we'll be watching someone take those first steps on Mars...

For my brother David, who swam a river to save my life.

For Hudson and Josephine, always. For Manny, without whom this book would not exist—and who once advised me to relax my shoulders. And for Mom: this one's for you.

for the dead of jackson and orangeburg and so on and so on and on

For Dev & Sarah & Amy every dang day
For Don Delillo & Phillip Roth on holy days'
& (wincingly enough) for Jesus:
you all keep me kneeling down and looking up

For Ann and Michael Because in real life, I root for happy endings

For Susan, my lodestar, my love

WE DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE FUTURE OF ALL LIFE

In memory of Elting Morison, who trusted his questions and his students with a graceful patience I always admired but never achieved

For Edith Orlean, my past. For Austin Gillespie, my future.

Dedicated to my parents, who looked at the apocalyptic 1970s East Village and thought, What a great place to raise a kid.

To all those who speak of rivers. To all those who made safe passage and to all those lost in the waters.

For the children, so they may find their way through the dark. They are all our children.

To the women and men who came before me. And to those who will come after. Because all stories about the ocean are political, and each of us is searching for a land to call home.

In memoriam Larry Brown (1951–2004). bro.

For you, holding this. From me, nearby.

To my mum. Who else. This book is about me, but really about her.

For Charlotte Nekola, sisters under the screen

To Amy Hempel—There is no other cheese

To my big sister, for her winter travels

For Lili, Constanza and Jorge. Integral to my infinity.

To my mother and father, who taught me how to fight

For my parents, Susan and Matthew Horn, who took me all over the world, and for my husband, Brendan Schulman, who took me home.

For Mom, who calls me "Pickle," and Dad, who calls me "Dude."

This book is dedicated to a man who doesn't need to read it:— My cherished friend Homer Croy

A French aviator who followed the profession of airline pilot for eight years offers the American edition of this book in homage to the Airline pilots of America and their dead.

For the poets and the protesters.

For my premodern/postmodern women's reading group

This book is dedicated to Bill Macy, the best boyfriend and husband a girl could have. —FH

This book is dedicated to my grandmother Henri Kushkin, who at the age of 96 tells great stories about her boyfriends, especially Charlie Hoffman, her first boyfriend from third grade. — W

To Christina Looper Baker, who handed me the thread, and Carole Robertson Kline, who gave me the cloth.

For my parents, who will outlive us all, one way or another.

To our families, and to all of the children, of all species, for all time

To my daughter Leonora, Queen of her species

This book is dedicated to MY SON, GUY JOHNSON, and all the strong black birds of promise who defy the odds and gods and sing their songs

Some people prefer their sex and horror separate, others not so much. This is for them.

For my amazing Italian American wife, Laura. My mother, Evelyn, for her endless devotion to her three sons. And for my father, Berney Seal, who kept one book by his bedside: The Godfather.

dedicated to babs
with babs knows what
and babs knows why

For Alice and Sarah and Abigail (who, when she was four, reacted to polishing off a particularly satisfying dish of chocolate ice cream by saying, "My tongue is smiling.")

A Special Legacy is dedicated to the men and women whose stories it tells, and to their friends and relatives in the Soviet Union who have an unrecorded share in the history it reveals.

for nobody
who made us possible

for those who travel the path of ice

For all the children in the cemetery at the Owatonna State School and for all those who survived but in silence.

To the Sisters in Pain and to our fathers, Walter M. Beattie, Jr., and Edward M. Shaughnessy, Jr., whose devotion to us and to our mothers and whose acute sense of justice have cast—as well as created—our lives.

For Mack, with my love, and to Randy, for my life

For you who struggle and hold on

For all those whose voices may never be heard—the victims—on both sides of wrongful convictions

For the ones waiting on proof that their lives matter, and that their dreams are possible. And to my dear Kunle, you said that I should finish... that I would finish. And here we are.

To the memory of my parents who survived the caste system and to the memory of Brett who defied it.

To my parents, for raising me to believe that anything was possible. And to my husband, for making everything possible.

For Rick Daniels, the best fisherman I've ever seen and an even better person.

This book is dedicated to friendship, sisterhood, and rock 'n' roll. Onetwothreefour!

To JOHN, JASON, and TED trusting and trustworthy

Dedicated to the memory of John Robert Harrington, who knew some ripping good yarns.

This book is dedicated to Henry Robbins and to Bret Easton Ellis, each of whom did time with its publisher.

I dedicate this book, again, to every lesbian dreaming baby dreams. This second edition is also dedicated to the many dyke daddies and tranny pops out there, arms and hearts so wide open. This book is for all of you, with love. And as before, it's especially for my own daughter, Frances Ariel, who finally made my own baby dreams come true.

To the grandmothers I've known in this lifetime who have taught me so much and lived more sustainably than anyone I know—Emma, Catherine, and Ann. (Grammy, you would be so proud, my goodness, you'd tell everyone.)

To my Amma, I was forged in your quiet ferocity, dedication, and sacrifice. my Appa, Your empathy is my blood; your fight for freedom my soul. my Mohan Mama, Thank you for the books, we miss you. & my dearest Che. you are my everything, the revolution, our future.

FOR TEMPLE GRANDIN AND MY WIFE, NANCY, TWO BRAINS WHO HAVE TAUGHT ME MUCH

For Steven—You definitely told me so.

For those who told me stories

To Richard for giving me Buster. To Liana for giving me Prague. To Sara for giving me my most ideal reader. To Faye for giving me sisterhood. To my mother and father for giving me life.

On my kitchen wall in Sag Harbor, where we all get together, are Hebrew letters from a song celebrating "from generation to generation. " This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Miriam, and my father, Harry, who made a larger life possible for me. And for Daniel, Jonathan, Emily and Rafael, Caleb, Nataya, David, Isabel, Lara, Birgitta, and Benjamin, whose mother and grandmother I am.

For my grandparents, Joseph and Frances Pohlen, from that great state to the south

To Dr. Eugene Landy - without you there'd be no music.

Dedicated to all the revolutionary mothers and all the revolutions they've created, because mothering is love by any means necessary

This book is dedicated to my mother, Marjorie, who always wanted to be a writer.

No one has made more sacrifices to realize the completion of this work than Leith Mullings. For more than a decade, she has been my constant companion and intellectual compass as I have attempted to reconstruct the past. This work is hers.

To my father, Charles Moskos, who always loved a crazy idea

To my parents—Maria, Ernesto, and Miriam—for the running start. To Matias for the safe landing. To everyone who does more than they should with less than they deserve. To those who have never been welcome. And for all the people who know how to share the damn sidewalk.

For my mother: so wonderful she's like something out of a movie.

To my parents, Mary Louise LaBrada Viramontes and Serafin Bermúdes Viramontes, who met in Buttonwillow picking cotton. In Memory of César Chávez.

For Kim, who taught me that if a person's behavior doesn't make sense, it's because I'm missing a piece of their context

For my beloved parents, Chana and Avri, who taught me with their words and deeds that all women and men are equal in talent and ability, and that there should be no borders between us.

For Pat, without whom none of these works would be possible nor worth writing

For Christine, who wouldn't let me talk myself out of this one

This novel is for D. S., who likes to write his initials in his books

To Christopher Robin Milne or as he prefers to call himself, Billy Moon, this book which owes so much to him is now humbly offered

To all the health workers. And the care workers. Thank you.

For my father, who gave me life not once, but twice

This book is dedicated to anyone who's ever wanted to be happy. It's not just pie in the sky anymore. And to Dad, my first Happy for No Reason role mode. I carry your joy in my heart.

To Rafael, when I started this book I didn't realize I was writing it for you. And To my family for providing endless love, support, and, of course, material.

To Barbara Napier, who gave me stars when I needed them. And to librarians everywhere.

For the women who have been told to lower their standards. I hope you never do.

For the students at Rocky Mountain Deaf School, Pennsylvania School for the Deaf, Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind, and St. Rita School for the Deaf, and for deaf people everywhere.

For my mother, goddamn it.

TO FRANCES LOUISE CLAYTON
our footsteps hold this place together
our decisions make the possible whole.

For my firefighters

Dedicated to all of the teachers out there who manage e-learning with such grace and patience. Especially: Mrs. Bailey, Mrs. Forsman, Mrs. McIvor, Mrs. Barry, Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Friends, Mrs. Kenealy-Bredice, Mrs. Anderson, Teacher Ashley. It was such a pleasure to have you in our home each week!

To all the stories I've loved before.

FOR MOM, CHRISTIAN, AND JOHN. WE DID HAVE A LOT OF FUN, IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING.

For Staci, who does all the responsible adult things so that I can be a kid. I love you.

For Mommy and Gloria, who, had they made it to sixty, would have been some savvy, sassy sexagenarians

For Jeffrey, he's foolproof

“Scribble, scribble scribble! Eh, Mr. Gibbon?” To you Scribblers everywhere.

For our Indigenous pueblos, by our Indigenous pueblos. May we continue to write and tell our stories, instead of our stories being written and told for us.

To that most gentle of shepherds, Mr. Barry Sanders, at whose feet I cribbed the cant.

To my father who teaches by example and love and to Kristen, Dericka, Richard, Julie, and all the children in the tunnels in hope that they will carry the lesson with them.

"If you have built castles in the air, that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them." - Henry David Thoreau

This book is for Sarah and Cecilia, who want cereal for breakfast every day and who fill those days with joy.

For my father, across oceans

To Susan Kamil, who inspired me years ago with the remark, "You should write a ghost story one day."

To my father and mother for the past, to Natalie and Isabelle for the future, and to Woody for the here and now

To the musical keys and loves in my life, and to Mamma and Pappa, who gave me wings

For Ronald Reagan, who wrote all the letters

To JULIE and DEBBIE, my primary sources

For Henry Michael Brooks, who makes me want to change the world.

To Asmat Begum and Barkat Ali. Without you, there is nothing; with you, there is the world.

For the world from which I came, Mom, my source of loveful flames. I'm grateful for the shine you gave and every sacrifice you've made. In loving memory of Thelma Lee White and Jaiden Torrez, who both know how necessary it is to tell their own stories. Rest in Paradise, Michael Lassiter.

To my mother, Sally Hilderbrand, who gave me my roots and my wings.

I wrote this book for women who survived and women who didn't, but mostly I wrote it for those still somewhere in between.

For Donald J. Trump, without whom this book would not have been possible.

To my beloved S&D, that they might see the world clearly. And to Barny, for that spider diagram all those years ago.

This book is for my father and my sons. In ways I don't fully understand, this story is connected to the lives and deaths of the following: Christopher Biase, Elizabeth Cobb, Randy Deglin, Samantha Deglin, Kathy Levesque, Nicholas Spano, and Patrick Vitagliano. I hope that, in some small way, the novel honors both their memory and the devotion and strength of the loved ones they had to leave.

To my mother, who read Baldwin to me in the womb, bought me an orange Olivetti when I was ten, and unlike some mothers in this story, has always believed in her two sons.

To the lives they said don't matter.

For our children: Gregory, Geoffrey, and Caroline. Thanks for your love and patience when research for this book meant grumpy or absent parents and less cheering at your soccer games. You've enriched our journeys through difficult and oppressive countries, and you're wonderful kid to be arrested with! And for those on the front lines around the globe, saving the world, one woman at a time.

To all of you who dance with me in the circle of love—To Anthony with whom I whirl and whirl and whirl.

To the couple standing in the middle of the autostrada beside their jackknifed camper. To the mother and two-year-old boy in seats 42 A and B during the ninth hour of flight. To the family of six crossing Europe in a Deux Cheveaux singing “Blessed Be the Ties That Bind.” To the small girl screaming on the floor of the trattoria at eleven P.M.. To K.A.T., who said "Good, now I've been and don't have to go again." To the forgotten new yellow panties and bra left drying on the rim of the hotel bathtub. To the captain diving into waving algae in search of the dropped scuba mask. To the suitcase that went to India. To T.A., who couldn't open the train door and rode on to Castiglion Fiorentino. To the Southern man limping through Pienza calling to his wife, "I've seen all I want to see." To the character described by Novalis, who went off to find a blue flower seen in a dream. To Edward—with you I will go.

This book is dedicated to my amazing daughter, Kelly: keeper of the sacred DNA, citizen of the universe, and one of America's few really good Buddhist poker players.

For my mother and father, who had three sons join the military in a time of war.

To my wife, Tammy; daughters, Jessica and Caleigh; and mom, Iona; thanks for helping me in so mant ways—once it finally hit me that 100 chapters is a lot of chapters. Caleigh, you no longer have to help me count them down. To my readers over the many years, thanks, and I hope you enjoy the book.

Mom, here is the first book, rewritten a bit. I didn't know, when I was living it, that it was about leaving home. I think you always knew. Thanks for letting me go. This will always be yours.

For Diane Williams and Alan Ziegler, Thank you for opening the doors to the house and showing me inside. With love to Gian, for taking the gamble. To my sister, who witnessed it all with me.

IN MEMORY Mahmoud “Mike” Sahtout of Tiberias, Palestine and Kingsville, Texas, 1928-2001. "If you look at the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish religions, their first commandments are the same, 'Thou shalt not kill.' It's not taken seriously."

For all the people of Afghanistan, old and young, who have suffered the traumatic effects of a forty-year war, and especially for the Afghan women whose struggle, as with many of their peers in South Asia, is far from over.

It is customary to dedicate a book to someone, but to tell the truth, it was the dedication of my wife Lil, in the 46 years we spent together before her untimely death in 1993, which made it all possible. Besides paddling the front end of the canoe all over much of North America and carrying her share of the packsacks over countless portages for more than four decades, she found time to raise a couple of daughters along the way.

To my wife, RUTH MOREHOUSE who has helped me learn more about love and marriage than I ever hoped I'd know

To those who know there are many borders to cross to find the truth, but do not try to cross every one of them.

For Muriel Rukeyser and Jane Cooper, who listened to what was never said, and in loving memory of Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, and Jean Toomer: the three mysteries. And for Eileen, wherever you are .

For Anne and Whitney Gifford: Thank you for “a room of my own." xoxo

Ben and Joel would like to thank the following people: Everyone who has ever given us a blow job, good or bad—you're in here. Our parents for paying for college so we could write a book about cock sucking. The professional sex workers of America. Fred for putting up with Joel. Ben's other personalities for putting up with Ben. The staff at Instinct for putting up with Ben. The entire Los Angeles basin for putting out for Ben. All the people who so generously shared their experiences with us, especially those in the porno section at the local video store. And to Dan Cullinane at Alyson, who gave us the opportunity to be able to say, for the rest of our lives, "Don't give me any shit, I wrote the book on blowjobs!"

To Carla, for putting up with all my idiosyncrasies and foibles

This novella is dedicated to Detroit, and the ancestors who inspired these characters.

For Carmen, who is made of red earth.

First and always to my late parents Jesse Brown Harris and Rhoda Alease Jones Harris. And to the Ancestors who slaved, served, survived, and created a cuisine from a sow's ear. To those past who used that food to nourish families, grow fortunes, and connect communities. And to the African American cooks, chefs, and culinary entrepreneurs now and yet to come who honor the food, serve it up proudly, and keep the circle unbroken.

Dedication: I couldn't write my stories without the constant presence of my ancestors who await me in my dreams and my meditations, whispering their stories and reminding me of what I have forgotten. This book is dedicated to them because their stories have lived for too long under the waters of the Caribbean, unrecognized and in imposed silence. Let there be light to illuminate as-yet-to-be-told truths.

To Faye: a deep keel in the raving waves, a polestar in the dark, a shipmate.

For my mother Roslyn, Alcia Woods Williams. Carolyn Woods Daughtry. In memory of Catherine Bogle Garcia, my beloved Kate. And great friends: Geri Branton, who shared so much of Dottie's life with me Phil Bertelsen, who literally opened the doors of Dottie's homes for me, and finally, Charlotte, who once said there's always a reason to go on, well, almost always.

To Flora, in memory of our conversations that winter during those four-in-the-morning feedings

To those old ones who still do battle with dragons

I wrote this book for my mother, and her mother, and mothers everywhere

To my queer family who lit the way all along

Michael, The story comes up different every time and has no ending but always begins with you

To those who are forced to study from materials that ignore or misrepresent their heritage, in the hope that they will build a society whose schools value rather than suppress the differences among their children.

For Mopi, who wrote it before I did. For Marion, who is writing it with me.

For Katherina v. F., who taught me that love is more than the longing to be together

To Brother and Sister Outsiders everywhere.

For my family, who were terrified this book was going to be about them

This book is dedicated to my big brother Patrick, who was kind enough to teach me attitude.

For my mother, Dell Temple Jamison, who gave me life not once but countless times.

To my wife, Sarah Urist Green, anagrammatically: Her great Russian Grin has treasure — A great risen rush. She is a rut-ranger; Anguish arrester; Sister; haranguer; Treasure-sharing, Heart-reassuring Signature Sharer Easing rare hurts.

To Leslie Jane Frier Bruni, 1935-1996. You remain so very, very near.

I dedicate this book to every single person fighting for a world without cages, police and surveillance, but also fighting for a world where accountability isn't about punishment but rather about transformation and dignity.

In memory of Serafín Ramírez Hernández: unknown, missing, illegal, Mexican.

For anne, I've always known home because of your voice. For my family, and our stories. And for cloudturners.

For Laura Hulthen Thomas, for setting the scene.

For my daughter, Emma Yetta Tropper, whose laughter and love renew me on a daily basis, and in memory of the great lady whose name she bears, Yetta Tropper, who never found a room she couldn't light up simply by entering.

For my children and the pleasure of participating in their becoming. And once again, for Robyn, who isn't with me for the money.

To my ever-vigilant editor, Reed Jackson, the thin red line of protection between me and the vulnerable masses, and the only guy I know who ever censored the word ”banana.”

For my mother, with whom I climbed my first hill. And for Rukun and Biscoot, dedicated non-climbers.

For everyone who has wanted to want more

FOR MY SISTER, LECIA SCAGLIONE whose larger hand steered mine around that first, tortured cursive. Earliest reader, queen of the straight shot and the crossword, you're the one I've always scribbled toward.

To my brother Sandy; to my friends Alison Bishop, Bob Brustein, George Elliott, Mary Emma Elliott, Howard Stein, and Mel Tumin; and to Ann Mudge: For words spoken and deeds done.

To my parents, who promised they wouldn't read this

For the Archangel: Michael Anthony Kazmarek

for Ewa, once more with feeling

To our children's children

To the memory of my grandmothr, Rebecca Unger, who made this and most other things possible. And to her namesake, my daughter Rebecca, who made it necessary.

This book is dedicated to my one-of-a-kind mother, Rhisa Teman—adoptive mother to many generations of students, but the only mother for me. And it is dedicated to the memory of my beautiful grandmother, Ruth Ellen Erlich, whom we knew as Sasi.

For the lucky few who are indivisible by 2 or 3 or 4...

In Memory of Golda, Balche, Jakob, Julius, Julius, Lazer, Moishe, Rifke, and All My Other Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins Killed in Their Prime and in Childhood, Victims of the Holocaust, One of the Endless Waves of Senseless Violence which Have Sullied Human History. For my husband Gary, and my daughters Nadia and Alisa.

To the inseparable friends of our childhood: Patty Babb Travis, Lloyd Alvin Peterson, Robert Lee Riffle. Because nobody wants to be a kid alone.

For Fritz, who loved to greet all the ghosts and goblins

To Jean, wife and closest companion for over fifty years, who knew all the bad times and supported us with good cheer, though her own wish for a peaceful and settled life was never realized.

Can my dedication read:
"To buttery chardonnay, manic episodes, and every child who wished they were a fairy"?
No, you can't thank alcohol, mental illness, and encourage escapism in your dedication.
Well fine, then. I don't want one.

For Aurelia, from whom I promise never to keep secrets

To Iain Harris, because I couldn't think of what to get you for your fortieth and also, just because

For Dede, who thinks it wouldn't kill the women on The Bachelor to wear pants to a cocktail party once in a while. Thanks for choosing Dad and me to be your family.

For my father, who tried his very best not to be his worst. And for my mother, who made sure we never saw him at his worst.

For my three girls, Sage, Sky, and Soleil. In order of age, so as to preempt any future disputes over the dedication order. I love you so much, and watched you grow faster than this book. Always take the time to be completely present, because it is perhaps the best and most joyous way to keep your mind sharp and your life bright. You are still so young, yet you have given me a lifetime of memories I hope to never forget. For my Rebecca, who has never wavered in enthusiasm. If in the end, our lives are just a collection of memories, mine will be filled of images of your beautiful smile and your steadfast support. For anybody who has dreamed that their brain can be better. Not just free of disease or trauma, but optimized in a way that allows you to best build and remember your life narrative, and equips you to be resilient through life’s challenges. For anyone who has always believed their brain wasn’t a black box, impenetrable and untouchable, but could be nourished and grown into something greater than they imagined.

If writing is a work of head and heart, then thank you to Aaron Phillips, Hannah Bowman, and Mike Braff, who burnish my head with their wisdom and advice. Thank you to my parents, my sister, friends, and the Phillips Clan who guard my heart with their love and loyalty. And to the reader, thank you. I hope you bloodydamn love these books.

For Mom. There are no words.

To Major-General Sir Robert Laycock, K.C.M.G., C.B., D.S.O., who every man in arms would wish to be. He will recognize this story as pure fiction: that is to say of experience totally transformed. No real character is portrayed; various offices and appointments are mentioned without reference to any person who at any time held them. No unit, formation, command, organization, ship or club, no incident, civil or military, is identifiable with the realities of those exhilerating days when he led and I followed.

To my sisters, Doni and Nikki. I love you even when I hate you and I know the feeling is mutual.

For the women who know that feeling

For Mia:
Goodnight
I love you
See you in the morning.
- Mom

To Ernest J. Gaines, who started the public healing of black fathers and sons years ago.

For my family and the friends who became a part of it

For those who have lost their own hearts, and who struggle with their own hunger.

Dedicated to the memory of my mother, Jane M. Galbavy. Thank you for bringing the love of books and Shakespeare into my life. I spelled "sleep" right this time.

For Dave. Because, after all this time, when I asked you if you wanted me to order us Chinese or pizza for dinner, you said, "Why don't we just get both?"

For me, because I needed to write this. For you, if any part of this book helps you feel a littlle more understood. For my family of friends, who have jump-started my heart and kept it running. I love you.

For you. I did it for me.

Dedicated to those without a diagnosis

To Mom and Deb: Because you were halfway through answering the question before you realized how deeply disturbing it was. And because everything else.

For Paul Murray, O.P., who helped so much with this alphabet and who helps so much in general.

Dedicated to all the children who have worked with me on this book.

Honey, don't take this the wrong way but this book is dedicated to you. For David. My love.

To all who seek for truth, and especially to Elsie, my wife, who has shared this search with me for these many years, this book is dedicated

For my father, John Standish Fforde, 1920-2000. Who never knew I was published but who would have been most proud nonetheless - and not a little surprised.

For Orion and Zora, and the more than 300,000 children born today, with hope that you will see through our illusions

For my dad, who planted so many seeds

For Michael. You make writing about true love easy. For Aisley. You make love too small of a word. For readers who are here to see themselves. Welcome home.

To Persia, whose song heals

To nature: may she never stop. To children: may they always create. - B.R.
To Tom, a perfect model of compassion and patience. Forever grateful for you. - M.G,

To our son, Leo Achor, who broadcasted love even before finding the words. He broke open my heart, making me love the rest of the world more deeply than ever before.

Dedicated to all the cats in my life.

Special thanks to Alison Sage for her editorial knitting

To my A and my Z

To Kate and Chris and to wild things everywhere

To Daniel and Sam, for putting a spring in my step and moving me beyond words; to Jackie and Juliet, for liftng me up; and to my parents, Richard and Karen, for everything.

To Caley and Jennifer, who make my own quest for a better character well worth the effort

To Leigh Feldman for seeing me through this time, every time. And to Jay, always waiting on the other side.

To Christine, who laughed and cried and lent me to these characters.

For Jay, as ever, and for my cousins who, like me, know by heart the view of the river and the bay, the complex rules of Beckon, and all the ways you Can't Get to Heaven. To name you all would be a book in itself: you know who you are.

To Brooke, who is the very best of beans

For Ada Starling Perez, the best sleeper in our family

Dedicated to the Heartbreakers - Johnny Thunder, Jerry Nolan, and Bill Rath. May they rest in peace because they spent their time in hell.

To Ellie, my mother, who could make a kitchen sing and swing, make it a sacred or profane gathering, a spooky, funny place, a refuge, a hallowed midnight meeting with her daughter.

For Knox Phillips and Jerry Phillips: flame keepers. For Adam Miller: flame starter. For Tara McAdams: flame.

For my mother, Cynthia Dessen, for helping me learn almost everything I know about being a girl. And my daughter, Sasha Clementine, who is teaching me the rest.

For Ezra & Lily & For Minerva, Eliza, Juba Simons, Jane - and the dozens of people, names recorded & not, whose lives are connected to this story.

To my parents, even though they brought me into existence; and to my brothers, each of whose existence, although a harm to him, is a great benefit to the rest of us.

This book is dedicated to a virtuous circle of women who are at once activists, writers, lawyers, and teachers: Catharine A. MacKinnon, who taught my dear departed Jane E. Larson, and Jane, who taught Michele L. Dauber, who came full circle back to MacKinnon, as we all do.

Dedicated to Martin J. Gelfand, my father, who encouraged me to explore the world, and Harry C. Triandis, my mentor, who gave me the scientific tools to understand it

To all the PB students over the years. For being open, fearless, creative, and endlessly curious. To all the Black women writers, artists, and activists mentioned within, and more. For opening my eyes. And, of course, to Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter. For everything.

To my husband, who taught me to ruthlessly pursue happiness and to never take life too seriously. And to all the Aussies who've terrified people with stories about their "thongs."

To Maggie Malone and Maisie Malone Shakman. May they rule long and well.

To Emily. You're my home no matter where I am.

To all of us who have fought to free ourselves from oppression, to claim our choices and bodies, and to thrive not just survive.

To Annie and Ali, and the enduring love of sisters

For Ari, Noah, and Quinn: my teachers, my inspirations, and my reasons for pursuing an ever-greater understanding of what it means to love and be loved.

To whistleblowers, strangers, and leaders who listen. We need more of you.

To Linnéa, Torvald, and Soren - Chris Clearfield

To my parents and Marvin - András Tilcsik

To everyone who's ever felt plain, ordinary, and not special in any way. You are special and uniquely wonderful.

For my bean. See you on the flipside, inshallah.

My debts are manifold and various:
First, Stanford University
Where, with progressively precarious
Nurture, my tardy Ph.D.
Has waxed, and waxes, lax and sickly.
Second, to friends whove read this, quickly
Advised me to desist and cease,
Or burbled, "What a masterpiece!"
Or smoothed my steps with sage suggestion.
Third, to John and Susan Hughes
For refuge, friendship, ears, and views
And, fourth, to you, who did not question
The crude credentials of this verse
But backed your brashness with your purse.

To Garett Mattingly. Dear Mat: The ethics of literary reticence restrain me from printing on my title page, "In collaboration with Garrett Mattingly's ideas." Instead I print your name here to acknowlesge the conversion of your property, for if anything in my text rises above information, I have taken it from you. And not only to acknowledge that the historian of Renaissance England has been working in the Rocky Mountains for a long time, teaching me most of what I know, but for other reasons too: because we look at men and events and the experiences of life without parallax, because it has been our good fortune to dismay the same minds, and because we have been friends since Noah's boyfood. So here is some more of the West, and in your tolerance it may be history. Yours, Benny

To my parents, Gordon and Susan Bjork, who, among many other things, have given me two invaluable gifts: a happy childhood, and the freedom to be my own adult.

To all the women who strive to become a little stronger today than they were yesterday

For the animals

For Darcy, who alarms and amazes me every day

To Anette and Oscar de la Renta

For all the girls, who deserve power instead of cruelty. For all the boys, who deserve gentleness instead of violence. For all of us in between; for all of us outside; for all of us beyond. And for my grandmother, whose brooch sparkles on the lapel closest to my heart.

This book is for Jeremy. You are why I write stories about love.

For my mom, who always taught me to walk toward conflict and not away from it.

To my mother and to the memory of my father, whose migration made me possible, and to the millions of others like them who dared to act upon their dreams

For Mom and Dad. Growing up in the restaurant was the best! I miss you every day.

To Aunishenaubay, Patrick Gourneau; to his daughter Rita, my mother; and to all of them American Indian leaders who fought against termination.

To my mother, who gave me this life.

In honor and loving memory of: 1968 Ford Country Sedan, 1969 Buick Special wagon, 1972 VW Beetle BEV, 1975 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser, 1978 Olds Cutlass Supreme, 1978 Dodge D100 Adventurer, 1984 Dodge Ram, 1985 Saab 900s, 2000 BMW 323i, 2007 F150, 2008 Honda Odyssey.

To Dana Zuskin, my sister. My shrink. My other life partner. The one who will never fail to laugh at the inappropriate, the unfortunate, and the unsuitable with me. I love you.

For Carley, who was a better person that I am even though she was a dog.

For all in whose hearts he still lives - a watchman of honor who never sleeps

For my friend Lesley, who listens to the truth beneath the words

To all the musicians out there who make my job sing with their voices, their hearts, and their vibe. I can't thank you enough! And to Daniel and Noelle, who never complain about the dishes or pizza for the third time when I'm on a roll.

To Josh Kendall. I can write some. Josh taught me to write books.

I entrust my spectral strap-hangers in gratitude and admiration to Walter de la Mare

To Russell who provided the empiricism. To the spirit of Voltaire and Mark Twain. To Molly Ivins, Dick Gregory, Jom Hightower, and Victor Navasky who taught us how to laugh ourselves seriou.

To my mother, an immigrant from Mexico who came to America to provide a better life for me and my siblings, and to all the mothers and fathers who had the same intention and lost their lives in the attempt.

For families of all sorts, and for my family in particular

Dedicated to my mother. If I had half your intelligence and a quarter of your integrity, then I would be a truly extraordinary human being.

For difficult women, who should be celebrated for their very nature

For my parents, who did their best, and for my children, for whom I am doing mine

To Gloria Close, for helping today's families find safe homes. To Andy and Diane, and to the dedicated keepers of the Historic New Orleans Collection. Thank you for preserving the history. To the Lost Friends, wherever you might be. May your names never go unspoken and your stories forever be told.

For my father, who let me steal his books and records

To Grandma Luella, for showing me the grace of food made with love and igniting my passion for all things coconut. To my husband - may our magnet collection continue to grow.

To my mother, Regina. I still can't believe you're not here physically to take this journey with me. I want to do things that continue to make you smile, so I hope you're smiling now. I feel so blessed to have had you for as long as I did. You are missed. Love you forever.

For my mother
and for my mothers
For my sister
and for my sisters

For those who came before, and those who will come after

To my father, John Heller, the best storyteller I ever heard. Who first took me out in small boats, and who sang "Little Joe the Wrangler" and "Barbara Allen."

To my little ones, who make the writing process both a challenge and a joy! I love you dearly, and I look forward to seeing your own happy endings someday.

To all of our friends at the Sun City West dog parks. You kept bugging us to write a murder mystery about dog parks, big and small. Well, we didn't stop at one book. You gave us so much "fodder" we had to do a series. Enjoy! And please remember - This is a work of fiction!

For my parents, whose unconditional love has contextualized my entire life

For Itha Anderson, who loved me and warned me.

Dedicated to the girls with claws. Let them fear you.

For anyone who has ever struggled to be honest with their heart.

To all of our family members who've lived in Arizona since it was a territory, thanks for telling us to move out here because "the dry heat is hardly noticeable." You wound up giving us a playground for our mysteries. And to our family members in Florida, sorry, folks, we already knew about the humidity and palmetto bugs in your neck of the woods.

Everything that I write is dedicated to my mother.

For my grandparents, Bob and Rita, who left home to make a new life in an unfamiliar place

To my son Luca, who will never read this book, but whose childhood obsession with wolves and his gala performance in a Year 6 production of "Little Red Riding Hood" as the wolf led to my love of this particular fairy tale, and thus-eventually-my decision to write this story. I owe you one, my gorgeous boy-which unfortunately does not include a share of the royalties, just in case you were wondering!

To That Vanished Tribe into Which I Was Born: The American Negroes. To Ida, the mother, who bore me, and to Fanny, my wife, who bears with me - and most graciously!

To my ever-inspiring brother Ryan (the "Good One"), who taught me that understanding how your body moves is one of the greatest acts of self-care you can participate in. This is also for all of the people who have seen me silently stomp out of a room; I promise, it was for your own good.

For the girl with the red bow... I still remember you

For Irwin Hyman, who built the world he wanted to live in

To Joyce McLennan: Friend and personal assistant who has typed my novels for thirty-five years. With affection and gratitude.

For Ed Rickets, who knows why or should

To my beloved wife, Lillian, and our dear son, John-Miles, and to the countless unsung heroes who cared deeply, sacrificed much, and fought hard for a better America - J.L.

To the Southern women who taught me about bacon fat and backchat

To my grandmothers, for teaching me to bake, open doors, and say thank you. For encouraging me to become a writer and the person I am today. To our elders, whose sacrifices and journeys made us who we are but whose stories are being forgotten, This book is a thank-you and a reminder to stop and listen, talk and bake,

Imperfection is beautiful. To anyone who has ever felt broken beyond repair, this is for you. If you've ever been excluded or told you were not enough, know that you are enough, and beautifully complete.

For Stelleaux, who taught me how to love the bird in my chest

To Guy, who suffered

For Zoey, Theo, and Lem. May the world always be safe for the laughter of children.

For everyone who is tired

We dedicate this book to the legions of people who have loved and cared for God's most noble and beautiful creature: the horse.

Dear Casey, I'd like to send this long-distance dedication to my dad. Pops, I don't know how strong the signal is up there, but if you're hearing this, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars. This one's for you. Signed, Sam

To everyone who said "you can't," "you shouldn't," "please don't."
I can. I should. I did.
Thank you for teaching me to be stubborn.
And for Deafblind women everywhere, living in liminal space.

To December and Phoebe, who tried to teach me to write a short story and got this instead; to Terry, who always believes in me; and to Gabe, my forever reader; and to the migrants around the world who leave their histories in search of a different future. This book was written on traditional territories belonging to the Numu, Wašiw, Newe, and Nuwu peoples.

For anyone who needs to be reminded that it's your country music, too

For Jessica, Justin, Natalie, Audrey, Connor, and all the kids of the Ashland Soccer Club. I'll be at North Mountain Park with the balls and goals. Let's go!

To younger Lauren who never thought this possible, this one is for you kiddo

For Mom and Dad. Thanks for the tickets.

To those who choose curiousity and compassion, loving themselves and asking for help should they ever lose their way

For Eleanor, who always had time

We dedicate this book to everyone who is putting time, intelligence, and care into saving our planet from the ravages of climate change

For Ivy: Nana can't wait to read your stories

For Sue Johnson, in memoriam. You always had time for us; we had too little with you.

For all those who have yet to climb... you are not alone.

To Elsa, for whom all worlds open

From Simon: To Pamela (who doesn't know about soccer, but knows about writing) for her astonishing tolerance. And to Leila, Leo, and Joey, for all the smiles.

From Stefan: To my father. We never saw eye to eye, but he taught me to question everything.

To Louisiana and Camellia, whose natural gift for nonstop speaking is one of the great joys of my work as a mother. And to Nathan - the most determined and loving collaborator I could ever dream of having - for reminded all three of us that listening is just as important.

To the friends who lent me money and kept me mercifully unemployed. No writer can function without them. Again, thanks. HST
The idea for this book came from Carey McWilliams, editor of The Nation, who asked me to write an article on the weird phenomenon of motorcycle gangs. The article appeared in The Nation in April 1965. Carey's ideas and suggestions gave the book a framework and perspective that it might not otherwise have had.

For Billy Walsh, for encouraging me to share what scared me most

To my family, for always encouraging my vivid imagination, even when it dreamed up movie star sunglasses, a squeaky voice, and Mickey Mouse

For the girls who love hard, who love recklessly, who love too much

For our moms, Joan and Ionka, for teaching us that even though we might not fit in, we shouldn't be afraid to stand out.

To my mother, Professor Teju Somorin, not just because you are smart and beautiful and became the first female professor of taxation in Nigeria in 2019, but also because you made me see the importance of education and sacrificed so much for me to get the best of it.

To Mom, Uncle Doodle, my sisters and brother, 38 first cousins, and thousands of other kinfolk on the mountain

To those who are overwhelmed and tempted to give up, and to those who overwhelm them

to ANGEL: my running mate, who led me into the valley of life

Love and solidarity to everyone who's ever felt alone in their experience of their gender

To Mr. Baptiste, William, Toby, Prince, Job, George, Black Bill, and all of the known and unknown Black musicians through whose hands banjos passed

To everyone who has overcome barriers - practical, cultural, or otherwise - to get abortion care. Even if you don't find your precise experience in these pages, your story matters.

For straight women. May you find a way to have your sexual needs met without suffering so much.

To my father, Paul Harris, who has taught me absolutely nothing about language but absolutely everything about pursuing one's interests, come what may.

In memory: Shirley Tabor, who taught me to play (1928-2019)

To the memory of my mother, who knew about secrets and hard lives.

This book is dedicated with deepest love and affection to my wife, Bonnie Gray. Her love, vulnerability, wisdom, and strength have inspired me to be the best I can be and to share what we have learned together.

To the Annes in my life:
My mother, Annie-Lou, who brought me into this world
My wife, Anaïs, who helped me become a man
My editor Anne Boulay, who let me write the way I am

In memory of my father and of my mother, their youngest daughter places this stone

To the thousands of courageous women, many of them survivors of abuse themselves, who have created and sustained the movement against the abuse of women, and to the many men who have joined this struggle as allies.

For Ken ... er, Glenn Horowitz

To Vernie Jones, the Man with the Badge

For Kelly Link, one of the merfolk

In memory of Lester Levy, 1920-2017. Sorry you didn't see that Super Bowl, Dad.

For Michael Collins, Dick Gordon, Jack Swigert, Stu Roosa, Al Worden, Ken Mattingly, and Ron Evans. Because those guys don't get enough credit.

For Kerry, Louis, Angelo, & Ed, who help hold up my universe. And for all my readers everywhere, who are the world to me.

For Susan - best friends until we're nothing but dust. (And then some.)

For Anita Bhoomkar (1966-2009), a lover of life and all its madness

To Sonja, still burning bright. And to Lydia, Molly, Karlie, Ashley, Lindsey, Colten, Julie, Ivy, and Esther, with the hope that they can find in the ashes the sparks of a better world than was left to them.

This book is dedicated to the brave Mujahideen fighters of Afghanistan

To Beth, my sister, whose light burns clear

With love to the memory of Gene Kelly, whose performances influenced and changed my life

To my kindred spirits who always want to go to one more bar. This is for you.

PASCAL COVICI
Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, "Why don't you make something for me?"
I asked you what you wanted, and you said, "A box."
"What for?"
"To put things in."
"What things?"
"Whatever you have," you said.
Well, here's your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full.
Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts - the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.
JOHN

For my brother, who gave me books

This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever fallen in love with a culture that was devouring their own. (And for Grigor Pahlavuni and Petros Getadarj, across the centures.)

We dedicate this book to the future of our ideas, the tribal youth

For Lilah. Smash the patriarchy, sweetheart.

For Tom Engelhardt, analyst of empire, emperor among editors

For the conversations, for Natasha, for Katherine, for Rachel, for Susan, for Harriet, for Chris, and most of all for Lauren.

To the black Communist youth - To their fathers - We will now criticize the unjust with the weapon

As nearly as possible in the spirit of Matthew Salinger, age one, urging a luncheon companion to accept a cool lima bean, I urge my editor, mentor, and (heaven help him) closest friend, William Shawn, genius domus of The New Yorker, lover of the long shot, protector of the unprolific, defender of the hopelessly flamboyant, most unreasonably modest of born great artist-editors, to accept this pretty skimpy-looking book.

To my mother, who, when I was a child at her knee, taught me to revere the fanciful and the imaginative

To Miriam and Randy, who know what Jack Paar is really like, with love and gratitude*

*For not telling

If there is an amateur reader still left in the world - or anybody who just reads and runs - I ask him or her, with untellable affection and gratitude, to split the dedication of this book four ways with my wife and children.

To "Sarge" Arthur George Smith—soldier, citizen, scientist—and to all seargents anywhere who have labored to make men out of boys. R.A.H.

To Sophie Hannah, for giving me the courage of my convictions

To Dwight and Barbara for their love and friendship and to Jabir, that another door may be opened

For who can use it

Thanks to Jeff and Fuggo and especialy to my wife, Eva, for bringing me back to earth

For my parents, Mary P. and David N. Dietzler, who didn't live to see this book but were always sure it would exist.

To Lucy Hogg, without whom this book—and its author—would barely exist. And in memory of Matt Wrbican, a lost mother lode of all things Warholian. He wanted this book to be... longer.

For Solomon, years from now

To Carol who willed this book. To Tom who lived it.

To Denise & Mike and more adventures in the 8th dimension

To Bette Wideman, whose love, whose sweet dream of fredom, blesses all her children

To M with love: and with best wishes to practically everybody else I know

For the bar at the end of the universe and everyone the devil met there

To my amazing brothers, Ben and Luke, and for my friend Adam Andrusier, who knows funny from funny

This book is dedicated to my haters. You're not that cute, your hair is uneven, and you look dusty. Thank you for being my motivators.

For all the people who have infected me with amor deliria nervosa in the past - you know who you are. For the people who will infect me in the future - I can't wait to see who you'll be. And in both cases: thank you.

As this book, including this dedication, was written in chronological order, I have, so far, only myself to thank. This is assuming I will continue to be involved.

For my mom and dad, who taught me about dreams and how to catch them

To the rebel girls of the world:
Dream bigger
Aim higher
Fight harder
And, when in doubt, remember
You are right.

To the rebel girls of the world: You are the promise. You are the force. Don't step back, and everyone will move forward.

For my mom, my first and most patient writing teacher

For Laddie and Rosey—May you fight your own battles and forge your own wings

For the redhead from Telluride

For all the children to whom we entrust the future

To all my librarian friends, champions of books, true magicians in the House of Life. Without you, this writer would be lost in the Duat.

To Becky, who shares my sanctuary in New Rome. Even Hera could never make me forget you.

To Nancy Gallt and Craig Virden—for their constant support and calming influence, always thoughtful and wise comments and suggestions, and their frequent invitations to business lunches.

For Harry, who just read Gatsby for the first time

Dedicated to those who support democracy through seeking justice and equality—And in memory of Ann Gallmeyer (1945-1995) who taught us that physical disability cannot restrain the indomitable spirit of those who love freedom.

To my friend Charles Kiley. Who would have thought we'd go from waiting tables, to selling copies of my first, self-published book out of the extra room in your house, to working and leading together today? I couldn't have done it without you. #outrageous #pinpong #playsomecheap

To anyone who needs to ASK for what you want, need, and deserve; this is for YOU.

For the girls who hide their hearts

For my mother, CARMELA DINARDO GRIZZUTI, in memory and expectation

To Dad, for driving an old tan Chevette while putting us through college. To mom, for making us breakfast every day for eighteen years. Each.

This book is dedicated to the Chimps. I love you all, each and every one.

To our parents, Hazel and Ralph Miller and Sonia and Julian Rollnick. May we succeed in passing on such love to the next generation.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I'd like to say thank you to the people who helped me with this book. Every one of them is a true team player:
Linda Eggers, my administrative assistant
Kathie Wheat, my research assistant
Stephanie Wetzel, my proofreader
Charlie Wetzel, my writer

This book is dedicated to Button, Ralph, Brenda, Tim, Donald, Loraine, Richard, Chales, Jimmy, Donald, Steve, Eddie, Ted, Shannon, Patricia, Arthur, Archie, Joe, Zollie, Henry, Jerome, and the other homeless people with whom we worked and from whom we learned the importance of telling the truth.

To Kenny and Sharon Wilson. There may be a finer couple on this earth, but I haven't met them. For your friendship, faith, and far too few hamburgers, Denalyn and I say thank you. We gladly dedicate this book to you: two people who, because you already live it, don't need to read it.

To Jimmy, whose future shines as bright as ghosts in the dark

To the memory of Studs Turkel, one of the last of them, who talked, listened, mixed a martini, told a story, cracked a joke, thought through an issue, and fought the good fight better than most anyone else. Studs, you left just as I began to hope you would live forever. Maybe you will.

This is a book about food, of course. But it's also a book about love. And about loss.

It's a book about the recipes that travel with us on the great journeys our species have always taken, and how these recipes comfort us and nourish us through times of great celebration or terrible calamity.

It's a book about the people I met, shared meals with, and cooked alongside, in Greece, Turkey, and Cyprus.

But most of all, I think, it's a book about the resilience of the human spirit. And our capacity to endure the most unimaginable challenges and still find happiness in the smell of warm bread baking in an oven, a scoop of pistachio ice cream on a hot summer's day, or a bowl of roasted pumpkin soup eaten by a roaring fire.

And it's dedicated to all the migrants.

To Charles Manson (not that one)

To all the queer kids who long for love and attention, to the ones who'd break their own arm, if only to have somebody sign their cast... know that you are deserving of love without pain.

And to my beautiful mother, I look for you in every smoke signal I send, in every glance in the rearview, down every road I travel. I will always love you.

For the islands, for their powerful spirit. For Aura María, who rests in the sea.

For my cousin Andrew Levene, who died of Covid-19 complications at 52.

For all the kids everywhere who care about our planet. Keep doing what you can. Keep speaking out. "The future is inside us. It's not somewhere else."

To Craig
because they're all our songs, aren't they

To my father, Moussa Kaba, who taught me that failures are always lessons and that everything worthwhile is done with others

This book is dedicated to three people who, as teachers, exemplars, and advocates, changed my life. All three are gone now, but my gratitude will last as long as I do. To Chalmers Johnson, Ursula Le Guin, and Marian Wood.

I dedicate this book to all of our brothers and sisters on the planet, with the prayer and affirmation that one day—some day—arising from the divine order in all things, we will see the evolution of our people expanded and blessed to the point where every woman, man, and child will finally be set free. Our time will come.

This book is for Al Munson, my high school English teacher, to whom I promised it about twenty years ago, and for Charlie Brown, my college journalism professor, who pointed out that unless I learned to spell, I would never be able to deliver.

For my father, whom I lost, and for C., who found me

For those who chose "yes"

This book is dedicated to the memory of Donald Hamilton, Gordon D. Shirreffs, Richard Matheson, and Harlan Ellison, whose books found their largest readership during the Golden Age of the paperback, and whom I was privileged to call my friends; also to their colleagues, who along with them helped to create that distinctly American tradition: art from junk.

This book is dedicated with love, respect, and admiration to EMILY ARONSON
For the past eighteen years, she has been the Executive Producer of all of my television reports and the best parts of my life.
She deserves at least half the credit for my work... and none of the blame.

For Julia, without whom I could not have done this, and for Eric, without whom I could not do at all

For Quique, without whom I never would have braved the Daly City fog

to the friends we love to excess
yet still
not nearly
enough &
to h-craft (a-l-w-a-y-s)

For Ever

I dedicate this book to my mother, Dorothy Flay. For the first eighteen years of my life, every one of my meals at home came from her kitchen. I will miss her lamb chops with mint jelly from a jar and her pork chops with applesauce and a pinch of cinnamon. Each page is filled with the spirit of her memory and a lust for life that only she could attain. Miss you, Mom. xo

To Oprah. Like lit'rally every book should be dedicated to her. A'doy.

For everyone who has dreamed of running away, and longed for home

I'd like to dedicate this book to Christopher Hawke, husband. We prepped for our own wedding as I wrote this, which made it surreal. I love you so much and I'm glad that our beach wedding had none of the drama of a murder to solve, but was more of a romance, with a happy-ever-after!

I finished this book in March of 2022, about the time Vladimir Putin invaded Ukraine. This book is dedicated to the brave Ukrainians fighting for their survival, and I'm hoping that by the time this book is released in 2023, there will have been a resolution to that terrible conflict.

For Harry Pritchett, who gave me room to grow

For Jamie, my partner in crime (writing)

For Zélia, in the quiet afternoon of garden and cats, in the tender warmth of this April; for João and Paloma, in the morning of their first books and dreams.

For my comadre Norma dos Guimarães Sampaio, who happens to be one of the characters, and whose presence honors and enlivens these pallid pages.

For Beatriz Costa, whom Vadinho sincerely admired. For Eneida, who had the privilege of hearing the National Anthem played on the bassoon by Dr. Teodoro Madureira. For Giovanna Bonino, who owns a painting by the painter José de Dome-a portrait in ochres and yellows of Done Flor as a girl. Four friends linked here in the affection of the author.

For Diaulas Riedel and Luiz Monteiro.

To the memory of Rachel, and to all the whales

For Alla, my love and muse. Your tears touch my soul.

This book is dedicated to my ancestral family, my immediate family, and to the forests I love.

Dedicated to
"the sole country under the sun that is endowed with imperishable interest for alien prince and alien peasant, for lettered and ignorant, wise and fool, rich and poor, bond and free, the one land all men desire to see, and having seen once, by even a glimpse, would not give that glimpse for the shows of all the rest of the globe combined"
-Mark Twain, 1897

To Jeff Wheeler. Thank you for the help, the charisma, the opportunities, and the permission to be a diva once a week.

for the little bookmad girl. thank you for deciding to live long enough to see yourself write a book. then another. then another. then another.

for Rook—for whom else the book on love?

Some folk look for the end of the Rainbow hoping to find a pot of gold; but I discovered the Rainbow in the love my Grandparents gave me in Knoxville

For Stacey, LL, Carrie Ann, Mel Baggs, Elandria, Don, Eugenia, and Graeme, forever.

And for all of us—living, dead, and not yet born—creating disabled futures.

To the victims of the Pan Am Lockerbie terrorist attach and their families

To my friends. I couldn't be living this dream without you.

To Nora, Fiona, Cormac, and Greta, whose stories are still in progress

For my boys, the one who encouraged me to write my story in my imperfect style. It's the only way to endure and describe my life. My unique madness, my legacy. From my invincible heart alone, unfiltered.

For Sally, to whom I owe the world—or, at the very least, Italy

of the creatures, for them

For Gia, Gabriella, Milania, and Audriana. I thank God every day for blessing me with each one of you. You are my everything. I am so proud of you, especially for your strength and grace during the time I was away. Seeing how strong you all were—and the love you showed me—helped me get through all of this. Vi voglio tanto bene con tutto il mio cuore. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE you all to infinity and beyond. Love, Mommy

For Gavin, Skye, and Max, who showed me the importance of public spaces for play, recreation, and creativity, and for all of us who need spaces to grow, learn, and explore

For Katie, who stood by my side as a one-year project became three...

This book is dedicated to the brave trans kids who struggle to live as themselves in a hostile world. You make me proud.

This book is for Christina and Lauren. Your belief in me gave me a new life.

FOR ALAN, THE ONE
You are my balm, my heart.

FOR MY PARENTS
I'm still here because, thankfully, the banana didn't fall far from the tree.

For those who carry an Advent ache, you are not alone.
May your discomfort with injustice lead you to lament, prayer, and solidarity with the oppressed of this world.
For the people of Palestine, you are not invisible.
May your steadfast presence in the land be a blessing as you resist daily acts of oppression.
May our faithful wrestling lead us to a hard-born hope in the God of peace.

To all of those people out there who desperately need my advice... but won't get it because:
a. I'm just one woman
b. I'm out here trying to make a living, taping my dick to my ass and stuffing my balls in a dress so I can "entertain" people who can't entertain themselves
c. I don't give a fuck

For Peter, whose Yankee constitution was corrupted with cream in the making of these pages, and who bore it with bravery and love

For the children in the picture

To Mrs. Butterfly and Ms. Little Butterfly

For those who continue to fight. Never give up.

For those who are lost
and those who are found

To my parents—for always giving me a chance to see the world in my own way... even if it wasn't always non-obvious

For Black Women
holding it down and keeping it together
as a means to love on us

For my sister Mary Dabney Baker Finch (1952-2018)
With sorrow that your secret youthful abortion wounded you and many others

For my children. And for Ike, who helped me unchain them.

For everyone else who's late to the party. Let's make up for lost time.

For Susan Kamil, who believed in this book long before I'd written a word

To all peace-loving pilgrims who confront life's traumas with beauty and truth... and jokes.

For Amy—wife, muse, 'possum

In memory of Mame Lambeth, my person. And in memory of Aminah Abulhawa, the person I always waited for.

For Barbara
Karen
Pam
Miss France
Claudine
Ramone
Lissa

Dedicated to all who have lost their lives at the hands of serial murderers

Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres.
Tell me with whom you walk, and I'll tell you who you are.
These poems are for all those whose trailblazing footsteps I followed here, and for all those I now walk alongside with compassion, hope, and the audacity to believe that someday all of us will walk together.

To those who appreciate the significance of our public lands and work to protect them

For inner peace, a peaceful world, and the benefit of all beings

To all the butches and femmes, past, present, and future

For every person who's been told, "You're too smart for your own good."

For J. Brady Foust and Sarah Herrell
And if not for Amy
I would not be here learning what to say

To my science teacher Mr. Andrews, who gave me a detention in 1991 for saying that he smelled. Well, he did smell, and I bet he still smells, and now it's official because it's in a book.

TRANSLATOR'S ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Within days of embarking on this noble project, a series of disabling traumas threatened its completion, which was then made possible by my friend and neighbor, the young translator Mark Schafer. For so generously sharing his skills and patience, I owe him eternal thanks. C.B. Cuernavaca, Mexico

For my mother, who taught me about beauty, and my father, who taught me to tell stories

To Mami & Papi. I would fight any un-bonded dragon for you.

For my daughter Asantewaa, and African girls and women wherever they may be.

For Simone de Beauvior, who endured

To those who won't knuckle under.

For Carolina López and Lautaro Bolaño, who have the good fortune to look alike

For my Students
who are always also my teachers
especially (but not only) Isaac Ginsberg Miller

For my Teachers
especially (but not only)
my first teachers Diane Wolkstein & Benjamin Zucker

For You
—audience/
reader/listener/
conversationalist/
beloved-other

& For Now
impossible continuous
all-there-is

For all my relations, especially my father, who walked me toward this book and will never set a living eye upon it

This little book is dedicated to the people of Ecuador who made their land the first country in the world to include legal rights for natural ecosystems in its constitution. The recent ruling against mining companies to protect the Andean cloud forest Los Cedros is a significant event for the world

For the survivors

To my wife, Zöe, my parents, Bob and Linda, and the readers of my website

This book is dedicated to my friend Suzanne Scanlon—to writing ourselves as our own characters.

This book is also for the girls who still seem, as they did in Virginia Woolf's time, so fearfully depressed.

For Linda,
who loved me and endured,
and for
Erik, who kept the
computer functioning.

For Pizza Rat.
Just kidding. For David.

To Melinda—God only knows what I'd be without you

To Brion Gysin, who painted this book before it was written.
To James Grauerholz, who edited this book into present time.
To Steven Lowe, for his valuable work on the manuscript.
To Dick Seaver, my publisher.
To Peter Matson, my agent.
To all the characters and their real-life counterparts living and dead

This one's for my brother, Jon, who knows the cost of the Space Toilet, the spelling of Tetris, and the way to find a chapter accidentally lost in the bowels of my computer. I hope you know how terrific you are.

For Beth
in this Life and the Next.

My sister, my brother, and I all had extraordinary times and conversations with our mother throughout her life and during her last years. Dad spent more time with her at the end than anyone—over decades of marriage and at the end—and his care for her, and their love for each other, inspired all of us.

What follows is my story. If it's mostly about Mom and me, and less about my father and siblings, it's only because I believe that their stories are theirs to tell, if and when they choose to.

This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to Nina, Doug, and Dad—and David.

To Oliver, for trajectory and ballast

To Renis. Little brothers don't have rights, but you can have this book in your name.

To my mother
and the memory of her mother

You asked me once what I would remember.
This, and much more.

For M, D, and P
my most important letters

To my mom and dad, who gave me the best childhood I would never have been smart enough to ask for.

for my teachers—present and gone

To Herculine, Georges, LaDosha & piccaninny punks

To all the many friends, dead and living, who helped make this book possible

To <3

"Fuck all y'all"

Dedicated to people who will read it slowly

For my own beautiful mamita, even though she shares entirely too many potty-training stories at writing conferences. Thank you for believing in my novels, Mom, even before I did. Love you!

To all the poor junkies who fell around me that summer of 1974 and to the light of my love, Maybelle Lincoln, and my old pards, Jack Reardon, Red Robby, Pat Hammond, Don Soames, and Bobby Emmet, who all died either that summer or shortly afterward in connection with the use and traffic of drugs.

For Miss Major. For Chloe. For Kelly. For Jada Safari. For all of Young Women's Empowerment Project past, present, and future.

I am here because the part of me that wanted to survive joined forces with other beople who wanted us to survive- my guides were the aunties and uncles of street youth, who were street youth themselves, who believed that building us up building our individual and collective power- is a resilience practice and is the key to our cultural, political and individual survival. The gift of being able and of wanting to write this book came directly through the investments my community made in me when I was a young person. And this book, in turn, is my gift back to the community that created Liberatory Harm Reduction, who saved me, who taught us how to save our own lives. And you.

To Mimi, my first drag queen. May she always be Where the Boys Are...

To The Decemberists, Erin McKeown, Jonathan Coulton, The Go! Team, Iron and Wine, Andrew Bird, The Magnetic Fields, Rilo Kiley, The Weakerthans, Neutral Milk Hotel, The Postal Service, The Mountain Goats, and everybody else who helped me put this book together

For my mother, who took me to President Eisenhower's funeral

For all people who treasure democracy, for all journalists who are passionate about freedom of the press, and for Howard F. Anderson, who gave his life for these most basic human rights

To All the Children Raised by Wolves

For those who have suffered

For my brothers (and sisters), the "battalion," a tribute.

To all those who search, so that others may find

This book is dedicated to my father, Denis, who taught me that books are for letting us imagine lives other than our own.

For Peter, whose insights, knowledge, and Latin charm made this book possible

To Dominque and Flora, who will soon travel to distant cities
and to Tomáš, who will not

For those who knew me then
And those who knew me when
And those who know me now

To JWD, who deserves the dedication in every book I write

To the memory of Eunice Riedel - Jim Haskins

Not many wives would support their husbands spiritually and financially through fifteen years of writing. I got lucky. Helaine Mitgang did both. Thank you for your love, guidance, and inspiration. Without you, this book would never have reached print. - N. R. Mitgang

In loving memory of Pierre O'Rourke, talented writer and amazing friend to authors everywhere. Somewhere in the great beyond, I picture you finally locating your car in the airport parking lot, and yes, I'm totally laughing with you.

Also, to Ruby. Beloved adopted dog, best friend, and writing companion. Each day, you greeted me with a little lick on the hand to say hello. And at the end, you turned and gave me that same little lick to say goodbye. Thank you, love, for saving me when I needed it the most.

We dedicate this book to those whose body stories, pain, and lived experiences have been disregarded and disbelieved and to the people who have lost their lives due to systemic and interpersonal weight stigma.

We also dedicate this book to Kyan and Luca, and all children in the world for whom we wish to preserve body trust. May they always feel at home in, and have reverence for, their bodies.

To Mother Nature, who sometimes makes it hard, but always makes it worthwhile

For Barbara Horgan, not because of all she's done for me, but because of all she's done for Balanchine

For Maurna, my beloved Old Duck, and for Eunice, Puleng and Nomthandazo, who taught me that even though human beings can be segregated, their hearts cannot because love is color-blind and can walk through walls.

For Tom and Sarah. Now there was a love story.

Dedicated to Jo, my Personal AsSister and subject of 'simply the best decision I ever made in my entire life.' In grateful thanks and with profuse apologies for the extra work that this will bring...

This book is dedicated to all the divas who slay and serve and work the house down boots, hunty

Dedicated to my parents (who I hope never actually read this book), and in memory of Thad Holen (who I wish had the chance).

This volume is dedicated, with feelings of profoundest respect and veneration, to the big bear of the Wakassare River and the friends who were in at his death.

"What kind of heaven, is that you can't have your records?" - Michael Chabon, Telegraph Avenue

This book is dedicated to my daughter Annie Jaffee, who apparently caught the vinyl gene from my DNA and one day is going to inherit a great record collection, as long as her big brother, Jake Jaffee, gets first dibs on the Black Sabbath LPs (even if he only hangs the covers on the wall).

To Walley Ballou, real-fictional pioneer of real-fiction journalism

This is the story of a woman and a man who loved one another so deeply that they saved themselves from a banal existence. I have carried it in my memory, guarding it carefully so it would not be eroded by time, and it is only now, in the silent nights of this place, that I can finally tell it. I do it for them, and for others who have confided their lives to me, saying: Here, write it, or it will be erased by the wind.

To my mom, who taught me to always listen to a woman with a strong point of view

For Daniel, a small boy with a big appetite

acknowledgments

You rock it: Koren #1 favorite wife of all time, Dan Sinker, Mark Zambo, Meghan Lee, Jimmy Vickery, Jake Silker, Chad Rasner, Meg Stielstra, Lott Hill, Todd Dills, Jim Munroe, Jon Resh, Mike Coleman, Joe Tower, Joe Denk, Meredith Stone, Jenny Norton, Sarah K., Nick Novosel, the cast and crew of "Haunted Trails," Brian Peterson at the Fireside Bowl, Quimby's Bookstore, The Alley Chicago, Charles Everitt, Jenny Bent, Johnny Temple, my family, folks I met through the Phantom Three, Our Missles Are:, Sleepwalk magazine, Go Cougars, Bail magazine, Punk Planet magazine, the all-powerful Columbia College Fiction Writing Department, the Chicago Tribune, and the always supportive New City.

You suck it: Judith Regan. Badly. And all you other bad publishing corporations. Be ready, the end is nigh.

For Evan, who was singularly inspired by the Muse

For Quinn & Dixie & Walker. If you don't want to see it in print, don't do it.

To my mother, Dorothy Dance, for teaching me everything I need to know about America's old racial politics. Her motto,"Don't let other people's ignorance make you ignorant," daily keeps me from falling into the abyss of easy answers about racial matters.
To hip-hop generationers fighting this wrongheaded war in Irag. In the words of Bob Marley, "Every day the bucket goes to the well. One day the bottom's gonna drop out." Hold your heads.
And to hip-hop activists on the battlefield to building a new world and a new politics. Your example is necessary, noted and the best gift we can give the next generation, other than change itself.
And to the memory of Dr. Jacob Carruthers, whose example of "intellectual warfare" brought much beauty into the world; Lu Palmer, journalist, organizer and instigator extraordinaire, who knew the right combination of truth, insight and agitation "enough to make a Negro turn Black"; and "bridge generationer" Lisa Sullivan for teaching the hip-hop generation where to find our natural leaders.

For Dad, I wish you could have seen it. And to Humpback Whale CRC-12564, for setting me on this journey

To Maria, l'amour de ma vie.
Un sourire, a laugh
Un regard, your eyes
Une pensée, my heart
Un baiser, your lips
Un rêve, you and I

To my parents. You told me, "Bahala ka sa buhay mo!" So I did.

To Sandy, who endured almost a year of grim exile in Washington, D.C., while this book was being written. - HST

For my late mother, Dorothy Hartman, who taught me the joy of the written word, one Beatrix Potter book at a time

In memory of my devoted VSR, Sony SLV-420
July 20, 1994-December 29, 2000
Without which this book could not have been written

Tragically, within three months of the completion of this manuscript, the gallant machine passed away while attempting to record eighteen hours of a Star Trek marathon on the Sci-Fi Channel

In memory of my father, Vincent, a news junkie before anyone called it that. And for "the other" Ted, my one and only, who voluntarily gave up the sets.

For all the dial-painters and those who loved them

To Tano Díaz Yanes, after forty-five years of friendship, for always being there to deflect any charging bulls. And to Carme López Mercader, who, improbably, has still not tired of listening to me. Yet

For every cook who conjures in fridge light, rummages in dark cabinets, pulls out their scrappy skillets and pocked pots to make us something delicious

This book is dedicated to those whose patience and encouragement allowed me to write it: my son, Cash, and daughter, Ida; my mom, Mary Lynne; my sister, Jessica; and especially Sia. It's also for my dad, Michael Earl Gray, whose inspiration outlasted his life.

We dedicate this book to all the transgressive women—past and present—who made it possible and the feminist men who support its creation, development, and publication

To all those couples who met at the Surf Ballroom over the years—this dance is for you

To the apple of my eye

To the Spirit:
Without whose assistance
Neither this book
Nor I
Would have been
Written.

For Leela, so one day you set out to find your own truth.

This book is dedicated to your best friend, who saw the whole thing happen.

To our mothers, on the foundation of whose struggle our work is possible: thank you.

To my sisters, beside whom I work: your courage, passion, and hope for a different future inspires me in all that we do.

To our daughters: may this all be better for you. Don't you dare take your eyes off the ball.

To Emery, who lived it, and Evan, who built it

This book is dedicated to Rose Marie, who was right.

To MICHAEL JACKSON:
You are an inspiration to millions of children of all ages, all around the world. If more people shared your optimistic outlook on life, there wouldn't be so many problems on earth. You are THE star of the 1980s, the Thriller and Peter Pan all rolled into one. Your music and your moves are pure magic, so here's hoping you "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough"! - M.J. Bego

For the wounded and the lost

For my mother, Bonnie Sherr Klein, who teaches me more about shock resilience every day.

For the scrappy ones

This collection is dedicated to Lewis Carroll, who was inspired by antiquated English to imagine words for, among other things, his famous "Jabberwocky," which begins,
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

For Pat Matera and Lou Barker, my long-ago spirit uncles, who taught me how love could bloom behind walls. And for my husband, Perry Lucina, who showed me how to take the walls down.

To Alvin Ailey, who speaks to us all, still.

To my father, Larry Branum, who would have hated this book

For all who have wintered

To our son John Colburn Kelsey
1954-1988
who taught us more about fulfillment
than any person we have known.

This book, this life, this work, does not exist without my love, my best friend, my partner in all things, my wife.
Sonya Priyam Passi.
You gather me daily. You captivate me endlessly. You inspire me to discover what is possible and what is beyond that. You are the bravest, most compassionate person I have ever met. You are my Fortuna, my greatest blessing, and my calling. I thank the heavens for you every moment of every day.
Your love is the most powerful force I have ever known. It has transformed every wound into a lesson, every heartbreak into a moment that no longer owns me, every obstacle into an opportunity. It is an indomitable force that surrounds, protects, and uplifts me. Being your partner is my greatest privilege, my honor, and my most precious gift.
I know every day that I lived before meeting you was in preparation for you. Meeting you activated my potential in ways I could never have imagined. It is no mistake that when we came together everything else in my world fell into place. Thank you for finding me, keeping me, and creating this incredible life with me.

For everyone who's been afriad to sing along to boy bands—but secretly wanted to

For my grandmothers: Mary Irene, original tomboy, who gave me a love of the land, and Louise, who gave me a name.

For my father and my mother, who gave me a pocket watch, then taught me to tell time and everything else

To Seth: There is no one on Earth with whom I would rather play the game of life. Thank you for allowing me to share our story... you are my soul mate and I'm so proud that we have grown together every damn day. I love you.

To Zach, Ben, and Anna: I wrote this for you.

To my mother, Terry: Thank you for holding all of the cards for our little three-person family... lots of sh*t may have fallen through the cracks but your love never did. And for teaching me that a life worth living is doing everything you can to change the lives of others for the better.

In appreciation for whatever it is that makes men accomplish the impossible

For my dad, Myron Picoult, who taught me to be an original. There are not many men in the world who can sneeze like a duck, spy bales of hay, make very bad puns... and cherish their daughters so completely. I love you.

Because of you.
Because of us.
Always.

For Toast, the cat, who was no help at all

For Dorothy Burnes Dunne
Joan Didion
Quintana Roo Dunne
Generations

For my husband,
Wendel,
my safe harbor

And for all those
who suffered the Great Storm
with no safe harbor

For Niall, master of my universe

Because I write about women, I have dedicated my books to them. But I realize that I wouldn't have been able to write these books without the men in my life having taken me seriously first as a girl and then as a woman. So it is those men, three of whom we lost last year, I thank with this book.
My father, Hale Boggs
My brother, Tom Boggs
My brother-in-law, Marc Roberts
My brother in law, Paul Sigmund
And, most especially, my husband, Steven Roberts

To Representation... it matters!

For my parents, Warren and Isabelle Blanke, who gave me the greatest gift of all: confidence

This book is dedicated to Bernard Geis, who took a chance; my wife, Ellen, who took a bigger chance; and my parents, who had no choice.

THESE PAGES ARE DEDICATED TO THE PAST AND TO THE FUTURE
Thank you!

To the memory of my father, Guido Mosseri, who always knew I would write.

To my mother, Joyce Smouha Mosseri, who supported this project throughout and gave me her best stories.

To my children, Alan, David, and Jennifer, and to my grandchildren, Ari, Justin, Gabriella, Sarah, Anna, Yaniv, and Ben.

For all of whom this book was written.

To my husband, Serge Naggar, who is essential to this story.

for Sharon and Con
and for my husband

all their words,
spoken and unspoken,
being worth remembering.

To all who wander in search of a home

Dedicated to the boys and girls everywhere whose pennies, dimes, and dollars helped restore the wild herds on Assateague Island, and who by their spontaneous outpouring of love gave courage to the stricken people of Chincoteague

for
Nancy J. Peters
and for
Allen
if he wants it

This book is dedicated to Clay Felker, A.M. Rosenthal, and Edward Kosner
and to Barbara Hodes, my wife, who didn't mind when Cindy Crawford called

This one's for you, Mom. For always being my candle in a world that's more shadow than light.

In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful

For Mum—the diamond glints on snow

for East River Park
and everyone who played
there, who lived and landed and
leapt through the branches
of its trees, its trees
and the activists
who sat there too
on the coldest
morning ever

For Harris, my love. Thank you for feeding me.

For Pam, even though it's not a happy book

For my mother, Rita, whose commitment to being clear-eyed—in the kitchen and in life—is a constant inspiration.

Dedication
Many years ago, a young romantic girl who had always modestly refrained from admitting her most secret belief (that her own people possessed the lion's share of beauty and goodness in the world) perceived the end was coming for them as they were and set out for the Last Land. There she wished to collect the saltysweet drops of sweat¬—the price of her people's goodness and beauty—from their rapidly freezing faces.
Wishing at least to observe what could not be prevented, she expected to see the end of sweaty beauty, and she did.
Everywhere she went she found that earlier visitors not so reverent as she (for with bullets and hatred they had come) had iced flat the warm, round faces she would have loved. Perhaps, here and there, a face had escaped and it would hold her rapt. She would quickly press it inside a large notebook she carried and her tears were payment for the theft.
But these were the faces of the old, those who would soon be dead. She became quite discouraged.
But then she began to hear about a man no one could describe without first saying: "Well, he was a quiet man..." and her flagging heart revived and she began to look for him.
In the fields, underneath the trees, in small country stores, in the shabby new schools that housed the people's children. Under the very noses of those who iced people daily, she looked. But she did not find him.
The people said, "The quiet man always said, 'Let the people decide.'" And, though it did not seem quite the revolutionary thing to some of them, if the people wanted—in a particular village—to operate sewing machines, he would sit and sew with them. If they wanted to cook ribs, he would wash the pots. If they wanted to march, he was on the line.
If someone asked him anything (because they thought he was wise even though he had been to the white man's best schools) he would only reply, "Let the people decide."
"Oh, he was a quiet man," they told the romantic young girl, "and he loved women not just to lie with but he would stand up with them when no one else would. A quiet young man. A woman could speak in his company. A man could touch his shoulder with his hand and call out his own heart for review.”
It so happened that the romantic young girl's own heart hungered for just this last experience. But she never found him. Even before she began her search he had disappeared from that land. He changed his name, they said; took his mother's name. Returned to his mother's far country, which was Africa.
The young romantic girl never saw his face, never heard his voice, never felt him stand up beside her, though it reassured her that he must be somewhere. He became a memory of someone she had never known, a high standard. And perhaps no one had known him. Perhaps he did not exist. Perhaps the people made up the quiet man because they needed him to exist. Perhaps if he did exist he was a fraud. So many people are.
But she chooses not to believe anything except that he does exist, and she dedicates this book to him, wherever in the world he is.
… and to my five fine brothers: Fred, William, James, Robert, and Curtis
(and my friend Gloria)
… and in memory of our father's shining eyes.

This book is dedicated to the memory of the forgotten

This book is dedicated to my friends and former colleagues in the Department of English at the University of Missouri. They will recognize at once that it is a work of fiction—that no character portrayed in it is based upon any person, living or dead, and that no event has its counterpart in the reality we knew at the University of Missouri. They will also realize that I have taken certain liberties, both physical and historical, with the University of Missouri, so that in effect it, too, is a fictional place.

To my father, who sang to me.

For Eric Chinski, who sees through me, and for Nicole Aragi, who sees me through

For Uncle Renato, who loved food, family, and red wine

Dedicated to prisoners

Looking through steel bars at a guard, the prisoner said: I am sad to see how unhappy you are in your cage

To my children, my husband, and all those who love me, even though I really don't want you to find out who I am through the words in this book, I hope you know who I am through out time together and our lives together and the love that I feel for you.

To the women brought together by Kabane 77

To those who were told to settle, but instead waited for the person who could make them laugh and their heart sing. This story's for you.

For Katie and Daisy, who held hope for us when it was too heavy to carry alone.

This book is dedicated to all parents everywhere, a child's most important teachers.

For the Mourants:
Tom, who won't read it,
Teresa, who will,
Kirsten, who might,
Camille, who might when she's old enough.
And also for Patty and Walt.

For the Honorable William Beekman and all of the past and present citizens of Sharon Springs, who have the old-fashioned decency not to laugh at us to our faces.

To my grandma Betty. I wish you could have read this one, because you would have loved Mabel. I miss you and your smile and your Santa Claus sweater.

For all of those who see their reflection in the shadow of the mountain

For my wife and sons, proof that good things come in threes.

To the world: go toward the way of neurodiversity.

For my parents, Barbara and Ross Carrick. I have had the privilege of watching my mother and father excel in numerous endeavors, including puppeteering, bellydancing, driving an ambulance, selling real estate, cleaning houses, writing genealogy books, farming, and that super-secret thing we can't talk about. You are the world's best storytellers—and even better secret keepers. Thank you for filling my life with creativity, entrepreneurial energy, books, adventures, tea parties, mystery, love, and a lifetime supply of story ideas. I love you.

For my parents
& for my children,
the beloveds who named me

Para mi familia, mi antepasadxs, y para ti
Without you, there wouldn't be flower songs

To Margaret, who took me to the library

To Dr. John Sarno, for ridding me of back pain and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

To Ray and Ben Stern, the two most giving people on the planet. I thank them for their love, guidance, and understanding.

And most of all, to my wife, Alison, who stuck with me through thick and thin, who never gave a shit about material things or put any pressure on me, who let me finger her on the first date, and who loved me before I had a radio show.

This novel is dedicated to James Pembrook, David Walton, Mehlon Hopewell, George Stewart, James Myers, Sophia Gordon, and all the other people who risked their lives fleeing to Pennsylvania to escape slavery.

This book is dedicated to all of the hotel and motel housekeepers who clean up our disgusting messes after we leave. Give them an extra five or ten the next time you check out.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.
- Declaration of Independence

This book is dedicated to the fulfullment of that promise.

For Soon-Yi, the best. I had her eating out of my hand and then I noticed my arm was missing.

For everyone who helped me on my way.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I've changed the names of people and obfuscated the names of places in this book. I wrote this for my daughter, and she's allowing me to share it.

To those who are at this moment squeezing oranges for someone they love.

To the fighters and healers
And the healing fighters
And the fighting healers
On all sides
And for Colette—
For transporting me to a place where I could tell these truths

For Patricia, the mother star

For PEN America, and all the writers around the world jailed for their words

For Gregg, my love in any timeline

To all those working for a more inclusive urban America

I dedicate this book to my parents, Bill and Julie Marshall, who believed that I could do this long before I ever did. And to anyone who feels trapped in darkness, hopelessness, or pain, I pray that through this story you will see a glimmer of light and the fingerprints of hope.

FOR JAMAICANS

Dedicated to the Tohono O'odham, whose lands gave me life

For Mom and Dad, who would not have approved of this one

This book is dedicated to all white people everywhere... Just kidding! The opposite of that! This book is dedicated to our family and friends who experienced all these stories with us... Just kidding, this book is dedicated to El DeBarge!

This book is dedicated to my parents, sister, friends Jo and Scott, and a great teacher, Mr. Muller. Rest in peace, sir. You saw the potential in me, and that made all the difference in the world. I hope this book helps to fulfill your dying wish: to give the gift of memory to others. You won't be forgotten.

For the girls at the concerts

Dedicated to all those out there grinding and smiling and minor-league ballparks every summer

To angry women,
shameless girls,
and the men who trust us,
especially,
for their love and encouragement,
my mother, Norma;
my daughters, Isabelle, Caroline, and Noel;
and my husband, Thomas

For my mother, whose own story was never told

For my mother, who first gave me the freedom to write. And for my husband, who gives me the courage to never stop.

For my babies. You've brought more joy and love to my world than I could ever imagine. For my husband, because I've never been anxious about you. And for every person struggling with an anxiety disorder. I see you.

In memory of the thirty-eight Women Airforce Service Pilots who died flying for the United States during World War Il, and also in memory of Tom Lawson, pilot, who so generously helped me with the flight scenes.

For my grandmothers
唐彦文
彭惠珍
continuing, all tenses

To the Aquatic Generation

This book is dedicated to all those who work in weddings, an industry hit so hard by the 2020 pandemic. Thank you for all you do to give others that perfect day.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Lou Reed, Holly Woodlawn, Candy Darling, and Jackie Curtis. May you walk on the wild side for eternity.

To my wife Tracey, and my spuds, Maddie and Jesse. You make suburban misery a wonderful thing.

TO ZAZA
If I have tears in my eyes tonight, is it because you have died, or rather because I'm the one who is still alive? I should dedicate this story to you: but I know that you are nowhere now, and that I am speaking to you here through literary artfulness. Besides, this is not truly your story but simply a story inspired by us. You were not Andre and I am not the Sylvie who speaks in my name.

For you,
& to
the departed:
poems written
in the margins

To our youngest daughter, Amma,
Whose howl makes me Brave.
And for all of our daughters:
May they live every moment
Knowing the Power of their Wolf
And the Love of their Pack.

for Nap, who made my tiny patch of world so much brighter

This book is for all the friends I didn't see during its writing, including Mats 'n' Jo

To Liz, the mother who made me
And to Nick, who made me a mother.

This book is dedicated to everyone—dating, married, divorced, separated, divorcing, or separating—who believes their relationship could be just a little bit better.

For my beloved parents...
My dad, Hereditary Chief Hemas Kla-Lee-Lee-Kla (William Lane Wilson)
My mumma, Sandra Raylene Wilson, who raised me to be proud of who I am and to always remember where I came from... and who taught me how to live in two worlds and strive to help bring them together. With all my love.

To Gertrud and Karl Jaspers
In reverence—in friendship—in love

To the people of the future, who get to live their lives with no anxiety about unwanted pregnancies, and to the responsible ejaculators, who I'm confident can and will make that possible.

To Ted and Pel, Mammoth and Vole, Billy, Silly, Lily, and Mival—our other selves

To Jeanne De Vita, my editor, my friend. When I felt lost and rejected, you were there. When I was abandoned by a sister, you were there. When things felt impossible, you were there. You are what the sisterhood is all about.

To Luis, and all the great years eating tapas together

For Tom, my compass

To Jacqueline Kennedy, Valiant Valedictorian

To the ones we lost too soon.

To my friend Nathan, who embodies for me the light in this book

For all the women who...

To everyone who bought this book

For Victor White, who believed when I was fifteen and for some reason still does.

For Lara
you are my yesterday today tomorrow
my compass
my horizon
the shoreline of my odyssey

And for Katie
the spark of my inspiration
the galaxy of my dreams
the streambed of this voyage

both, embodiments of love

Men learn from other men what they know of themselves, of the world in which they must live, and of the world in which they would like to live.

This book is dedicated with love, respect and admiration to LEO & DIANE DILLON who painstakingly, out of friendship, showed the Editor that black is black, white is white, and that goodness can come from either; but never from gray.

And to their son, LIONEL III with a silent prayer that his world will not resemble our world.

To E because without her I would not have been able to search for the Emperor

To Dad, the frat boy in my life

For my dad, who I always thought was the author of the world's best hollandaise recipe, only to discover it came with our Cuisinart. Here's to you and me, and all the disasters behind us.

For everyone who's ever wondered if they belong on the team

To Amanda, Margaret, and Barbara

Here's to'd ya
If I never see'd ya
I never knowed ya.
I see'd ya
I knowed ya
I loved ya,
Forever.

FOR AMINA.
Thank you for risking yourself for me again and again.

FOR ANN.
You are worth it. I hope we find each other in every lifetime.

For Tennessee Williams

To all true smokers of every land and clime, this work is respectfully dedicated by the editor

Known in the 1890s as "The Kansas Pythoness," Mary E. Lease was an old-time populist orator and fighter for common people. When American farmers were laid low by a farm depression in 1892, she took to the stump to urge them "to raise less corn and more Hell." This book is dedicated to that spirit, and to all the spiritual heirs of Mary E. Lease.

To all of the home preservers who have come before me, who have been growing and putting up food for their families for generations—even before the modern marvel of refridgeration—thank you for your inspiration.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Buster, who in eighteen months taught me more about the city than I had discovered in thirty years, and to Janet, who loved him, too

a dedication is only
a scratch where it itches—
for ANNE, then
in whose bosom RACHEL lies
muselike
guiding my clumsy song and
giggling between the lines
—with blessings, Lass
W

A las mujeres
To the Women

For blood

To all who are driven to create

For Maurice Sendak, an unspeakably brave and beautiful man

For all the girls who have held out for inconvenient love

For my mother, my brother, and my father—than you. I know it hasn't always been easy. For the younger Madison I'm writing this about—thank you for getting me here. I hope I've made you proud.

For Ginger the Dog, who is now barking at the garbage trucks in Heaven

To my parents, who insisted the dinner table was for reading.

To my favorite co-solvers, Julie, Jasper, Zane, and Lucas

This book is dedicated to the Avett Brothers, for giving me the motivation to "decide what to be, and go be it."

To all the boys who've had to learn to play by different rules

To my youngest son Grenville Arthur and to all other good little boys

Come read me a riddle, each good little man; if you cannot read it, no grown-up folk can.

This book has been both a manifestation of love and a ceremony of release. We would like to dedicate this book to our daughters: may you always walk to the beat of your own drum. To our mothers, who birthed us to be trailblazers, and to all the women we've met on our voyage and all the women we will meet on this path: thank you for shaping us through conversation, lessons, and love.

For Eileen, my LA women

For Eric. I hope you woke up in a strange place.

This book is dedicated to Prozac and Jelly Bellies. I couldn't have done it without you.

This one is for the softies. The tenderhearted sweeties. The introverts who are afraid to shine.

For Noosha, who made it safe to be me, and who regularly answers the question "Why not?" with "Because I don't want to." I love you, always.

DADDY
To the Very Best Daddy
I know... times nine!
Daddy theirs...
Daddy ours...
Daddy mine!!
With all my heart,
With all my love,
To Popeye again,
but this time from
All of us, with all my heart
and soul,
my love,
from
Olive.

To my mama, Robin, who made me who I am and taught me how to look at the world through a camera lens.

To my sister, Sarah, who always pushes me in the right direction when I lose my compass.

To my besties, Ginamarie, Sarah, and Katie, my rainbows, my ocean, my moss and moon sisters, your support, laughter, and love mean the world to me.

To the Fat Girls Hiking community, you have changed my life and made my dreams come true.

To every fat person who was told they couldn't or shouldn't and did it anyway, I'm proud of you.

For S, R & S

NOT for:
M, B, N, R and S (different R and S than above), V, and the guy who took the parking spot I had clearly been waiting for. (He looked like an L.)

To my late parents, who were born in Baghdad and were forced to leave their beloved city, and, until their early deaths, never recovered from the painful separation

To Levi—you have great taste in music and your hugs are awkward. Never change.

This book is for anyone with a complicated origin story. I feel you.

For Katie Feiffer, who is so often on the same page with me

For my grandchildren, so they will know

For Jasper, the Mexican street dog who gave me this story, and for the fine people of the Fallbrook Animal Sanctuary, who brought him to us.

Dedicated to all the people who make us laugh, whether they get paid for it or not. And to Iris, Maude, and Leslie.

To those out on their own paths, setting little fires

For everyone who dreams of a Hallmark Christmas. xoxo

To Nicola, for making me sit the hell down and write

For all the kids who grew up too fast, all the adults who refuse to grow up, and everyone who's both.

For all the pop and rock stars who never made it to the stage.

In memory of Chris Waller, the reader husband who reached out and asked me to include the word "gusset" in a book just so he could win a bet with his wife. Kate, I hope it makes you smile when you find it again inside.

To those who have sought beauty in the world and have the scars to prove it. May you never be afraid to bite back.

For my friends, the ones who text back quickly

To the memory of my grandmother, Edyce "Mimi" Hughes Little
Shine on, Mississippi moon

This book is dedicated to my mom and dad.
In our culture, we don't say the words "I love you" enough. You brought me into this world and did the best you knew to do for me. For your love and sacrifices I am forever grateful, and forever, I will love you.

To Miss Gianna Floyd—

i wrote you a black fairy tale
i understand if you not ready
to read it yet or if your mama
told you to wait a bit and that
just fine this book ain't going
nowhere this book gon be right here
whenever you want it
whenever you get finished playing
outside in that bright beautiful world
your daddy loved so much child,
it's just right to set this aside
Lord knows not a soul on this earth
gon blame you for being out in it—
running laughing breathing

For Humanity:
You kinda suck, but you invented books and music, so the universe will probably keep you around for a little bit longer.
You got lucky.
This time.

For my father, Rip, provider of the feast

For Gingers/Red Heads/Carrot Tops/Gingas/people that are told they look like every ginger celebrity ever, because we deserve to be the main character every once in a while. Freckles and all.

To Sarah—and to everyone who is curious about celebrities (and sometimes winders why)

To all my little toddler patients, who invite me into their prehistoric world every day!

This book is dedicated to Zoloft

DEDICATION
To my parents, Henry G. and Constance N. Hartwell, whose benign support never faltered, in spite of the constant science fiction coming into the house and never leaving.

For Suzanne, my lover, partner, and companion on every trail

TO RAY
LIVE FOREVER

For all the women who survived Ravensbrück. And those who never came home.

FOR THE ONE WHO WEPT
WHEN THE DREAM ENDED

To all the writers who managed to produce a book during the COVID-19 lockdown—to all the creators who managed to make art in the middle of a pandemic. It was really tough, wasn't it?

For the fans
whose love for a story
turned a wish
into the book in your hand

For Ezra, there will always be a toothbrush and a life-size sarcophagus waiting for you at home

For my mom, who taught me to love books.
In memory of her mom, Grace Miller Roth, and the sisters who lived in that large marble castle. May their laughter live on.

TO MY WIFE

To whom I owe the leaping delight
That quickens my senses in our wakingtime
And the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime,
The breathing in unison

Of lovers...
Who think the same thoughts without need of speech
And babble the same speech without need of meaning:

To you I dedicate this book, to return as best I can
With words a little part of what you have given me.
The words mean what they say, but some have a further meaning
For you and me only.

To the nerds who fell in love with dragons and demons, with portals and alternate worlds—and who felt that in order to grow up, had to put those things aside. And who came back.

To those who took to the sea and those who the sea took.

To my children Emma, Anna, and Lucas

To Ana Maria (Karman) Gordon, Judith (Koeppel) Steel, and Herbert Karliner, who were my children's age when they boarded the St. Louis at the port of Hamburg in 1939

This book is dedicated to insecurity and fear, two of my best friends and closest enemies

For all those who have to fight for the respect that everyone else is given without question

For Mike, who doesn't read books but promises he'll listen to the audiobook of this one

For the wise and generous Jungian who finally got me to click my heels together three times. Thank you.

To Craig Walker
(who was next to me on 9/11)
and
To Eliot Schrefer
(who was across the table when I wrote most of this book)

For those whose names are on the wall

For all the actors in the cast and every member of the crew

For Melinda. I'm sorry you had to see that.

To teachers
Without you, these books would never be written.
Or read

For Pam Spengler-Jaffee. You are a goddess in every way.

And also for Paul, even though when I went to him for medical advice for my ailing hero, he replied, "He has to die."

To my husband, Robert McClellan, who supports and celebrates my career even though it scares him.

To Mom, thanks for raising me to be a strong woman and for teaching me that there really isn't any other kind.

To the memory of my father, the immigrant

For Duncan (Dink) and Dad.
The whole world died with you,
And began again, painfully, anew.

For the young. For Sage, Violet, and Fiona.

To Edith: My mind and heart follow her through gestures, rooms, and days. At night, we have curled together as foxes for warmth.

To the great rhetorician Wayne Booth, who cared deeply about the democractic art of listening closely to what others say.

To the ghosts of Cape Towns past, present, and future

To you... for sure

To my mother
these memorials of an unforgotten city

For Bertie, the boy who grows branches in his head

For generations of Danan women who have been told they were "too much" and still refused to dim their light

To my mother and grandmothers and all the women they burned before us

For Sheryl Anne Zigman
(April 28, 1958 - November 2, 1965)
who left home before I even know she'd been there.

For Jeff Solomon, this is what you get for not giving up on me.

This book is for Miles Mingo, sun of my life.

And for every child who will cross the threshold next, every kind of body and soul, every orphan and misfit, every immigrant and refugee, every gender imaginable, every lost or found beautiful being looking for shore, home, heart. That space between child and not: imagine it as everything. Hold it open as long as you can. You are right. You are the new world.

For Lisa and BriHo, who are the reason I write about friends who are like family.

And for Jane, who will someday be old enough to read this.

For Nick, with whom I daydreamed in tandem.

To Grandma, with love, and to all the girls who are afraid but conquer the world anyway

For Kit
Without you, this book could not have been written
Nor could I have become the person who wrote it.

IN HONOR
AND IN MEMORY
OF THE BONDS OF
SISTERHOOD

In memory of Carrie Elizabeth Buck, 1906-1983, and to the children she and so many others were denied

For Fia and Frank, I'd clone you if I could

For my parents, who took me to Jane Austen's house. And for Jillian, Corinne, Eleanor, and Elizabeth—future heroines of their own stories.

For you and someone you know

For the midnight swimmers—and all past and present members of the Two O'clock Tea Club. Especially Jack, Ari, Molly, and Hannah. May your beaches always have fires, dogs and laughter on them, whatever the weather.

For all the girls who've loved before

Dedicated to all those who seize what an unjust world refuses to give

For my mother, Dr. Olusola Famurewa, who continues to make our home a wonderland where every room brims with books, with love and gratitude.

And in memory of my father, Mr. Adebayo Famurewa, who left behind a library and a legacy: I miss you still.

To all the men I've gazed at from afar and especially those who've let me do so at closer range.

For Nick, my comrade and compass

For Sadie, who loves animals. And for Fluffy, Buffy, and Mango, who are animals. - B. M.

Solidarity to all those resisting universal tedium, for all those struggling against fascism, racism, capitalism, or just sheer drabness.

To György Sebök, who deserves much more than this book, but it's something

And to all the other people who save us from ourselves

For the one to be loved

To my barista

To my sister Beverly, who died in March 2010, soon after her eightieth birthday. She was my "big sister," twelve years older than I, a second mother, I suspect, when I was a baby and toddler, and throughout our lives together a best friend.

This book is for Joyce Bell—friend, fellow writer, voice of reason, ear at the other end of the phone and all-around fairy godmother.

For grandparents, especially my Ma and Nana. And for animals—all of us.

For the black and brown bodies that know this pain.

To Wesley, my best friend and partner in all things, and Koko, who is likely eating these pages as you read them.

Dedicated to my mother Virginia Grace
without whom I would not have the grace
to embrace life as it comes
and
Mtyari Shabaka and Kuwasi Balagoon
embracers of life, fearless before death

Everything I write is for Elsa, but especially this book, since in it her heart, sensibility, and intellect are so signally—if perforce esoterially—celebrated and exploited. My debt to her, in art and in life, grows however much I put against it. I also dedicate Mating to my beloved son and daughter-in-law, Jason and Monica, to my mother, and to the memory of my father, and to my lost child, Liza.

To Maria Khan and David McCumber, the other two legs of the tripod

To my parents. For everything.*

*Everything except the two-week period in 1995 directly following the time you went to Ohio for a wedding and I threw a party in the house, which is the most normal thing a teenage American can do, aside from lie about it, which I also did, and Mom eyed me suspiciously for days, morphing into a one-woman Scotland Yard, marching into my bedroom with a fistful of lint from the dryer to demonstrate that I had mysteriously washed all the towels, and then she waited until we were in a nice restaurant to scream, "Someone vomited on my couch, I know it!" and Dad took away my automotive privileges straight through college so that I spent the subsequent four years likening you both to Stasi foot soldiers, confined as I was to a campus-on-the-hill when I could have been learning how to play poker at the casinos down the road and making bad decisions at townie bars. I think we can all agree you overreacted.

For everything except that, I am profoundly grateful. I have only the greatest affection for you now. Also: I vomited on the couch.

This book is dedicated to everybody who struggled to make Hasta Mitra the vanguard it was during the 1980s, especially Joesoef Isak, Hasjim Rachman and Pramoedya Ananta Toer.

It is also dedicated to Mary, who so admired these men and their works, and was waiting to read this book, but now cannot.

To Nicole, my vampire in the Garden of Agony

For all of those
who let their stories cross mine,
especially,
my Valentine

To the parents, brothers, sisters, partners, and friends of those who have been killed by police and other forms of state-sanctioned violence and yet remain committed to the struggle for a just world

For my parents and for all the rebels

To Elizabeth for her life, for fifty years of inspiration and challenge, and for the new insights I have gained from reading the first chapter she has written for her own life story.

And to everyone who has decided—or is thinking of deciding—to live in accord with his or her own feelings of human solidarity and love, rather than by the selfish competitiveness that is enshrined in the present society.

To all whom we have failed so grievously. Zina Jacque got it right, fifteen years ago. We're here to say who things. One is, we're sorry. But sorry is never enough. The second thing is, we're going to fix it.

I dedicate this book to all my jailed colleagues in Turkey. Journalism is not a crime.

Dedicated to the punks, in the streets and the ivory towers

For the ones who ask

To my sweet Harvey—may your generation be the one that finally figures this shit out.

To you.
PS. Yes, you.

For Beatrice—
I cherished, you perished,
The world's been nightmarished.

For Jane, who questions everything

This book is dedicated to Brendan Whyte and the house he will make from his own belonging.

The author wishes to thank:
Cat Conrad, Joanne Madge, P.N. Elrod, Kelley Walters, Annie Wortham, Leah Rosenthal, Sharon Sams, Glenn Rogers, Michael Shanks, Joe Bonamassa, Kenny Kramme, Eric Czar, ORAC, SDJ, Lucienne Diver, Laura Anne Gilman
... not that she personally knows all of them. But they're deserving of gratitude anyway.

To Susan Mann, who blazes intellectual trails, opens institutional doors, and builds emotional shelters

To Sue and Tom, aka my parents. One is gone, but both of you are with me every day. You make every other so-called "parent" look like a pile of discarded diapers.

Horror Stories is dedicated to my friend Farid Moslehi, who faced his own death with dignity, humor, and courage, advising me in his last days to be fearless, to trust my instincts, and to write this book as the maverick I'd been at the beginning of my career.

For the bands (and bartenders) that make Brooklyn so beautiful.

To my DNA jackpot—my daughter, Billie. For all you are and all you will be. I want to be like you when I grow up.

To John Carter Cash. The Gift. You have it. Never forget.

To my grandmothers
Rakeli, Yeeko, Abisaagi, and Milly on Father's side, and on Mother's side, Batanda and Kaamida, all of them sisters to my 'real" grandmothers. For that thick traditional love, which would not allow me to see that my "real" grandmothers had passed when my parents were very young. Not until all of you had passed.

To Catherine Makumbi Kulubya whose fierce independence, sheer tenacity, and quiet intelligence first inspired me.

To Matt Groening, Jim Brooks, and Al Jean—thanks for the greatest job in the world. Don't fire me. - Mike Reiss

For Josephine Baker

For whomever gets my final rose

To our good friends, the professional politicians, all of whom—and none of whom—appear in this book

To Larry and my other friends—who are another kind of legion

For my Saint, who answers to the name of Roman and is known to all as my husband. Thanks, honey—I could never have discovered so much joy (or picked up so much dog poop) without you.

This book is dedicated to Julian and Malcolm and all the fallen ones who were passionately and earnestly looking for a home.

To Bea Arthur, Rue McClanahan, Betty White, and Estelle Getty
Thank you for being a friend.

This book is dedicated to Oprah Winfrey with immeasurable love.

Dedicated to
Caylin Nicole Johnson
Brandon Bailey Johnson
and to my entire family
wherever and whoever
you are

For Greg and Cynthia, because there is love
and then there are cats,
and aren't the two the same
—K. A.

For My Father, who advised me at the outset, all those years ago, to always write about love
and for
Faiz Ahmed Faiz
1911-1984
and
Abdur Rahman Chughtai
1897-1975
two masters who taught me, each in his own way, about what else is worth loving

In Loving Dedication:
To everyone with a cunt.
Especially, She who persuaded me from Hers:
my Sacred Mother.
I thank you for giving me this life.

For my mother, who always says, "You have to have faith." And for my brother, who always has.

To Bennett, who is all the light and laughter in the world.

This book is dedicated to my blood brother
BAILEY JOHNSON

and to the other real brothers who encouraged me to be bodacious enough to invent my own life daily:
JAMES BALDWIN
KWESI BREW
DAVID DU BOIS
SAMUEL FLOYD
JOHN O. KILLENS
VAGABOND KING
LEO MAITLAND
VUSUMZI MAKE
JULIAN MAYFIELD
MAX ROACH
A special thanks to my friend
DOLLY MCPHERSON

For my cousin Leslee Leong, my cohort in memory keeping

To the ones they called angry, broken, sad, and hopeless, but were silent amidst your joy

To Hortense Chapouot
Because, like the rainbow, she comes in colors

To the red-hot sinners, burning at a heat others can't stand (who happen to have seventeen dollars of disposable income)

To the displaced.

This is the story of monsters and what they do to those who love them, those who fear them, and those who are simply in the wrong placeat the wrong time. Or, from a different perspective, those who are in the right place at the right time. Serendipity is just as cruel as it is kind.

This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever loved a monster.

For my babygirls, my babyghels: soft and savage and sweet and strong and tender and exquisite, so exquisite.

To Alfred and Penelope, the happiest twist to our own Tinder fairy tale.

And to all of the hopeless (and hopeful) romantics out there still searching: may your dating (mis)adventures bring you the happiness and love you deserve.

For my ancestors, and for my mother, Cherice Simpson; my fathers, Gabriel Brignac and Alton Cullors; for all my siblings; and for my new family, Janaya Khan and Shine Khan-Cullors, this book is from you and for you. Thank you for holding me down and reminding me why I am able to heal. -PATRISSE

For Nisa and for Aundre and for all of our children, the ones who survive, the ones who do not. And for Victoria, who deserves the sun, the moon, the stars and Coney Island. And Victoria, who first believed, who has always believed. -asha

And for the movement that gives us hope, and the families in whose names we serve, we will not stop pushing for a world in which we can raise all of our children in peace and with dignity. -PATRISSE & asha

For Ma:
If only everyone were lucky enough to have one like you.
To Michael, Anthony, and Luke:
I'd never wish to change our lives. I'd only wish for you to get to experience yours.
Everything I'll do is because of you.
I hope you'd be proud.

This book was written for any woman—any person—who has found themself mystified by their own body. Anyone who has felt the nagging suspicion that what they have read about their anatomy wasn't written for them, or by someone like them. You were right. This book was written for you. It was written for anyone who has felt unable to talk about their body in language that others could understand. Anyone who wants to better understand the legacy they were born with, by virtue of their reproductive organs and the chromosomes dancing within their every cell.

I hope this book welcomes you in as the remarkable women and explorers in this book welcomed me.

For The Terribles.

To anyone who was along for the ride

FOR MY SISTERS:
Ann, who taught me that art and beauty are everywhere.
Evelyn, who taught me the power of good mental health.

For anyone and everyone trying to get free

For the followers

To broken people everywhere

For Peter, who had faith in me long before I had faith in myself, and whose death gave me faith in something much larger than myself.

To all who have been trapped by someone else's fear

Dedicated to the memory of Minnie Davis (1923-2008), who told me to stop and stare, and to all the other neighbors who looked after me on Lenox Avenue

To all the artists of today and yesterday who have persevered...

For my parents, Jack and Lavurn Lazard, who set all that I am in motion.

For my biological son, Gary, who cannot read this, because he is a dog

To all those who came before

To the memory of Dr. Charles S. Hirsch, physician, mentor, and friend. And for the medicolegal death investigators, the unsung heroes who find answers for families and justice for the dead.

To our daddy, Elon Musk

To the memory
of those who have died for the revolution of our times

To the fraternity
of those who live for it

To the understanding
of those who will carry it further

For Dash—born in the first days of the pandemic—and Lucy, and Milo.

And for Nathan and Rachel, Kiev, Louise and Shepard, Ainsley and Adeline, Freedom and Madiba, Isabella and Sophia, Daphne, Francesca, Bruns and Emme, Chase, Juliette, Gemma, Jade, Liran, Jonah, Mateo, Talia, Colette, Nicolas, Eric, Ellis Rose, and all the children and grandchildren of NewYork-Presbyterian's front lines who will someday learn of their parents' and grandparents' roles in the saving of lives.

In memory of Alice Mayhew, the editor whose inimitable voice I still hear in my head, with the wisdom and vigor that kept me going through twelve and a half books... and also to the wondrous voices that herald a better future—grandchildren Heidi, Ava, Eliza, and Charlie.

This book is dedicated to the women in my life, who have been my biggest fans and teachers throughout the years. You've helped me realize my own power—in and out of the kitchen—and have helped shape me into the man, baker, and therapist I am today. I love you all.

To my mother, Sharon Hazan, for being an inspiration in the kitchen.
In honor of Grandma Raquel Benun.
In loving memory of Grandma Peggy Hazan.

To my online community of cheese lovers, who are always down to party together or apart

To Mom, the OG zero-waster, who we might lovingly tease about rescuing every takeout sauce imaginable, but who has also inspired us with her dedicated food-saving habits and creative combinations, her boundless love of adventure, and her lifelong support of our every project. You are truly one-of-a-kind.

To Andy, without whom we would not be mei meis and might never have found our way into the industry. And to Dad, who passed on a deep love for tinned fish and ordering Chinese food with abandon, we miss you every day.

To the men in my life, whom I love dearly.
What's better than this? Guys being dudes.

To my mother, Elaine Shapiro, for everything, especially that conversation on 110th Street

I dedicate this living work to myself as a radical act of self-love. I have finally come home to myself. To anyone whom I have caused harm while trying to find myself as a neurodivergent Black woman in an imperialist capitalist white supremacist ableist world. To all embodying the practice of being whole and human. In the essence of Ubuntu, I am because you are.

To the Unknown Deletist

Long may you never receive the credit you so richly deserve

To Hayao Miyazaki, who founded my imagination
To Ali Al-Tantawi, who revolutionized my imagination
And to all the Syrians who loved, lost, lived, and died for Syria.
We will come back home one day.

For brown girls everywhere
&
for Thad

To our youth, our future heroes

For my parents, who took me traveling, and my sister, who shared the adventures, and for the estimated ten million people who are currently stateless as the result of conflicts all over the world

To Richard Peña, who said, when everyone else said the opposite:
"You should write. You're a really good writer."

For my people, the working classes, who cook the meals and pick the fruit, who serve the tables and stock the shelves, who work the gigs and deliver the orders.

We are the makers and builders and doers of this world, and all that is in it belongs to us.

For my grandparents. You have always wanted to know what I'm up to, even when you don't understand it.

In the process of writing this, I almost thought I would never find my way out of the woods.
But I did—and so this book is for me.

To Jeff Akins, the best soul mate ever, who has dragged our stinky socks and moldy gear boxes around every continent on earth for the last fifteen years, bless his amazing little MacGyver heart. He has never let me down.

And to my parents, who believed in me beyond reason.

For André Leon Talley

For my grandmother, Aimée Setton. Your memory is already a blessing.
And for my mother, my Samwise.

To the nurses and doctors of NYU Langone Health—particularly 15 West, Tisch Building, Manhattan

To the platonic loves of my life

This book was meant to be Jane Meakin's. So now it's for Freya. Nothing is more lovely than love, my duck. May your life be filled with music.

For Melissa, around whom I am in orbit

This book is dedicated to anyone searching for their own little slice of la dolce vita.

For Jim and Alice Coyne, who crossed this country in a Ford Fairlane

For Kristy
A genuine friend, longtime encourager, and powerful advocate. Thanks for the decade of laughs and truth telling. I'm down for another one.

For the workers who walked and the workers who stayed.
For Gram and for Papa, who made all of it possible with love and with volume.
And for a guy named Al Freni I met at a hot dog eating contest.

In memory of Barrty, who moved smoothly in so many social circles

For my mother, Ifeoma, whose life and death taught me to never simply accept this unjust world as it is. And for Harold, who will always live on in my heart.

For everyone I've ever had a crush on. Thanks for all the material.

For Joe
Thank you for the unforgettable line.
And if you happen to read this, I love you.

to Ken, for loving me even when—especially when—my light dims

This one is a blatant love letter to our genre. There be romance in these pages.
And for Jennifer Yuen, Patty Lai, Eileen Ho, Kayla Lee, and Sandria Wong. There's a piece of each of you in here. We are so grateful that you shared yourselves, and we hope we've made you proud.

To my mother, Danina. First, and always. And for Daniel, for telling me I should.

To all of us, and our disasters. And for those who didn't survive.

To Kimberly: for turning the world so it's facing the way that I'm going. –Greg
To anyone who cannot live in a world devoid of wildness, and to white sharks, who embody it. –Ret

To all who have dedicated their lives to justice.

For Laura Crockett, if book publishing were an arena battle, you would be my most trusted ally.

To the heroes of the pandemic—the scientists, the medical personnel, the frontline workers everywhere—thank you

In memory of Leonard Cohen

There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
–L. C., "Anthem"

My life has been a labor of love, as has this book,
which I dedicate to my father,
Miller Williams, and his parents,
Rev. Ernest Burdette and Ann Jeanette Miller Williams.
They understood and taught me the power of language and music to create a more just world.

for Cole, Emma, and Lisa: the ones who keep me found

For the Black nerdy girls who were led to believe that who they were was an anomaly. For the 4 percent of medical students in the United States who are Black women. For the dark-skinned girls for whom self-love is a continued, arduous process. For me, at age twelve, scouring the shelves for books about girls who looked like me, whose suffering wasn't supposed to be the subiect of discussion in English class. For all my girls who spent their youth reading about other people falling in love and making no effort whatsoever to experience it themselves. This one is for y'all.

For all the food lovers out there who burn popcorn in the microwave: we'd be too strong if we could cook, too

To my grandmother, who encouraged me to pursue stories that had been forgotten

For Beatrice and Tristam
And for all thos who have lost someone to the crisis

For John, Paul, George, and Ringo

This book is dedicated to the only person this book could possibly be dedicated to. Tarryn Fisher, thank you far accepting the darkness in people as much as you accept their light.

For all the noodles

For my brother, Aitor,who's said to me more often than anyone else, "I don't know what to do with my life." -HÉCTOR GARCÍA

For all my past, present, and future friends, for being my home and my motivation along the way. -FRANCESC MIRALLES

This book is for the memory of my grandfathers, Captain Edward Hall Adkins and Hanson Kelly Ruark; for my father, Robert Chester Ruark, Sr.; and for all the honorary uncles, black and white, who took me to raise

To my father, Ed, who embodied No Barriers before it had a name. – Erik

For Kashi, who taught me that my spirit is stronger than my fear

DEDICATION
For my sweet Korean mommies who showed me that true love in friendship transcends race. I will never forget how you have welcomed me. Thank you for the prayers, ideas, phone calls, introductions, lunches, dinners, late-night texts, recipes, DMs, and more. I love you ummas.

To my very own huzband, Martin.
Thank you for encouraging me to pursue my dreams.
And to all the women who have questioned their worth.
Remember, you're always deserving of self-love...

To my parents, for showing me the possibilities of love.
To Liana, who embodies them.

For all the Black and brown girls who never got a Crush can.

For my parents, Bob and Bunny Hill. I apologize in advance for most of the pages that come after this one.

For my visitors

For Billy
who believed in this book when it was just a fantasy
N. F.

For the survivors

For my brother, Mark, builder of bridges

For Robin Robertson—it certainly has been one...

For all the lonely hearts, know that you beat, and that's all that matters.

For R, who shared the journey, lent me his dog, and tossed me a few pieces of his life

This book is for Tom,
who ran many marathons,
with the many changing finish lines.

This book is for Tom,
to rest

for my friends
for my family
for those I do not yet know
and for those I never will

This book about the most special day in our year is dedicated to Pauline V. Moore, M.D., of Iowa City, who dedicates herself every day in the year.

For me, the best Bro I know

To Max Kase and Bill Corum
A great team on a great newspaper

For my father and grandparents, who always said I should write.

And for Astrid, who said, "You should write this."

For Anne Power, who fashioned me from clay

To the people who make internet language. You are the territory, this is merely a map.

To Megan, my wife, cherry blossom, and legal property, who teaches me life every day.
And to her mother, Martha, who has taught us both beauty and humor. She also taught Megan class but got to me too late.

To Ines, Wild Love

To Camille, with all my heart

and to Magaret Talbot, who knew the secret to fun and lasting love, and probably still does

For Nick,
Now you know your story

For Elvis,
Now you have his story

For Sudie Todd and Sherri Farley Snovell
I am wealthy in friends.

To the heart in you, don't be afraid to feel.
To the sun in you, don't be afraid to shine.
To the love in you, don't be afraid to heal.

To the ocean in you, don't be afraid to rage.
To the silence in you, don't be afraid to break.

For the grandmothers, the levelers, the dreamers, the men who get it, the young women who keep going, the older ones who opened the way, the conversations that don't end, and a world that will let Ella Nachimovitz (born January 2014) bloom to her fullest

For my seven grandchildren. In years to come, may they feel the same thrill as I do each time the Bridge comes into view.

To Victoria Rose, friend and goad

To Alice, who has the heart of a Hamilton

To all of our mothers, no matter what they cook.

For Sidney Wertimer, a model of what college teaching was and can be again

To all the wounded inner children out there, looking for protection and healing. I see you.

FOR DONNA AND THE WATER MUSIC

And for those whose letters I still haven't answered.

In loving memory of my friend Stephen Costello (1994-2016). I hope there are no granite countertops in Heaven.

A la bella donna della mia mente.
To Janis, the star without whom I couls not navigate. And to the real Rosie.

To the memory of Keith Wyman and Betty Bowen: if there is a place where people go after death, its proprietors have got their hands full with those two.
To everbody whose letters I haven't answered. And to G.R., special delivery.

Dedicated to Stanley Kaufman and Chester Zmuda, two fathers who created two troublemakers

For the team who stood with me in 2016 and worked their hearts out for a better, stronger, fairer America. Being your candidate was one of the greatest honots of my life.

To the victims of the Manson Family. May they rest in peace.

This book is dedicated to Mná na hEireann, the Women of Ireland, and in particular to the many dedicated activists who challenged a patriarchal society, where Church and State conspired to treat Irish women as second-class citizens.

We owe a debt to an illustrious list of women who challenged the status quo—and changed Irish society in the process. Too numerous to mention, they include: Anna Haslam, Constance Markievicz, Hanna Sheehy-Skeffington, Hilda Tweedy, Nell McCafferty, Máirín Johnston, Margaret Gaj, June Levine, Mairin de Burca, Mary Maher, Moira Woods, Mary Anderson, Nuala Fennell, and May McGee.

To Catherine Corless, for her unremitting efforts to bring justice for the Tuam Babies.

And to many courageous women today, inspired by the women above, who are still fighting the Church and State for justice, ethical behaviour, and equality for all Irish women. We owe you all a huge debt of gratitude.

This book is dedicated to the journey, and all the people who are walking with me on it... past, present, and future. You have all helped me to become more myself and I am deeply grateful.

This book is dedicated to anyone who's ever received a last message. May these last messages helo show you that you're not alone in what you've gone through.

To everyone who has ever fought or is currently fighting borders to be with the people they love.

for made-up men and women

This book is dedicated with profound love and respect to my late husband Bill, the best gesturer and most caring husband, father, friend, coach, teacher, mentor, and doctor that I have ever known, for being half of an everlasting team

For those who seek denshō, "to pass on to future generations"

in gratitude for

the family we are given
the families we are choosing
& ideas of home with room enough for both

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORIES OF:
Jack Kerouac: The Lonesome Mystic Highway Saint of America
Thomas Wolfe: For Look Homeward, Angel, You Can't Go Home Again, Of Time and the River, and The Web and the Rock
Stephen Foster: For "My Old Kentucky Home," "Hard Times Come Again No More," "Old Folks at Home," "O Susannah," and many other national musical treasures
Miles Davis: For defining "cool" by playing it
Robert Kennedy: For rolling up his shirtsleeves and caring

To Janice, My Mother-in-Law, Who Once Wrote to Our Daughter: "It is impossible for a woman to learn too much, dream too big, or live too joyously!"

This book is dedicated to my sister, who never ceases to inspire me.
This book is dedicated to my mother, who taught me how to bounce back from a setback.
And this book is dedicated to you, dear reader, for your possibilities are endless, and you can do anything you set your mind to.

To S. Town Stephenson, who flew kites from battleships

DEDICATION/ACKNOWLEDGMENT
To Richard and Betty Miller, our dear Amish friends who know what it's like to deal with the adjustment of having family members move away.

For my daughter Maryam, born in the Arab Spring

For Ba and Fa, who shared the land, and Q, who gave me the world

To Artie, whose patience and love soared during times when both were difficult to give

Dedicated to the humble bloodline of my rich history: my mama Lucy, her mama Allie Bert, and her mama Minnie Brown

For Darleen and Cassie—by no means little women.

My thanks to life, for all it has given, for all the laughter and tears I have lived...
Violeta Parra, Chile

To Ari, Xander, and Luke, who will know the future.
To my parents, David McAfee and Nancy Haller, who prepared me for the second machine age by giving me every advantage a person could have.

DEDICATED TO THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

TO MY TRANS FAMILY, SURROUNDED BY AND IN SEARCH OF: LOVE

To all the loves and their writers

for the vesitiges, and future memory

For my friends in the forest

DEDICATION
This book is cheerfully dedicated to those greatest and most heroic of all human endeavors, WAR and WARFARE; may they never cease to give us the pleasure, excitement and adrenal stimulation that we need, or provide us with the heroes, the presidents and leaders, the monuments and museums which we erect to them in the name of PEACE.

For all the girls who lead with their hearts

To my wife, who shows me every day what it means to be good.
To our son, Sean, who gives us so much joy in life.
And to my mother, whose infinite love gave me the strength to disobey her.

For Anthony, always, for believing in my words, for helping me find my inner mĕi, for giving me the world

And for anyone who's ever felt like they didn't belong

FOR EVERY TRANS PERSON WHO EVER BELIEVED THEY WERE TOO COMPLICATED FOR A LOVE STORY

To Rex and Donna Martin, my parents, who have always managed to embrace the best of Bohemia

TO MY FATHER
SORRY AND THANK YOU

TO MENISHA
JUST THANK YOU

For my family, here and an ocean away

To the memory of my father, Phiroze, who'd find a kind word for any person that needed one

This collection is dedicated to any readers who have ever dealt with any form of mental illness. May you find comfort and strength through the experiences shared in these pages.

For all who have weathered loss, for all who have endured, and for all who make it possible for others to survive

For David, who fought hard for the right boyfriend in this book

This book is dedicated to "us." The girls. Friends who see one another through the hard times, big and small, year in and year out. You know who you are.
Thanks; To the people who make up so many of my memories: my father, Laurence, my brother, Kent, my sister, Laura, my husband, Benjamin, and my son, Tucker. Wherever we all go in the world, you are in my heart. And to my mom, who inspires so many of my novels, this one most of all.

Dedicated to MDK, who has put up with this madness of mine for the past twelve years and is resigned to the fact that it may never go away.

To my mother, Catherine Ann Sconiers, who instilled in me a love of fine china.

to Victoria, for a love inconceivable
to my children, for being my greatest teachers

For everyone who is learning to love themselves

To Hsieh Hsiu-Hua, who hid in the mountains, eating raw cabbage, and survived the bombs

for Don DeLillo

For Jeanne Voltz
who was better to me than I was to myself
with eternal love and gratitude
and for my darling brother and sister
B and Lindlay.

To Dad, for teaching me to go inside, and Lara, Maya, and Dani, my ultimate chatter antidotes

For Robin, who always confers with love

For my mom, who taught me how to grow: in the earth, in my head, and in my heart.

To all those of faith and hope and quiet strength who have practiced and are practicing their principles in lives filled with the humanity and humility of charity, who give with no concern of getting, who do their duties as God gives them to understand their duties. And especially to Duke Davis, Newton Francis Davis, their brothers and sisters, and Ada Sterling Johnson and Joseph Johnson Sr., their sons and daughters, especially Lula, and their grandchildren and great-grandchildren and Ida M. Brock and Edward Elmore Brock III, and especially their daughter, Brenda

To my mother, Miriam, and my father, Harry, with thanks for the stories and everything else

To the youth of America, and to everyone else who has ever struggled or had hard times, but knows that through hard work and faith they can make it.

For my brother Charlie
No murderer can still the stormy symphonies of your conviviality.
The innocent rage of your thunderclapping voice and laughter will always echo
in the high mountains of memory.

For Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and John Lennon

For Ted, who always asked the next question

For me, thirty years ago, and my father, a little bit too late

For our favorite parents, Domenick and Evelyn Cercone. Thanks for adopting one of us, and for letting the other stay up late to watch Star Trek.

To the memory of
my Mother
and the decade of
the Nineteen Thirties

This book is dedicated to you, who are drawn to read it.

To Lori Kilkelly, cool chick, great friend, and more brawny than scrawny. - A.R.

For my mother, Joelle, and my father, Mike, who taught me to hunt and invent. - P.M.

To my daughter, Nikki, who tried her hardest to the be the best little ant in the colony, when all along she was a beautiful butterfly.

To Desi, with thanks—"You can learn a lot about yourself by taking care of another species."

Dedicated to the patients of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, as well as their families and caregivers.

to the runners

To Ryan, blazing a trail with the top down

To my mom, who first showed me what a magical place a library is, and to Mila, who continues to remind me

To those who, seeing the vice and misery that spring from the unequal distribution of wealth and privilege, feel the possibility of a higher social state and would strive for its attainment

San Francisco, March, 1879.

For Mother,
who will never "get it," but bless her for trying.

Thank you to the Igloo Tornado Matthew, Levon and Scot
Special thanks to Joe, Ed, J. and Mark for encouraging me to beat this dead horse a few more times.

Epistle Dedicatory

TO C. M.
Great Carl! who stuck our noses to a scent
And set us raking heaps of excrement,
You New York editors play musical chairs
As hedgehogs quit their late-befouled lairs.
Yet you it was who swung the legs of us
Three on the broad beam of our Pegasus;
Or rather, lured us to come dabble snout
In that which some before us had let out.
Anthologies, they say, may not be dedicated;
Anthologists may be, though. What rimes here?
Medicated?)
Thus, should our Pegasus reek of pure horse,
Partake, O Carl, in this our pure re-Morse.

This book is dedicated to the notion that cooking is the universal language of the human spirit.

For Cheri—
you taught me
love is work is love

For Nana Bhai, who wrote my truth into being.

For you, who too has lived long years of silence. Who too has endured heartbreak, abandonment, trauma, and cruelty. Who too yearns to feel seen, heard, understood, and loved. Who too believes that humankind, we can and must do better. The love begins with us. You and I, ultimately, are the voices to alleviate the darkness. I wrote this for you. I am yours.

This book is dedicated to the voices in my head, the most remarkable of my friends. And to my wife, who lives with us.

For Laura Treppendahl. My precious, Laura, you showed me what real abundant love looks like and any time a person feels that love from me, they are seeing a piece of you. Thank you for teaching me how to heal and for always being with me.

For Daddy, my sweet papa, you gave me my eyes. You showed me the richness of green grass and dirt and simple acts of kindness. You taught me to seek out those in need of love and protection and you filled me up with more joy than I could contain. Because of you, I know a world where love grows wild. You're the hero in this story and I carry you with me everywhere I go.

To Love, lost and found

To my wonderful readers:
Sorry about that last cliff-hanger.
Well, no, not really. HAHAHAHA.
But seriously, I love you guys.

For Miles
who fills this book
with stories
and
my life
with
miracles

For STEVE—
both of them

For to embetterment of talking.

For found families

For those who love the ocean

To Mommy, who took me to all the libraries and bookshops, who let me store whatever book I was currently reading in her purse no matter how heavy it was, and who believed that I could and would write my own book one day, way before I even believed it myself. I love you so much.

For Heather Hayer

For the one who want to escape

To Dad, who said I could do it.
To Mom, who drove me to do it.

To my mother
for not being like Alice's

For my pack

For all the mermaids who are still finding their voice. Sing.

For mothers in Africa,
For sisters in the Caribbean,
For the women warriors of Haiti,
For girls everywhere,
Like the mountains rise.

For my father, Michael Nethercott
For my mother, Helen Schepartz
For my brother, Rustin Nethercott

And for all our ancestors who waltzed, baked bread, loved, fought, and survived the impossible so that we could at last, here in this gentle sliver of time, meet

For all my heroes (you know who you are)

For Jennifer,
at last,
under this and any moon.

For my family, on both sides of the Atlantic.

For Benedict, for everything. And for Jubilee, who we longed here.

For the girl I used to be—with love, at last

For Charles Aaron.

Additionally, this book is dedicated to all those who love music enough to make it a part of their being. Even if we never meet, do know that you are my friend.

for Kate DiCamillo
who held the lantern high

To everyone who comes to me with hungry eyes and furtive desperation, whispering, "What's it like after you leave?"

For Orrin Grey, monster maker

To my grandma, Elizabeth, who taught me how to eat.

To my brother, Brian, who reminded me.

For every mom hanging on by a thread.
And for those trying desperately to be one.

To the librarians and booksellers out there, and how you've given me a million lives

For Matt Bushman
Who is our wonderful family skop, always ready with a song, though never a boast. So I will do it for him.

For Peter, Lisa, Alan, and Andrew
You wouldn't believe what's been going on down here.

To my husband Johann, thank you for believing with me that remarkable was still possible.

To my mum, for teaching me how to love endlessly
To my sister, for teaching me how to love unconditionally
To my wife, for teaching me how to love actually

For the friends who walk beside us,
and the ones who take another path

for the Puerto Rican people

For my mother, Nancy Irene Hartigan, and for all mothers whose love is both tender and fierce

For the one I call Daddy. From the very start, you have been the embodiment of my deepest, kinkiest desires, and my ideal partner for every kind of adventure. I love you so hard.

To Alvin R. Tarlov, who has always tried to do the right thing, even—especially—when it was complicated

Thank you for entrusting me with your memories

For our Gods, my ever-living ancestors:

bagaMphela le baNkadimeng. Bare kwena ga e tsene metseng!
bagaMakhene le baSepeng. Kgabo tse dinhle!
For my grandparents especially—Johanna Togoloane Mahlako and Edward Kwetjane Mphela.

And for Mommy, Dimakatso Maks Mmadiphisho Mpbela Makhene—this praise song is for you!

To the women of the Turnaway Study

For Dave, my favorite person to hang out with.

First, to Tyler. For our ordinary, extraordinary life.
For my dad, the biggest dreamer I know.
And for Katie, who knew Bel first.

Once, before her name was a slur, there was just a woman called Jezebel.
Mostly, this is for her.

For Irma, Laure, and Yvette, and those ancestren before them, for those womxn I'm born from. Pisa, Port Said, Port of Spain. For the Goddess, the muse, the legends of the deep you are, to me.

TO SANDRA, MY VALENCIANA, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

For my father, who answered my questions until the end. And for my mother, who continues to stoke my culinary curiosity.

for Kiki
so you are never homesick

To past, present, and future Black and Brown girls.

This book is dedicated to California—to the temperate climate, to the many farmers across the state growing delicious produce, and to a landscape that blossoms with some of the most beautiful flowers in the world. This book is also an ode to my hometown, Ojai, where loving nature was rooted in me as a child, as well as to Los Angeles, the place that shaped me as a chef. It is a truly global city, offering a diverse array of foods that continually inspire, pushing me always to experiment with new ingredients, techniques, and flavor combinations.

For all the monsters who are still waiting to be loved

To Sy Friend, who taught all of us the meaning of Tikkun Olam

To the millions missing*

*The #MillionsMissing campaign was created by ME/CFS advocacy organization #MEAction to recognize the millions of people who have been sidelined from society due to inadequate support for people with complex chronic illnesses-and the millions of dollars missing from research into ME/CFS and other post-viral and infection-initiated diseases. To learn more, visit millionsmissing.meaction.net.

For you, Dad. For always being there for me; for feeding my body, mind & soul; for astute editing over four decades & finding the best cover art for books; for encouraging me with lists of book titles before a word was written; for always reminding me that, no matter where we are, were under the same moon.

This book is for anyone who hasn't found their people yet, in the ways they've always hoped for. May this be a guide for you to figure out who you are, and who you need, so you can finally have the chosen family we all deserve.

For Annabel Davis-Goff, whose many lives would shame a great man's one. What haven't you given me? I love you, I revere you, I thank you.

To anyone who has ever cried in a public laundry room because you had a dryer full of wet clothes and your last quarter was Canadian

This one is for you

This one is for the people in my past who've judged me by my weight and underestimated my worth. Your poor math skills have only added to my value.

For S, a well in the desert

for my mother, and the other women who made me

For Lorenzo and Milo—may your futures be bright and your imaginations run wild

For every girl who wants to write her own story

For my dad, who never stopped believing in me. Even when it all seemed so fantastic. And for my mom, who has read nearly every single word I've ever written. Even the bad ones.

For all the troublemakers

To my beloved, delicious family: in every generation.

To the fifty American school children who went to art camp with me in Russia in the summer of 1989. With love to all of you, and especially to Derek Hiashi.

To the Homies and the Homegirls

To the Divas, for support in times of crisis and madness

For my husband Bob, one of the watu wazuri, with love —DMC

To my darling husband: Thank you for always being patient, loving, supportive, and calm. And most of all, for your sense of "the funny."

For Angela, Michelle, and Nina. Luck be a lady.

For my bother, Darryl, who wanted to be free of suffering—just like me

For the Black Prince, and his baying hounds, too. May the good chase never end.

For her

This book is dedicated to President Ahmed Sékou Tour and Mme. Touré and to my brothers and sisters in Guinea who have suffered much to maintain Africa's dignity and sustain Africa's will to survive.

This book is dedicated to Harold Guinzburg with respect born of an association and affection that just growed. —John Steinbeck

For David Justice, who taught me about anarchism and true love, and for anyone who's ever turned a trick.

For John Hawkes, who, standing beside me in a dream one night long ago, long before we'd become friends, and remarking upon another author's romanticization of autumn (there seemed to be hundreds of them actually, stooped over, on the endless tree-lined streets before us), observed wistfully: “It's so true, people still do that, you know, count the dead leaves. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, three, four..."

Dedicated to
ALEXIS SMITH
Actress, Wit, Beauty, Cook, Kindheart, Irreverent Observer of Political Phenomena, Etc. If I were to list her outstanding qualities, you, dear reader, would be exhausted before you get to page one. So let me just say the abovementioned woman took the time to give me a playful push in the direction of my typewriter. Of course, after you read the book, you may wish that she had pushed me in front of something moving faster than a typewriter.

Dedicated to my Aunt Baba, whose unwavering belief in my worth sustained me throughout my tormented childhood; to my husband Bob, without whose love this book could not have been written; and to all unwanted children, in the hope that they will persist to do their best in the face of hopelessness, to believe that in the end their spirit will prevail, and to nurture their childhood traumas into the source of courage, creativity, and compassion.

These stories are affectionately dedicated to the memory of the original CHITTY-CHITTY-BANG-BANG, built in 1920 by Count Zborowski on his estate near Canterbury.

She had a pre-1914 war, chain-drive, seventy-five-horsepower Mercedes chassis, in which was installed a six-cylinder Maybach aero-engine—the military type used by the Germans in the Zeppelins.

Four vertical overhead valves per cylinder were operated by exposed push-rods and rockers from a camshaft on each side of the crank case, and two Zenith carburettors were attached, one at each end of a long induction pipe.

She had a grey steel body, with an immense polished bonnet eight feet in length, and weighed over five tons.

In 1921, she won the Hundred MPH Short Handicap at Brooklands at 101 miles per hour, and in 1922, again at Brooklands, the Lightning Short Handicap. But in that year, she was involved in an accident* and the Count never raced her again.

I. F.

* This is a polite way of putting it. In fact, CHITTY-CHITTY-BANG-BANG suddenly went mad with rage about something and, with the Count at the wheel, got out of control and charged through the timing-hut, very fast, backwards!

Dedication

"I will live for love and the rest will take care of itself" were Marina's words on graduation day, the last time we saw her. The Opposite of Loneliness is dedicated to love. Our hope is that Marina's message of love will inspire readers to imagine the possibilities and make a difference in the world.

- Tracy and Kevin Keegan

To the memory of George Davis (1941-2013) of Medford, Massachusetts—athlete, traveler, teacher, civil rights stalwart, unsung hero of Selma's Bloody Sunday—in gratitude for fifty years of friendship

"We felt like we were alone and couldn't make a diference. But what happened with the movement? People grouped together. It was a beautiful thing"

This first one is for me.

A bit of potpourri for those who are hoping to become survivors.

In Memory of Don
One of "The Few," the young men of the Royal Air Force who fought the Luftwaffe in the skies above England during the Battle of Britain. He was killed in June 1940, age twenty-two.

To the dragons who saved me

To Speedy
Strays and wanderers are often sent by the gods.

To all the girls with their heads in the clouds.

To my parents,
for believing in me

and to my foremothers,
who didn't always have a voice

To everyone who wants
to create a world
where not a single person is poor

For Boisey, Sianneh, and Marwein, children made by and living in the chasm, but not swallowed by it.

For Shannon, who took me to my first drag show. And for my sister Kelly. I'd solve a murder with you anytime.

For James Kenneth Thomas III, without whom, not a chance

For her

This book is dedicated to the trans people who lived the lives that made the history I've outlined here, and to the trans people, and our friends and allies living today, who continue to make history by advancing the cause of social justice.

To Philip José Farmer, whose Riverworld books kick-started my love of history

To Ashley, for her birthday

For every girl who has ever had an obsession

I wrote these stories to impress my wife, Joselyn.
Thank God for her.

For music lovers, and lovers, everywhere

To everyone who has always believed in me.
But more important, to everyone who didn't.
(Yep, it's that kind of book.)

To my daughter and mother, both of whom bookend every story I hope to tell

Noosha, this book isn't for you.
I already know which one will be for you, so you have to wait.
This book is for Amanda, Dache, Danielle, Jessica, Sareer, and Taylor. This book would not exist without you. And if somehow it did, then no one would be reading it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This book is for the dreamers: the activists, academics, researchers, lawyers, journalists, artists, and ordinary civilians around the world who work every day, against the world's cynicism, against seemingly impossible odds, for a just, free, and peaceful future for Palestine and Israel.

Dedicated to my daughter Alex Lockhart and my granddaughter

Maddison Teylor Lockhart and to my mother's, mother's, mother's, mother who held on to and passed on the stories and the untamed untainted seeds. And to my son and grandson, may the omniscience, innocence, and joy of childhood guide you in all of your relations, break the chain of violence, and re-seed the love gene.

DEDICATED TO THE UNBOUNDED, PURE BEING WITHIN US: THE TRUE SOURCE OF ALL NOURISHMENT AND FULFILLMENT.

To the ancestors who raised me

To the silenced.
May your words flow free.

To Houston—
You were right; this was the one.

For Emily Fearon,
a lighthouse in the big city

To Ronald and Johnnie and Tommie too,
and Warren and Bruce and Randy,
and John Purcell and John Preston,
Paul Monette and Paul Baron and Joshua,
And to my beloved Zaki
—my own greatest generation.

To the men in my life.

To Ryan Farrell for loving me then,
Gavin Day for loving me now
and my dad for loving me always.

To my friend Amelia, who very generously allowed me to tell her story whilst granting me the freedom to invent.

For Orí.
Praise for how you guard & guide me.

In loving memory of my mother, whose story I can only imagine.

This book is dedicated to all who find themselves alone at the table. May your solitary meals be delicious and the company just as good.

TO MY MUM
My first fashion guru, who taught me to sew, showed me how clothes should fit and who told me never to eat beetroot because it stains. She also told me never to wear horizontal stripes—sorry, Mum, couldn't resist that gorgeous striped dress for the cover shoot!
Most importantly, she taught me to enjoy being a girl.

(P.S. Jacks may have brought me up but in actual fact I know that my real mother was Joan Collins—but that must always remain a secret. Mum's the word...)

For my husband, who never thinks it's strange that sometimes my job is stitching swears.

To my bold and beautiful city of Seattle
May we never stop growing in our understanding of each other

To Jonah Beau—thanks for teaching me to make it simple, so I have more time to play with you xxx

For Joan, whom the eyes of mortals have no right to see

For Remy. May the love you have in your heart give you wings to do what makes you happy.

My very first job was working in a bookstore. It was there that 1 discovered the Choose Your Own Adventure books. I'd spend hours lost in those novels—I loved the idea that I could write my own story, or at least try to figure out which path was the winning one. When it came time to write my memoir, I couldn't think of a better way to depict my twisty-turny life, so I decided to adapt the Choose Your Own Adventure concept (albeit as a relative parody).

If you're familiar with the series, then welcome; make yourself at home. If not, by all means rush to your nearest bookshoperie, seek out Choose Your Own Adventure books, and enjoy. They are awesome.

To David: I couldn't be happier that my many paths and choices have traveled to you.

To Gideon and Harper: May your lives have countless chapters, and may those chapters be filled with laughter, adventure, and great good times.

To Becky, we married young and have lived happily ever after

Marnie dedicates this book to delicious treats, without whom none of this would be possible, and to anyone who has adopted a homeless animal.

FOR JOAN: NO DREAM IN VAIN

For my parents, who keep me afloat

To the memory of my father, and to Colter and Molly, who have North Country roots. And to farmers who know animals and land and know how to make a system that works for them and for us as well.

To all the truly wonderful women in my life

To Ellen and Frank, who are stars in my eyes

Again, to all the men and women of the U.S. military—and their families—for their service and sacrifice.

To the Ladies of Orcas Ridge, for the warm welcome and fun lunches.

And, as always, to Jay--who once bought me a bag of saltwater taffy at the Oregon coast, where Shelter Bay is set, then proposed.

Here's to many more years of memorable beach days together.

For Wolf and Alix, my son and my beloved. They have taught me all I know about healing the heart.

To those who have no choice but to prepare their children for the battlefield

This book is for Robert Silvers.
It is also for John Gregory Dunne, who lived through my discovering what he already knew.

This book is for John and for Quintana

For Anthony, the only man for the job

For Sam, another wanderer. May your generation see wonders undreamt.

For women, the world over

For the healing of the nations

Look for me in the whirlwind. — Marcus Garvey

To Lottie. Welcome to you, too.

For my friends in Ukraine and Russia, with love and gratitude.

To anyone who needs a snack

para los caminantes cubanos
y los costarricenses generosos

and for tree planters
and wing dreamers
everywhere

To the memories of George and Ellen: may eternal peace include some great reads

For Oli, under the apple tree

In memory of
Audrey Rosenthal, 1940-1967,
who died in South Africa in the struggle against apartheid
and
in honor of
all those, past and present,
committed to creating a just and peaceful world
and
for
the war resisters and deserters, and our political prisoners,
who continue to pay the price for our struggles

To Helen and Jennifer, who politely suggested that we put our modest proposals into a book—and then lock that book away in a drawer. We followed half their advice.

To all the wild, mad girls

To the radical fairies who flew before me

For Aunt Sherry and Uncle Jim, and for Brandon, who likes to sleep

For Miriam, who rocks the world one birth at a time.

For Madge, the Original Bad Mom

For my same, my ride or die, you are beautiful in every way, thanks for saving my vegetarian bacon

For Naima, because you must live here for now.

We decided that this book should be written and the truth known because of the many rumors about what happened in the cordillera. We dedicate this story of our suffering and solidarity to those friends who died and to their parents who, at the time when we most needed it, received us with love and understanding.

Pedro Algorta, Roberto Canessa, Alfredo Delgado, Daniel Fernández, Roberto Francois, Roy Harley, José Luis Inciarte, Alvaro Mangino, Javier Methol, Carlos Páez, Fernando Parrado, Ramón Sabella, Adolfo Strauch, Edwardo Strauch, Antonio Vizintin, Gustavo Zerbino
Montevideo, October 30, 1973

For Dustin. And for every person who has touched profound pain.

To Elise, my road-trip companion, who built a bower of pine boughs for a red squirrel.

In memoriam:
Mike Davis,
Barbara Ehrenreich,
bell hooks,
Leo Panitch

Dedicated to the memory of
DAVID BERMAN

To Sigmund Freud
blameless physician

To everyone who survived the '80s

This book is dedicated to my big brother. Carol City.

FOR YOUTH, UNDYING

For my parents—thank you for putting me into this weird world, and for everything that came after

For Joseph Brodsky

For the restless

For living this crazy, beautiful, and dirty life with me, Taylor, this book is for you.

With special thanks to Catherine Sabonis-Chafee, my Top Gun, who did most of the work and endured more real fear and loathing in ninety-nine days than most people see in a lifetime and laughed like a warrior in the constant shadow of doom, jail, and pure craziness... well, well, well... The infamous "woman called Cat" turned out to have solid gold balls
And once again, to my cruel and relentless editor, David McCumber, the fearless Doctor of Deadlines, who put this book together under truly heinous pressure
"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro" - HST

To Eudora Welty

This book is for anyone who's ever said to me, "You should write a book."

This book is also for the guy at the airport Subway who didn't charge me for a refill on my Sprite yesterday.

This book is dedicated in loving memory to Anthony Bourdain and John Bil, qui dort dîne.
-F&D&M

"To Richard Milhous Nixon, who never let me down." H.S.T.

To Bob Geiger, for reasons that need not be explained here—and to Bob Dylan, for Mister Tambourine Man

For my parents, who never doubted (or, if they did, never let it show); and my grandfather, with gratitude

This play is for Fred Sanders, first appreciator of the comic possibilities of mountain-climbers' axes

DEDICATION
To Mankind
And the hope that the war against folly may someday be won, after all

To Fleetwood Star Robbins, the apple, the pineapple, the mango, and orchard of my eye.
And, of course, to all cowgirls, everywhere.

For the poets, dreamers, visionaries, and risk takers who planted light in the field of darkness so we could rise up
For our children, great-grandchildren, and all those who follow generation by generation in the story of becoming
For the water spider, who, when the earth was covered with water, carried an ember on her back so we could make fire to keep the story going.
For Owen Chopoksa Sapulpa, who walks close to me in the story

Dedicated to those who are fighting against the planet's current great ailments: environmental damage & economic/political oligarchism

This book is dedicated to our ancestral grandmothers, who braided seeds in their hair before being forced to board transatlantic slave ships, believing against the odds in a future of sovereignty on land.

To Mom and Dad, for the hours of my childhood you spent telling me stories and the years you spent listening to mine, know that yours will always be my favorite. And for all of you, this is what I think it would be like to be the morally gray fantasy villain's personal assistant.

To all my people (family, friends, twelve-step programs, comedians). Thank you for not kicking me out. I'll see you at the potluck.

for the daughters

For my son Beckett who is with me every day in the nonphysical. I've been talking to my Angel, and he said that it's all right...

For Tita, my first and favorite storyteller

To Paul Auster

To the
Sick and Wounded Soldiers
of the
Army of the Potomac,
This Volume
Is Respectfully Inscribed
by
The Author

To those whose stories are often told in whispers

For my parents, David and Isobel, for forty years of patience. And for Beth: don't give up, I may have another forty in me yet! And a special dedication for Sammy, who tried to sabotage discs, papers, and author in a manner best known to himself and other cats.

Lauren Fogel Mersy:
To a future that's free from sexual shame, one where everyone has access to good sex education.

Jennifer A. Vencill:
Desire has often been compared to a dance, an intertwined and intimate weave of push and pull, back and forth, step and counterstep. To the partners with whom I've danced thank you for the lessons. And to my patients and students, who inspire me every day.

For the men and women
who never got to be children

and for the children who
never got to feel love

To Crystal, James Baldwin, KL Burd, Steven Yeager, and every little kid writing towards a dream

For Alexa d'Avalon and Ginny Ruffner and their pink shoes.

For
My Apollinian Grandfather
Arnold Seligsohn (1854-1939)
and
My Dionysian Grandmother
Julie Kaufmann (1857-1940)

To the South Side of Chicago and to every place and every person that has been home to me since I left you

Always and in all ways, infinite thanks to my infinite girls, Clara and Sunny, who taught me what love is.

Dedicated to my sister Karyn, a better writer than I will ever be.

To Kurt Vonnegut Jr. I apologize for the semicolons.

For all the girls who might have lost it once or twice,
So what?
Let those beautiful feelings rain on them, babe.

A tuttə voi che siete Lina Polette
which means, to all of you
who are Lina Poletti.

I think friends can literally save your life.
—Dolly Parton

This book is dedicated to my friends.

To DOROTHY BROOKE
Dorothy, I must begin
By warning you: here's fantasie,
A fairy-tale in Western rig
(For a wet night in some country inn)
Which please accept in memory
Of Jane and me, Grahame and Fig,
Of desert, mountains and blue air,
The canyons, camps and buffalo steak,
The maestro-works you crayoned there,
The nonsense that we'd find or make.
(Sometimes I thought there seemed to be
Not five but six: as if we'd share
Our laughter and the heart's quick shake
Of joy with one we could not see).
As through the desert hills we'd go
And bounced inside that dusty car,
I cast us in this puppet show
And made each puppet bravely shine;
Though you, I think, are braver far
Than these adventurers of mine;
And being wise as well you'll know
The idle tale is not quite all,
As children playing games may throw
Strange threatening shadows on the wall;
In such a world could I do less?
So here, it's yours. Good night, God bless!

To those who light a candle instead of cursing the darkness, and to those still looking for a match

For Larry Harris, Greg Lyss, and Jamie Wright, old times
and for Dwayne Betts, new haven

This book is dedicated to my fellow masochists, and to C.G.C., who knew I had it in me.

To my mother, Akiko Souza, for her stories of childhood in Japan during the war, and my father-in-law, John Katsu, for sharing his experience of the internment

Her hand moved behind his head and supported it. Her fingers moved gently in his hair. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.
-John Steinbeck

This book is dedicated to every person who does the often invisible work of bringing food to our tables. Specifically to those whom I've had the privilege of working alongside over the years; thank you for making space for me and for teaching me along the way.

To all the musicians and jazz club impresarios who kept the music alive during the Great Pandemic of 2020-2022.

For A.
I loved you before I was born.
In loving memory
Christine (d. 2022)

FOR MOM, who always guides me "home" by reminding me of who I am.

For my mother, Giti Joon, and my father, Reza Ali, who gave me the tools and the foundation from which to build my life. And for my husband, Akis, who provided the safety and structure from which to realize my dreams.

To my girls—Zoe and Wren—you inspire me and, honestly, scare me a little. Keep it up! (Also, you're not allowed to read this book until you're eighteen because mommy used some grown-up language and adult situations. Love you!)

In the ninth grade, I told myself I would dedicate my first book to my English teacher, Mrs. Pamela Banner. Mrs. Banner, thank you for instilling a love of literature in me and all your students!

For Ryan Swayze, who I know would have loved the history behind this one

for all the tapes that got ate

To Mari Michener, who cared for the geese, the herons, the ospreys and the cardinals

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of a man who was absolutely committed to his work, who affirmed life in every way, who was utterly and completely himself and through these qualities could be and was a joyous parent.
JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY

To the Girl Scout Organization, which, for eighty-eight years, has helped young women realize their full potential; and to the young women of America, who can create whatever you can dream.

Many people have teachers they remember fondly as the ones who believed in them and helped them reach their fullest potential. This book is dedicated to Marshall Stearns, my sixth-grade teacher at North Miami Elementary School in 1968.

In dedication to
Pa and Mak,
I honor you.
Chea, my idol,
who enriched my life.
Tha, Avy, Vin, and Bosaba, who will live forever in my memory,
I love and miss you dearly.
For Cheng,
who helped me escape the death camp.

To my Hong Kong friends, wherever you are

To my parents, who taught me to love words. And to David, who gave me the courage to share my own.

To the memory of the striking Bolshevik printers of St Petersburg who, in 1905, demanded to be paid the same rate for punctuation marks as for letters, and thereby directly precipitated the first Russian Revolution

To those who are willing to see the future, so they can change it

To my wife y mi hija. To my old man, a crazy hippie who proposed marriage to a mexicana in secret, because he knew he'd never receive permission, y mi madre, la mexicana who agreed to it.

For Budna,
WHO HOWLED WITH ME
DURING THOSE SUNLESS WINTER DAYS

to all the boys who were first girls

For everyone who has ever come to New Year's Eve at my house

For Natalie Wang
Who walked with me over the mountain to Shek O
And gave rise to a story

To my family, who nurture me.
To my friends, who challenge me.
To my readers, who sustain me (and Selena).

To the 1%, may you live long and healthy lives

For Garrett, an alleged mortal without whom my existence would be bleak;
For my mother, who assured me that this book is not blasphemy;
And for you, for being here, when so many Otherworlds are calling.

Para las madres, tías, vecinas y comadres who know how to resolver and take care of nuestra comunidad. For the ones who've experienced rechazo.

To Ron, for always reading the first and last draft-and all the ones in between.
And to the memory of Shadow, whose travels took him many places throughout his lifetime and even once to the shores of Oran.

For my grandma, who made me love stories, and for my Nona, who knew how to tell them

And now as I disappear, someone else becomes real
- 'Tiniest Seed,' Angel Olson

To Abbu, who told me stories, and
to Ammi, who taught me how to write them

To the memory of Psiche Hughes, my polestar, in celebration of the joy we shared, and her generous intelligence.

To Marisa Arango, because she was taken from me before her time.

To Ana Luisa Liguori, Magali Lara, Marta Lamas, Alicia Rodriguez, Lucia Melgar, María Teresa Priego, Merce Gómez, Giuliana Bruno, Betsy Sussler, Kim Baker, the two Raquels (Serur and Chang Rodriguez), and Marcela Rodriguez.

To my formidable Mike Wallace, my greatest source of strength, a much better companion than Adam was to Eve.

For my pops, Nat Bernstein, who taught me to love the sound of words
1940-2022

To 'rissa, who worked in offices so I could work in a bookstore

For Pat
she steered well

An if we live, we live to tread on kings;
If die, brave death, when princes die with us!
—King Henry IV, Part I

For Brooklyn, Riley, and Chloe.
Whenever y'all ready.

For my family,
LIVING AND DEAD,
KNOWN AND UNKNOWN,
INHERITED AND CHOSEN.

For the misunderstood, the marginalized, and the maligned

Thanks, Angélica. Without you, in my life and in my literature, in my reality and in my fiction, this novel would not have been possible.

For my daughter, whom I love more than words

For my mama, in her place among the stars.

For my parents—
one across oceans and
the other below earth,
always lighthouses

For my son
Who made writing this book exponentially more challenging. And makes my life infinitely better.

This book is dedicated to Jonathan, my husband and chop, and Linda, the mothership. Thank you for supporting my dream during the grim and grand moments alike. The book is also dedicated to bartenders. Bartenders can change the world. All my life I wanted to share stories, drinks, flavors, and friendships, and bartending made that possible.

To Natty (2011-2020), our gentle golden giant, who never knew a stranger (or a bowl of food) he didn't love, but met all with a slow, accepting wag.

For my teachers
(in other words, my patients)

For all who seek something more than food in food

TO ALL THE RICE FARMERS OF THE WORLD, FOR THEIR TREMENDOUS INGENUITY AND LABOR

For all those to whom we owe thanks

Does Shelley go on telling strange Stories of the Death of Kings?
Tell him there are strange Stories of the death of Poets.
— John Keats

image of Sylvia Plath's flower-strewn grave and headstone, which reads:
IN MEMORY
SYLVIA PLATH HUGHES
1932-1963
EVEN AMDIST FIERCE FLAMES
THE GOLDEN LOTUS CAN BE PLANTED

TO JAMILA who arrived with one of those tough, beautiful old souls that's been here before

For my parents, my sisters, and Iowa

For Elyse and Nishant, handrails in the dark

To my husband, Adam, who has spent countless hours analyzing every salad in this book, and who desperately deserves a pizza.

To the memory of
(in strict order of disappearance)
Conrad Veidt
Sydney Greenstreet
Peter Lorre
Claude Rains

To the memory of one who died young

From 2015 through 2017, I had the privilege of holding the Belle Zeller Visiting Professorship in political science at Brooklyn College, an honorary post, now, sadly, eliminated under austerity. I taught various classes involving politics and language, and one class called Media Panic, Sex and the Politics of Fear.

This book is dedicated to my students, about two hundred young women and men across four semesters, who had complicated lives and abundant ideas, who didn't censor themselves or one another, who taught me a lot and who, I hope, are out in the world, smart, skeptical and brave.

For Capri, the island that feeds my soul, and for New York, the city that took me in, nurtured me, and changed me forever

Dedicated to building of the civilization envisioned by
Allen Ginsberg in such poems as "America":

When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need
with my good looks?

and "Death to Van Gogh's Ear!":

Now is the time for prophecy without death as a consequence

and "Memory Gardens":

Well, while I'm here I'll
do the work—
and what's the Work?
To ease the pain of living.
Everything else, drunken
dumbshow.

This book is for my parents, who love me when I fall as much as they love me when I fly. And for the grandmas, obviously.

For her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, all born after she left the planet:
Eli, Avery, Quincy, Finnian, Carrick, Amias, Rowan, Faye, Violet, Leo, Indiana, Jamie, Eamon, Maeve, Nick, Thomas, Ruby, Arlo, Theo, August, Addie, Cosmo, Susie, Pierce, Jenny, Antonio, Alicia, Izola, Amo, Koa, and those still to come.
For Sarah Chalfant, believer and guide.

For my familia
(In memory of Grandma Esther & Auntie Lucie)
And to the people of Denver

For those who made it out and those who didn't

For Mẹ, for teaching me how to tell if it's real jade

To the most beautiful

To Arthur, my navigator: Nevada-1-2-1-Papa-Papa

To my teacher, Machel Mills-Miles.
To my teacher, Elaine Plummer.
To my teacher, Jane Fetters.
To my teacher, bell hooks.
To my teacher, Alice Walker.
To my teacher, Toni Morrison
Thank you for taping my wings back together so I could fly.

for Eugenie
And for the March 2021 Atlanta mass shooting victimes—
women on the moon
Soon Chung Park, Delaina Ashley Yuan, Hyun Jung Grant,
Suncha Kim, Yong Ae Yue, Xiaojie Tan, and Daoyou Feng

To Robert Trammell, who cared enough about the city to stay here and curse it, keeping track of all the other writers it had driven away

For you—
—at last.

To my mother, Susan Ntombizethu Dangarembga
To my sister, Rudo Dangarembga
And to Sheri and Ines, whose journeys demanded much that is unspeakable

Dedicated to all the caregivers out there:
those who care because they want to,
those who care because they have no choice,
and especially the medical professionals during the COVID-19 pandemic,
every single one

This book is dedicated to all residential school survivors, to those who lost their lives, and to the generations impacted by this history.

To the questioning, and the nonconforming

For Ava, Muddy Myst, Lucy June, Tipper, Sydney, and my Hank

For all the squirrels, birds, possums, groundhogs, that one baby hawk, the three neighbor cats, the monarchs, mantises, and especially the whitetail deer who've shown up when I needed them most

For the one who reminds me to dig deep and to always go for the hole shot when the gate drops

and

For the earthling who calls me Mother Person

To those invincible, unseen guides: Spirit, Heart, Ancestors, Angels, Orishas, who often whisper with oh so soft, gentle nudges, and then, when absolutely required, heavy, blistering jolts...

To my offspring:
Angela Lanette, Ernest Ohene Kitiwa, and Dafina Toussainte
And through their respective journeys
May you forever be a light unto yourself

For Huey, Max, Sonny, and Thomas, who were born while I was writing this book. When they are old enough, I hope that they will read it and wonder what on earth all the fuss was about, and laugh at their uncle's hopeless predictions.

This book is dedicated to my 爷爷and 嫲嫲.
I can't wait to bake them pie in the great beyond.
My grandma will say, "It's okay, it's not too sweet," and ask if I've gotten married yet and why I have so many tattoos that are so unbecoming. My grandpa will just hug me tightly for a long while and ask me if I've eaten yet.
我爱你.

For Susan Bowen—
who provided refuge
even from 12,000 miles away

Dedicated to:
Damien, who wanted to be a ballerina with toe shoes and tutu
David, who wanted to be a missionary nurse with a little white hat
John, who wanted to be McMillan's Wife with hot pants and go-go boots
Felice, who wanted to be a lion tamer with a whip and a chair
Susan, who wanted to be Superman with red tights and a cape
Jenny, who wanted to be a dinosaur
Susan, who wanted to be a mailbox
to the little girls who wanted to grow up to be boys,
to the little boys who wanted to grow up to be girls,
and to all those who have become others.

This book is dedicated to my favorite door in the world—the one that leads to my family.

For my mother
and
because of my father

To all the women who have ever put pen to paper,
or shared their knowledge and skills through oral traditions,
to help us remember and perpetuate the living art of cooking

To Saire and James, for showing me love and art

To my parents, my husband, my daughter—and all the good souls around the world whose inspiration, prayers, support and love blessed my heart and sustained me in the years of living history.

To la belle France, and her home cooks, fromagers, charcutiers, boulangers, chefs, and other food artisans who continue to preserve a fine art. And to my husband, who took me there.

This work is dedicated to:
Antonio Gutierrez
Carlos Mancillas
Eddie Lozano
Linda Treviño
John "Spook" Fabela
Marlene "Negra" Domínguez
Don "Sonny" López
Miguel Robles
Elías Avila
Richard "Porky" Sierra
Lenard "Gallo" Ocaña
Fernando "Caballo" Arredondo
Martín Alvarado
Fidel "Puppet" Hernández
Marcelino "Daddio" Cabrera
David "Puppet" Alcon
Freddie Mendoza
David "Loco" Domínguez
Ricky Herrera
René Molinar
Al "Pache" Alvarez
Leonard "Lalo" Villaseñor
Ruben "Sharkie" Martínez
Daniel "Indio" Cabrera and
Rodolfo "Sonny" Gómez
My life is a poem to their memory.
- Luis J. Rodríguez

To the memory of my parents—
my mother, Dalal, and my father, Mohammed.
To the memory of my wife, Nadia,
and my daughters Bessan, Mayar, and Aya,
and my niece Noor.
To children everywhere.
Their only weapons are love and hope...

For all girls told they cannot be the heroes of their own stories
and for Susan Shapiro, my narrative heroine

for HARRIET
Even before you could speak,
without knowing, I loved you;
and for LIZZIE

To my daughters Caroline, Jacky and Sylvia, and to my father Erich and my brother Heinz, whom they never knew, with the hope that this book will bring them closer.

FOR MARK, WHO WHISTLES.
FOR EVERYTHING.

This book is for Andy Mingo, love of my life;
thank you for always finding me
in the spaces between things.

To those souls who will never settle for less than what they can be, do, share, and give

For Margaret and Arthur Brown, who introduced me to 'The Fox and the Rolling-Pin'

To my son in heaven and
my son on earth

To the memory of DELE GIWA, investigative journalist, and BOLA IGE, politician sans pareil, both cut down by Nigerian assassins.
And to FEMI JOHNSON, a thorough rounded human being and rare species of the creative joie de vivre

To each of you who've ever felt despair
amor y ánimo

Dedicated to the one who changed me.

For Terri
One worst-case scenario we've both escaped.

So far in our history, nearly two million Purple Hearts have been awarded. This book is respectfully dedicated to each and every recipient.

Dedicated to all those wanderers of the Côte Sauvage who, during my stay in Pointe-Noire, told me pieces of their life story, and above all to Little Pepper, whose great wish was to be a character in fiction, since he'd had enough of being one in real life.... AM

To David, with love and pluses

This book is given, along with all my heart, to Michael

TO THOSE WHO WANT TO LOVE,
TO THOSE WHO LOVE,
AND TO WALTER

TO DELPHA AND BRAD
BUILDING YOUR OWN TIMESTREAM
STEP BY STEP

To Steve
and to
everyone
searching
for home

Dedicated, with love, to the children of El Barrio—and of the many barrios all over the world.

This book is dedicated to historic Route 66, the Mother Road. One day it will be gone. Pieces of it disappear as I write this line. And when it dies, among its remains will be many tales and memories of the way it never was, and that's all right; for the road is mythic, and myths tend to swell with each telling. From now on, let every tall story begin: Once upon a time, there was a great highway ...

And that part is true.

Dedication: With thanks to the people of Africa and their American fellows, from whom the rest of us have much to learn.

To Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne

To Jesse, a wizard with a soccer ball

To the three who didn't come back

This book is for every teen who ever got treated like something was wrong with them, when really they were opening the portal for the rest of us. I made this for you. Also, you are right. The adult world IS a Fellini movie.

A gray and pink pie chart split into two quarters and a half, respectively labeled:
For my parents
For Joyce & Michael
for my better half Joe

It was to the soul of CYRANO that I intended to dedicate this poem.
But since that soul has been reborn in you, COQUELIN, it is to you that I dedicate it.
E. R.

This book is for Andy and Miles Mingo, who brought me back to life.

DEDICATION
To all life forms that exist between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea.

To
THAT PRINCE OF SLACKERS,
HERBERT WESTBROOK

A scanned image of the title page of the book Here's Your Hat What's Your Hurry with a handwritten inscription that reads:
For mom
—whose life history I will continue to mine, but who will never—no matter what she or anybody else thinks—appear as a character in my work, being too good for the likes of me + my characters.
Love, Elizabeth
Mother's Day 1993

In memory of Peter Straub
Beloved friend and tireless guide through the dark

This book is dedicated to all the inspirational boys and families living with Duchenne muscular dystrophy, and to those working unceasingly to find a cure.

For my family:
My parents, Betsy and Floyd, their spouses, Terry and Beverly; my brother and sister-in-law, Matt and Renee; and my wonderful nephews, Nick and Justin. They all did without me for far too long because of this book, but never stopped believing in it, or me.

And in loving memory of my grandfather, James Robert Lee (1912-2003), who treasured books more than anyone I've known.

For Violet:
You asked for a book with horses. We also included a woman who is brave and smart and industrious, a lot like someone else we know. We love you very much.

For my wife, Kristyn, who stepped into a room and took my breath away. Look at this life we've made together. And for my father, Jacques, who generously allows me to use the details of his Los Angeles youth in my fiction.

For my husband, Mark
And with deepest gratitude to:
the CELL Team, who launched these journeys-
Peter Ride and Jane Prophet
Mark d'Inverno and
Rob Saunders

Roshi Enkyo O' Hara, abbot of the Village Zendo, who has guided my Zen practice for more than thirty years

Their teachings were "like two arrows meeting in midair."

For the previous generation, Claire and Dr. Jacob Bleiberg, and Beatrice and Jacob Bennett. Tough lives couldn't stop them from sticking to their values and working hard so that our lives could be so much easier.

And for friend, mentor, and legendary mensch Dr. Ted Nadelson, who taught us that the best way to help people accept what's tough about life is to make them laugh.

To my family and to all the neighbors throughout my life, especially Jim (1930-2021) and Karen Dexter (1945-2021), who taught me that home is more than brick and mortar.

For my grandparents, George W. Johnson and Nancy Stolz Johnson.
You were always on my side.

And for all the workers of the world.

For Nan: who helped our serendipiter's journey sixty-six years ago and is still at it

For the descendant communities of Bertie County and Hertford County, North Carolina, who preserved the stories of women like Hannah Crafts for future generations.

Dedicated to all those individuals—past, present, and future—whose ongoing labor, care, and attention make our essential infrastructural systems possible.

To Saskia, my mothership

TO MY DAUGHTER,
and your daughters too.

TO MY SONS,
and your sons as well.

For you, my secret favorite

For Joan Robinson, who understood and explained monopsony first.

If only we'd listened to her.

We dedicate this book to you on your life's journey. May you get happier, year after year, and bring greater happiness to others.

For Sterling, who read with me

To Maman and Dad.
Thank you so much. You guys rule forever.

(Image of an emoji hand doing the rock on sign)

To the Victorian Supreme Court:
'this treasury of pain, this house of power and grief'
Dezsö Kosztolányi: Kornél Esti

For the Beloved,
who led me home

For Deborah, the first and last person to tell me to write this

To my physicist boy and my starry-eyed girl and to Lord Oliver, for all the punches

For those who dare to hope.

To my mum,
"the last surviving Brenda,"
with love

To Christoff Koch, K-lab, and all those who have dedicated their careers to understanding the human mind

for my mother and father, who brought me to the Gabe, and for Maharaji, who showed me what Winning is

For my mother, who first taught me that my opinions matter

For you! You're real magic.

To David Woodrum
—for secret reasons

For my Anand, who shows me daily the true meaning of awing and honoring

For Ali, my love.
Things have gotten better since we first met.
You make me feel like less of a monster.

This is for Joe Hill King, who shines on.

My editor on this book, as on the previous two, was Mr. William G. Thompson, a man of wit and good sense. His contribution to this book has been large, and for it, my thanks. - S.K.

To Marco
For that first mix CD and all the ones that followed,
but especially for turning the volume down

TO THE UNDISCOVERED STORIES
IN ALL OF US

For my patients.
And for Jill, Olivia, Reese, and Ayrton... for your patience.

for Art, whom music saved

In honor of my parents,
Louis Everett Burnham
and Dorothy Challenor Burnham,
whose gift to me was this cause

To my grandmother Farha,
without whom this story would not exist,
and to those who are yet to be born.

For Geoffrey and Laura, who gave me my first taste of taste

For Danny, because he wanted us to understand

To those on the right who are open-minded and thoughtful enough to entertain the idea that they have gotten everything completely wrong

For Garth Fawkes, who will be twenty-three when the centenary of the Second World War is marked. I hope much of this book will be redundant by then, but fear it won't.

Dedicated to the nations of my continent:
Olufemi, Olutosin; Vero, Temitope, Yewande; Feranmi, Sekemi, and Olivia.
Buku.

To Andrew Beale, my first teacher of Chinese, who lives with the consequences every day.

For the people of Gaza

For our youth

To the people of Gaza

For my grandfathers,
Warwick Phillips (Sept. 15, 1886-Aug. 1, 1919)
of Roaring Creek, West Virginia,

James William Thornhill (July 31, 1867-Aug. 21, 1913)
of Buckhannon, West Virginia,

and for my grandmother Grace Boyd Thornhill's "Great Aunt Jenny," who welcomed her husband home from incarceration in Richmond's infamous Libby Prison in 1865

For Ela, may you always know the difference.

For Mom, Wal, and Shay: a tree and her first fruits. Let us always remember ourselves.

For Tim Carey, and all the riders and leaders of the Bicycle Club of Philadelphia

For Emma, with kisses

For Erica Waldrop,
my lifelong friend
and inspiration,
who was always the
baddest witch around

To all creatures of metamorphosis,
both here and there.

To Alex. To Mom, Dad, and Dave.
To the people I call home.

For you.
On you way.
About to set the world on fire.

For my children, Leela and Pravin—nothing has changed my understanding of time like the small, beautiful breaths you take, every day.

This is for everyone who read under the desk, under the covers, and in the back of the auditorium when they were supposed to be doing anything else and imagined themselves on the page. - Jenn Northington

To my big sis, Ustadza White, the Artemis to my Persephone - S. Zainab Williams

I dedicate this book to
VALENCIA MARTINEZ & to
MY DAVID,
THE MOST BRILLIANT AND MOST USEFUL
I HAVE EVER MET

For those who came before me

Dedicated to Anna,
or rather,
To the Fairy Tale

In you, Fiction, I cloak myself,
lunatic garment.
With golden plumes, I write you,
dressing myself up
before my great moment
goes up in flames
and I transform into a dazzling phoenix!

The needle burns, the fabric smolders.
Heavy with gold rings
the vain hand plays
he loves me he loves me not
the divine result
my invention.

For my cousin, Marguerite Toutoungi

[Scanned image of a ship's manifest from 1948 titled "Manifest of In-Bound Passengers (Aliens)" listing Marguerite Toutoungi arriving in New York from Beirut]

In memory of Charlie Doyle, who taught me to keep my head in the boat even when I'm not rowing.

For C. C. & C.
Always stop for beauty.

For the forgotten who have been worked to death

For Christine Blasey Ford,
whose testimony triggered this narrative;

And for my children—
dragons, all.

for my mother,
Betty Ann Wrigley,
who also gave me my love of words and birds

To the 2.3 million incarcerated families languishing in America's prisons

For M. and S., and all of those killed by what we call viruses.

To Frances Spielman and Rhoda Spielman Tzemach, who taught me everything.
To Eli Tzemach, who taught me about pistachios, backgammon, the proper taste of watermelon, Marlboro Reds, and so much more.
And to all those women whose stories will never be told.

To my children, all children,
human and nonhuman.

For my girls and their crowd

In memory of Stuart Hall (1932-2014), who demanded intellectual rigor and a fierce commitment to social justice.

This book is dedicated to Jane O'Meara Sanders, who has been at my side for more than forty years as wife, co-worker, and best buddy. I also want to thank my brother, Larry, who, when we were young, opened up new worlds to me and remains a mentor. It is also dedicated to my wonderful children, Levi, Heather, Carina, and Dave, and to my grandchildren, Sunnee, Cole, Ryleigh, Grayson, Ella, Tess, and Dylan. I am confident that they, and their generations, will help create a better world.

This book is dedicated to my children, husband, patients, and the next generation. May they live in a world where they are never dismissed.
- A. M.

Thank you Almighty God for this life, my family, for my people.

For my people everywhere, united by culture, separated by seas.

Dedicated to the number 17

To Matt and Henry, who were both worth waiting for

Andrie, I will find you

For my parents, George and Deborah, the reasons why I am who I am. To the moon and back.

And for sweet baby Oliver.
Ollie Ollie oxen free.

(small illustration of a floating balloon)

A toast: Here's to my beloved brother, Wonga, and to all my siblings with disabilities around the world. Let's raise a glass in celebration of our magnificence. Cheers!

To our first great-grandchild, Henry Lewis Carter, with hopes that he will see peace and justice in the Holy Land

This is for anyone whose voice was muted; for those who didn't have the chance to be heard—or for those who, like my brother Kevin, had their voices taken far too soon.

This book is for all girls and women, and for the partners, friends, and family who love them.

This book is dedicated to Grand Avenue in Elmburst and Maspeth, a corridor of such central importance in my life. I have so many fond memories of the people and places I encountered along the avenue over the years. Along Grand were my favorite pizza places, the library where I'd eagerly brotesse for new books and records, the variety store where I bought my baseball cards, the Met Food where my grandmother took me shopping, the pool hall where I sometimes played and my junior high school. Grand was my home, and still is. Even today, as I walk along Grand, I feel that perfect combination of excited and yet cozy and comforting. I feel the connection of the past to the present to the future. Thanks, Grand! I love ya!

For Vangie—
for reminding me what life-love was/is/shall be.

To Our Children

We must support our children in every way we can. We must allow our children freedom to express themselves creatively. We must praise our children and thank them for their gift of inspiration. We must motivate our children spiritually. We must challenge our children to a higher level of achievement. We must increase our children's self-confidence and improve their overall quality of life.

So we say to our children, draw, paint, write, act, sing, dance, think, express, and be free to dream always: Nzingha, Malik, Imani, Zahra, Keon, Lil Jamala, Mia, Kyira, Avani, Maya, Jasmine B., Ineke, Maja, Jacia, Jemil, Yusef, Rubiyah, Helen, Jada, Carl, Milan, Seleick, Ashaki, Valencia, Adaija, Lianna, Lil Imani, Alai, Kai, Alana, Remi, Rylie, Etan, Leigh, Shaquan, Talia, Devanee, Nikko, Demourla, Alana, Henry III, Marquessa, Emily, Audrey, Andrew, Alyssa, Mathew, Brooke, Alex, Arielle, Jonothan, Ashley, Kayla, Jax, Rafi, Chan'tal, and Coy.

to my best "girl"
with hope for the boy I held in my arms.

when you say "I would die for you" to those you love, the truth of those words may be not that you give your physical life but that you are willing to die to the past and be born again in the present where you can live fully and freely—where you can give us the love we need.

In memory of Dave Walker, murdered at the Gate of Death in Angkor Wat, Cambodia, February 14, 2014.

"I want a Tibetan sky funeral with flagellants beating themselves to the song."

For sisters by blood and by magic, wherever we may find them.

For Mom, Dad,
and that great solo flier
Grandma

To EDNA, my wife companion friend critic lover muse advocate helpmeet financier caregiver manager guide coconspirator enemy bodyguard advisor nurse counselor strategist secretary priest chef scrubwoman confessor chauffeur alter ego ambassador scheduler paramour architect litigator hero therapist consultant banker competition druggist gamekeeper jailer liberator and the other

For Brian, who always makes me laugh, and who is always up for adopting just one more cat.

For Wellpinit and Reardan, my hometowns

A tip of the hat to RS who knows where all the bodies are buried.

For Ella, Adela, Dario, Henry, Athena, Noah, Willow, Nirona, Hunter, Felix, Leon, Blair, Samaya, Isaiah, Solomon, Eli, Liam, Kleio, Sydney, Sabine, and all the other bright futures to come

For C—I couldn't have written the last line without you.

This book is dedicated to:
Everyone who could make someone else's day worse, but tries to make it better instead.
Thank you. It's more important than you think.
Also, to Sugar, Spice, and Smudge, my current set of cats.
You are all a real pain in my ass, and I love your stupid furry faces.

for two Sunils
and what they've taught me about not giving up

M.B.C.
FOR YOU, BECAUSE OF YOU

This book is dedicated to
Cesidia Therese Tessicini.
My Terribones, my goony-bird.
My bride.
You died too young. Too hard.

For Andrew, who reads my books first;
and for Hal, who can't wait to get started.

For Melanie Borinstein, soon to be the newest member of our family. There's no one I'd rather run a quarantine salon with.

DEDICATION
100 Things to Do in Minnesota Before You Die is dedicated to all who call Minnesota home and the many visitors who seek what lies just beyond the next river bend, over the next hill, through the big woods, or on the next street corner.

This book is dedicated to my students, for helping me become less stupid about a whole lotta things.

Acknowledgments

This book was begun the day I was told that I had inoperable cancer and a limited time to live. I asked my doctors to keep me alive long enough to complete a summary statement on themes I had thought of throughout an activist life. They did. I therefore want to thank Doctors Nemetallah Amin Ghossein, Juden Reed, and Gerald Fleischner, their assistants Jeannie Nusbaum, Patricia Stacey, Joan Mullen, and Peggy Costigan, and the nurses and staff of Eight South at Einstein Hospital who showed that even chemotherapy can be carried out with humanity.

I have no idea of what is now in store for me, but if these fine people will keep on in their work, perhaps there will be time for another book. Or two. Or three.

Under these trying circumstances, Irving Howe showed himself to be, as I knew he would, a perfect friend. He read the manuscript in both its first and second drafts and was of enormous moral importance to me.

My editor, Dick Seaver, who responded magnificently to my first encounter with cancer, was just as supportive this time. He is a friend and a comrade as well as a colleague.

FOR MY HERO,
FANNIE LOU HAMER

for the forgotten ones

For the black men in my life, past and present—
my grandfather, Robert L. Harris; my father, Eddie Walter Jordan; and my husband, Howard Neil Davis

To the generations of freedom fighters, civil rights leaders, and social justice advocates who preceded me in the ongoing quest for liberation.
And especially to those who lost their lives in the struggle.
Without their sacrifice, my voice would not be possible.

Mom, our souls chose to come together for deeper healing.Thank you for sifting me this life and the experiences I needed to be of service to others. For teaching me generosity and play, and for celebrating my healing path. I love you.

For all the queer NDN foster kids out there.

For Water Protectors Everywhere
MNI WICONI!

There are too many theaters and organizations around the TUnited States to name who had a part in shaping these plays and my voice as a playwright. But I am deeply grateful to every member of our national theater community for their support.

The one name I must always list is Edd Hogan. He is my partner in all things. He told me to write plays when I thought I couldn't. He told me to do comedy when everyone asked for drama. He is my anchor so I can fly. Thank you, my love. We did it.

For Todd, Billeigh, Keri, Suzie, Akida, and Dane -C. W.

For Native youth, who deserve to attend school and enjoy sports as participants or fans without disrespect to their identity -T. S.

For Stacy, in memory of a spooky-fun night,
for everyone who feels haunted,
and for those searching for someone they love

TO THE ONE ABOVE,
TO THOSE BEFORE,
TO THOSE AHEAD,
TO THOSE WHO ARE NOW

For Michael
The flame and the source

For Mothers of Reckless Children

What wild and unearned luck to have been born to parents who believed that there were no limits to what a girl could do and who once let me shop for a coveted and overpriced Madame Alexander doll in a feverish haze.

I am so grateful on both counts.
This book is dedicated to them.

For Ife and Shari and Cataleya
and
She who is yet to come

To the memory of Ruth Wynn Owen and Cecil Dormand: inspirational teachers not only of English literature, but also of acting and the meaning of theater

For the stolen sisters of all Native Nations

For my dad.
- katherena vermette

Dedicated to Fran Kogan,
my first and most formidable metonr.
- Scott B. Henderson

Dedicated to my high school art teacher, Abbas Elias,
who made me believe that anything was possible.
- Donovan Yaciuk

For Missy and Melita
and
For all those
who have seen and heard what others can't

For my mother, who never said no to a book

To Ammi and Abu, to whom I owe everything
(and, let's be honest, to Billee too)

Para Noah, el latido de mi corazón
For Noah, my heartbeat.

FOR MY FLYING BUTTRESSES
CHELSEA AND KATHERINE
WHO BUILT ME FROM THE OUTSIDE IN

TO MY DEAR HELEN
who has demonstrated singular patience over the years in waiting for me to make things out of wood.

To my eldest,
Janet Baily,
and her husband, Ivan,
who are still building America
with their craftsmanship

To Susan
and
to a better future
for our children and grandchildren
and
their generations

For my father, a healer

TO MIKE,
WHO TAKES CARE
OF THE
OUTSIDE

To all the people courageous enough to sew a patch onto their clothes and embark on a mending life. And to our ma, the original bookmaker, whose love for books inspired us to make our own. And to our pa, the original mender, whose ingenious fixes sparked our appreciation for mending.

For what really does matter...
Jack, Mia, and Meghan

This book is dedicated to all the immigrants who are, with humility, grace, and a relentless sense of humor, constantly explaining themselves to others.
And to my daughters, in whose strong and beautiful hands I place the responsibility, joy, and privilege of carrying on our traditions. Don't fuck it up.

To my mother, Jennifer, who by nature of being born in England granted me an ethnicity

This book is for my parents, who first took me to the City
and for Harper Elyse, who will inheret it

For my dad, who introduced me to the pleasures of wandering in the Florida woods

For Anne,
best friend and best blonde

This book is dedicated to second chances—
Those who give them
And those who take them

For all Russells everywhere.

This book is dedicated to my amazing American parents, Princess and Lurch. I'm happy to use this book to let the workd know how much I appreciate y'all for raising me.

To Emily. Thank you for making me see there's a life in me—and it was dying to get out.

To my parents, for putting dessert on the table every night of the week (aka, for raising me right) and to Matt, for just about everything else.

For Brandy Bob Stall,
Who lived so fast,
He soared right past his day of dying,
And still has never been hungover,
though not, of course, for lack of trying.

This book is dedicated with my love to four extraordinary women:

To my mother, Chaucy Bennetts, who worked and raised her children with such strength and competence that I never questioned whether it was possible to combine a career and a happy family;

To my baby-sitter, Norma Mohair Ingram, who cared for my children with unfailing love and contributed so much to the wonderful people they have become;

To Emily Gerard, my strong, brilliant daughter, in hopes that she will realize all her dreams and challenge any barriers that stand in her way;

And in memory of Betty Friedan, the visionary who first opened my eyes.

FOR JOHN, GODDESS-MAKER

For Selva, the only one who knows what happens next

This book is dedicated to members of the Dick Pfaff Philosophical Group, which for the past quarter-century has gathered each Tuesday evening to test the laws of probability and sometimes, alas, the Chaos Theory.

For M.R.O.,
my sugar forever and always

This book is for Jeanne, though I didn't know it when I started—

For Josh and Annie—
my own Court of Dreams

For Dad:
From the very first bedtime stories to our daily chats, thank you for a lifetime of stories,

For Suzy:
No one brings me closer to how it really sounds.

To A—,
who fires my imagination

To the girls of the Middle East and North Africa:
Be immodest, rebel, disobey, and know you deserve to be free

for Nell, too marvelous for words

The following page has traditionally been reserved for the author's dedication. I am relinquishing this space so that you may use it for your own personal dedication.
This work is my gift to you and your gift... to another.

This book is dedicated to:

Chakra 1, Security:
My creative parents, Mildred and Henry Montano

Chakra 2, Relationships: 1+1=1

Chakra 3, Courage:
All performance artists and lovers of Living Art

Chakra 4, Compassion:
My guides Dr. Aruna Mehta, Dr. A. L. Mehta, Mother Mary Jane, and Sister Giotto

Chakra 5, Communication:
My grandmother Lena Kelly and all of my teachers

Chakra 6, Intuition:
My meditation Guru, Dr. Mishra (Shri Brahmananda Saraswati)

Chakra 7, Joy: ******** *****

for all prisoners of conscience in Iran—
past and present
&
in memory of the victims of the
1980s prison massacres

To my mom and dad, for this amazing life and their unwavering support each and every day of it. (I'm begging you to skip over the sex scenes when you read this.)

To a lifetime's worth of family, friends, and lovers, plus critters.

"...the past is not for living in. It is a well of conclusions from which we draw in order to act." - John Berger, Ways of Seeing

For Ann Leckie, who wanted a space opera in omniscient point of view

To the heroes of the pandemic—the scientists, the medical personnel, the frontline workers everywhere—thank you

For my mother, Sudha Latika Joshi, who championed my independece
For my father, Ramesh Chandra Joshi, who sang me the sweetest lullaby

To Margaret M. McMahon
With love that has spanned the continents

To those struggling with disabilities and mental illness, and the families who love them

Dedication
To my parents, Julian Beck and Judith Malina, who founded The Living Theatre and set in motion so much more.
To my children, Eden, Robin, and Tameron, who are already carrying forward the ideals described in this book.
And to the Children of Earth, who all deserve to inherit a peaceful and beautiful world.

To an unknown reader

For Susana, who always understands the sensuous grid

To Richard Prince, the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life.

For Grandma Ruth, who always reminded me to slow down.

For Molly O'Neill, who said, "There's a story here! Keep writing!"

For every teenager who imagines performing on Broadway one day.

For thirteen-year-old me, who needed a book like this one.

This book is dedicated to Edward Beitchman, my beloved uncle, who gave me my first concept of heaven. Every year, around the Thanksgiving table, he spoke of a night in the hospital when he awoke to see the souls of his departed loved ones sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him. I never forgot that story. And I never forgot him.

Everyone has an idea of heaven, as do most religions, and they should all be respected. The version represented here is only a guess, a wish, in some ways, that my uncle, and others like him—people who felt unimportant here on earth—realize, finally, how much they mattered and how they were loved.

To those who were with me when the need was greatest

A DEDICATION TO YOUR HEARTBROKEN SELF
WRITE DOWN ALL THE THINGS YOU NEED TO HEAR RIGHT NOW.
dear heartbroken self, you are the most wonderful, kind human & i love you...

For Manny, who makes it look easy

To JULIET and ROSAMOND.
remembering
the road to Stratford-on-Avon

the first love letter i ever wrote was sent to you. just as this book was written to talk to you. anthony—you have been my most intimate listener. i will love you always.

in the song of solomon there is this passage that reads: "i found him whom my soul loves. i held him and would not let him go." to holding on, to knowing again that moment of rapture, of recognition where we can face one another as we really are, stripped of artifice and pretense, naked and not ashamed.

For Leila Sales,
who has lit up the last five years,
and the five before them.
We dreamed it because it had already happened.

For my family, in all the best senses of that word.

For Annie Dillard, who advises otherwise

To Anyone

To my parents, Judy and Stanley Zabar—
You told me the world was my oyster and I could do anything.
This book—this pearl—is fot you.

To Ham, I'm so lucky I get to spend my life messing up in the kitchen with you

For Riley and Eloise
And for Eloise and Riley

(Like Gene and Roger, they both wanted their names to be first.)

For those who are born different
and feel they don't belong in this world,
it is because you were brought here
to help create a new one.

For everyone who's still here

For
the Daydream Nation

To those who've struggled to see themselves, and who struggle to see themselves still—I see you.

To Marian, unforgettable in her own way, who never cooks but then once made me a roasted onion in dark vinegar that I have never forgotten.
And to the memory of Mimi Sheraton, one of the great foodies, who advised me on this and other books. She will be missed.

For my mother, who gave everything to everyone

To my grandparents, who ignited my love for flavor

To all the bitches in my life
Thank for for the love and inspiration

In memory of three friends lost during the year I worked on this book:
Marcia Nasatir, Tom Perrotta, and Eddie Schoenfeld, who shared, respectively, my love of movies, tennis, and restaurants, and whose passion, intelligence, and humanity continue to guide and inspire me.

And for the food professionals who've trusted me to tell their stories.

For Caleb Nathaniel, my little charismatic

To anyone who's ever needed to run, this book is for you

For every girl and woman who wants to be a shield maiden

For Avery, George, Harris, James, and Miles. Earth is amazing—I'm so glad we all live here. -B.B.

For all the twentysomething women out there finding themselves, one of whom is my little sister.
Bebe, I promise you'll figure it all out one day and have your own whirlwind story to look back on.

To Kai and Sierra, may they wander, explore, and be fascinated by everything

To my twenty-six-year-old self.
Hang in there, hun.

For those who refuse to stand by

This book is dedicated to my parents, Rose and Isaac Miller, for introducing me to good food, the meaning of hospitality, and for supporting me on my journey.

This book is also dedicated to all Black women and femmes who steward the land, feed us, and bring us together with food and wine.

LAUREN: I dedicate this book to "Little Peggy Cassidy," who later became my grandmother. Her legacy of a love for books and people lives on through me.

ALYSSA: To Z & S for CEPing with me on a daily basis as we navigate imperfection, connection, and grace in relationship together.

To Mom and Dad, for getting me here
To Jordan, for seeing me through

For the mamas doing the damn thing—in spite of their rage and because of it

For Hannah and Elliot, who taught me how to care

For every queer and trans kid, I hope this helps

For Sharon, my is-and-always-will-be

for Nick
—totally feathered up, living on the dub side

TO ELEANOR
THANK YOU FOR THE JELLYFISH. I LOVE YOU.

To both the well-known and unknown who have made great sacrifices for the masses

This book is dedicated to my mom, Karen Lohman.

She's my first reader, my copyeditor, and my formatter of thousands of footnotes—as well as my champion, my supporter, and my advocate. She's an incredible woman and I wouldn't be half the person I am today without her.

I love you, Mom.

I dedicate this book to intersex kids, of all ages (and Bad Bunny)

TO BOO BOO THE FOOL1

1 SEE PAGE 65

To Greg: This too shall pass ... and that's why I don't want to miss a moment of this life with you.

To my new son, Derek: I'm so glad that I didn't let my anxiety stop me from living out the most incredible adventure by welcoming you into the world.

And to my Siamese cat, Mochi: Because more books should be dedicated to our pets, as they're the ultimate antidote for our anxiety. Mochi is no exception.

For every Nesta out there—
climb the mountain

And for Josh, Taran, and Annie,
who are the reason I keep climbing my own

To the readers who look up at the stars and wish

to my mother and my late father,
to all my relations across time and space,
to every soul who has known, lost, or sought home.

This book is dedicated to those remembering/trying to remember to love themselves.

For the anime club presidents, theater kids, dungeon masters, gay besties, and wild dreamers—you deserve everything and beyond

To the youth. To the Bronx. For those of us who don't bite our tongues.

For Final Girls everywhere

This one's for the birds

To my grandparents, thank you for showing me how beautiful love can be across cultural lines.

I dedicate this book to my grandchildren, Tariq, Idris, and Nur, all born in the twenty-first century, who will hopefully see the end of this hundred years' war.

For anyone who's ever cried on the subway

To Shahnaz Ahmed, who showed me a mother's love is enough

For my two dads, a couple of cool motherfuckers.

To Richard and Mary, and Ros and Stan, for enlightening me about our treatment of animals;
To Renata for sharing our decision to stop eating animals, and for our wonderful journey together;
And to the many, many good people striving to bring about a better world for all sentient beings.

To my girls (who called me Gilderoy)

DEDICATION
This one's for the reader that declared in a Facebook group that she uses ctrl + f to search for the word "cock" at the start of a story to make sure she doesn't get tricked into reading a "closed door" romance by mistake. Shine bright, you smutty diamond, the world needs more women like you.
(It's in here 14 times, by the way, which ain't half bad.)

For my mom, whose loving hands raised and fed me

To caregivers, paid and unpaid

For all who have weathered loss, for all who have endured, and for all who make it possible for others to survive

For my family
& for everyone who's built their own

For Kirk, Melissa, John, Claudia—
I see the past and the future in your beautiful faces

dedication
Per Mimmi di Mamma—che è arrivato e ha rubato tutte le condizioni che avevo sempre posto all'amore
To Mimmi di Mamma—who came along and stole away all the conditions I had ever placed on love

for Q
and Flame
my survival partners

For the kids

For Pauline Kow. Okay, I'll write it.

To the space-settlement community.

You welcomed us and you shared your wisdom. Also, your data. We worry that many of you will be disappointed by some of our conclusions, but where we have diverged from your views, we haven't diverged from your vision of a glorious human future.

To Ken, Thank you for teaching me how to write

for Cormac
the world is your oyster,
let me pry open its jaws

For my parents, who let me read whatever I wanted, wherever I wanted, whether it was socially appropriate or not.

And for Marcus, my favorite Texas tour guide and partner in all things. You're my sour cream.

To anyone who has ever been alone on Christmas: I see you, I love you.

And to the Mangy Ravens: thank you for giving me the kind of friendship worth writing books about

For every girl who has ever wanted to go somewhere

Esther, this is the one passage in the book where I can't ask your help, can't get your insights and razor editing, and it's starting to sound a bit long-winded and unshaped, and I'm sure you'd cut this whole first sentence, wouldn't you?

Anyway, I will love you always and this book is for you.

To my darling Sei'ne—
my joy, my laughter, my favorite storyteller, and my past.

For Liam and Eli,
In the hope that you will come to know and value Mexico as I do.

Dedicated to Mark Steven Adler, Kevin's beloved uncle, who managed to send a birthday card nearly every year of his 30-plus years living on and off the streets in Santa Cruz, California.

This book was published within a week of November 1, 2023, on what would have been his 70th birthday. It is for you, Mark, and for the 582,462 other uncles, aunts, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, friends, and neighbors experiencing homelessness each night in the United States.

May we each take time to hear your stories and act, before it's too late.

To Patrick. I love you so big.

For everyone, everywhere, who's been stuch at home and dreaming of adventure

For his gorgeous taste in music, his generous intellect, and his killer sense of humor, this book is dedicated to Danny Fields, forever the coolest guy in the room.

And to Arturo Vega—the most optimistic, jubilant, and fun pal anyone could wish for. See you real soon!

For Kevan and Kate, dynamic agent-and-editor duo, who did everything they could to make sure this story became a book. You have both taught me so much about women supporting women, and I feel immeasurably lucky to have you in my corner.

For younger me, who wanted to be his first choice.

To my husband Daniel whom I love with all my heart
(and because he's a firstborn so everything has to be about him).

And in loving memory of Mary Beth Bergum
(March 18, 1985-October 6, 2022)

This book is dedicated to the father I never knew...
and the mother I did.

For Victoria Buckley Curran, who has heard every word

This book is dedicated to all my hijabi sisters. You are so strong.

For my readers.
I treasure every one of you.

To our Ashleys (Lindemann and Meredith) for being the Addisons to our Winnies.
(And to Joey Fatone for being the Joey to our Fatone.)

For my bashert.

To Norah and Éliane, in the hope that our world will be freer than ours
To Tamer

For my mother, Flossie, and all the other smart mothers in the world

For queer communities past, present, and future

And for Lee & Essie, whose love cannot possibly fit on a dedication page

To my parents, for encouraging my big-as-a-whale-shark dreams, and to Kathleen, for helping me reach them. - JK

To my Baobab friends.- MAM

This book is dedicated to all the bitches in my life, from the ones who raised me to those who continuously raise me up.
To my partner of nine years, who has always watered my roots and not once been threatened by my growth.
And to you, may you become the bitch you were born to be.

For Francie, my whole-souled partner in all things

To Everett.
Find what makes your heart beat fast,
and spend your life immersed in it.

This book is for Brandon, who saw me and loved me, even when I could not see or love myself, and for Joshua, the first to show me that love is a living link to the dead.

For my father, who made the journey.

This story is dedicated to the women and children who suffered time in Ireland's mother and baby homes and Magdalen laundries.
And for Mary McCay, teacher.

This book is dedicated to the survivors of the drug war, named and unnamed, who have chosen to bear witness. Without their courage, this record would not exist.

FOR "MATT," WHO WAS MY ROCK THROUGHOUT THIS ENTIRE PROCESS,
FOR MY LOVING PARENTS, WHO SHOWED ME THE IMPORTANCE OF STAYING DOWN-TO-EARTH,
AND FOR ELEANOR, WHO TAUGHT ME TO FLY

To Diana, through friendship, failure, and cake.

To Java, for her support through pandemic and publishing.

To Dash, my favorite movie fan.

For me.
For you.
For us.
Even for them.

For my children, who give me faith in the future

To my aunt and uncle,
Sara and George Asher,
who saw to it that I was not an only child

For the music makers and the dreamers of dreams. For the movers and shakers of the world, forever, it seems.
(Inspired by Ode, by Arthur O'Shaughnessy)

For Anna and Robin,
who make my world,
and the world, a better place

For my three favorite shark taggers, all saltwater borne:
Silas William Wayne, Saylor Grace, and Emerson Elora White

In memory of Gloria Safier
She lived.

This book is a tribute to the memory of R. W. Apple, Jr., Francis X. Clines, Janet Elder, Richard J. Meislin, David Rosenbaum, Jeffrey Schmalz, Robin Toner, and countless other reporters and editors at The New York Times who did not live to see the transformation of the newspaper where they made their lives.

It is dedicated to Benjamin.

In memory of Sigal Barsade, who saw the potential in everyone

I did this for the rats.

For the people I love, who tolerate my nonsense on a regular basis.

For Mum, who has supported every ridiculous dream l've ever pursued.

For Dad,who taught me how to be brave in the face of darkness.

For Jenny, who was my very first therapist.

& for all the Barely Functional Adults out there, who ought to know they're not alone.

Dedicated to my beautiful children and all the women in my family who came before me. Thank you for your love.

For Jamie, my sister, best friend, and toughest critic

"This is literally the worst thing I've ever tasted!" - Jamie Cohen, a hater of rose water and cadamom, upon trying my Havdalah Snickerdoodles (page 258)

For my editor, Mary Lee Donovan, who cheerfully helps with Moody Days, Multiple Deadlines, Melt-Downs, and other Mega-Disasters. - M. M.

To Maribeth Bush, whose "can do" spirit inspires so many! - P. H. R.

Dedicated to NORML and everyone who has fought against the war on drug users.

for
r. remmey
bumstead iv,
with love.

i am thinking
of you every time
i cook,

which is to say,

always.

To my mother and father, Myrle and Ira Nelson, who blazed a musical trail for me and Sister Bobbie to follow

For Helen and Bill Roush, Grandparents Extraordinaire, whose babysitting duties and support while I wrote the first book helped make the series possible

For Sheryl, Isla, and Nutmeg (the dog).
When we're together, everything's right.

To every kid who speaks up and stands up for what is right

This first one's for Mum, for every meal you put on the table.
Thank you x

For Ellen Esposito and Mitch Grashin, best parents in the world.
(In my o-pun-ion.)

To Dan
There's no one I'd rather share a tin with.

In memory of Jon and Mary Louise McDonald - M. M.
To Diana Gaikazova, who declared independence and is making history of her own - P. H. R

For my boys, who are the loves of my life

For Frank Herbert, who read the early drafts of Dune to his family, and to his loving wife of nearly four decades, Beverly Herbert, who always provided wise counsel

I wish I could dedicate something a little more like Walden or Leaves of Grass to my wife, Sis, for the patience and help she's given me, but all I can offer her is this little book on construction and design.

She and Dave Deppen did more than any others to launch me into a gentler architecture, and for that I'm very grateful.

In memory of my great-aunt, Jane West. A woman of infinite compassion, who taught me to love history, nature, and stories.

With thanks to all of the animals from whom I have learned.

For Dad, who followed his hopes and his sojourners' dreams to America, and for Lucas, my son, the unseen shadow. Chinatown will always be a place in our hearts.

To everyone who was there... and survived

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book has acknowledgments, and it should be so. After all, just because a few people's names appear on the cover, are they the only ones responsible for the book's existence? Yes. Except maybe for Theresa Agrillo, the poor woman who had to listen to thousands (maybe billions!) of our radio shows so she could type up the transcripts. Talk about punishment.

DISCLAIMER
Names, details, and origins of phone calls have been changed to protect the innocent. Not to mention the guilty.

Dedication
For every girl who has ever been punished for wanting to be loved.
I hope you know you deserve the world.

To Friendship
(personal and civic)

To Manju Parikh
And all the visionary women who continue to work for social justice

Because right things happen at the wrong time.

To our kids, the best teachers we've ever had. Without you, we wouldn't laugh nearly as much about puberty... or anything else in life.

And to our invaluable interns, congratulations on being published authors!
Samson Bennett
Ber Bennett
Amanda Bortner
Teddy Cavanaugh
Peggy Helman
Isabella Huang
Talia Natterson
Ry Natterson
Cadence Sommers
Rebecca Sugerman

To L, and to B & R,
Who make it all seem worth it.
Who make it all worth it.

For my beloved kids:
Owen and Emma and Lulu;
may they lead many happy lives

To my wife: I weave these words for you and your silky laughter.
To my beloved children, and to their dreams.
To my parents, messengers of wisdom.

To all the versions of ourselves the world never gets to see [hold for applause]

This book is dedicated to the historians.
There are many thousands of them all over the world. Some sit in libraries, hunched over ancient manuscripts, trying to understand dead languages in mysterious hieroglyphs. Others kneel on the ground sifting earth on the sites of ruined buildings, seeking fragments from lost civilizations. Yet more read through interminably dull government papers dealing with long-forgotten political crises. They are relentless in their search for the truth.
Without them we would not understand where we come from. And that would make it even more difficult to figure out where were going.

For the strong looking for safe spaces to be weak

For the moms that are raising boys.
Best of luck.

For anyone who has sought refuge in the prehistoric past in order to escape the present.

To all the people who think differently

I dedicate this book to the Muggles who got me here.

To you, and your curiosity that brought you here.
Oh, and to Mum, for always bringing me back down to earth with a smile.

To my dad, thank you for pushing me to write, even when I struggled to find the words.
Thanks for the mistakes you made which I turned into art.
No matter where life's journey takes me, for better or for worse, all roads lead back to you.
But please, whatever you do,
DO NOT READ THIS BOOK.

To all the people who loved me...
To all the people who hated or hurt me...
To all the people who had my back and looked out…
You know who you are.
Thank you.
I dedicate this book to you. Without you, I wouldn't be Leslie Fucking Jones.
I love you Willie, Diane, and Keith.

For my kokum, who made all my writing possible

For my parents, Rob and Andee Feder, who taught me not to take any shit

For Sophia, a devilish good companion

For The Mitten and for Lion

For Robert Stephens
My great-uncle who died at the Dozier School for Boys in Marianna, Florida, in 1937.
He was fifteen years old.

Patricia Gloria Stephens Due
1939-2012
I miss you, Mom.

John Dorsey Due, Jr.
Freedom Lawyer
Thank you for collaborating with me, Dad.

For Jason, you always have been and will eternally be worth my full measure.

For Leo. My Highwayman, my sunshine, and my single drop of rain. I miss you every day.

For my children
Phil Dayn Wilmon Bush and Rainy Dawn Ortiz.
For then, now, and forever.

For the women who came before me,
and for Violet

This book is dedicated to Joanna, who first taught me about mercy and compassion.

For my mother's maternal grandmother, who, a century ago, cut off her hair and sold it so her children could eat, and who passed along to me the power to persist; and for my mother's paternal grandmother, who was born in the nineteenth century with a veil over her face and healed her son's wife by chanting indecipherable prayers over her body and who passed along to me the power to see
AND
For my father's people, who despite subjugation by the British Empire, passed along to me the power to know
AND
For Catherine Clinton, whose unwavering mentorship lighted my way

This book is for my fairy-tale lovers. For those who feel the call of the dark, the monstrous, and the mysterious. For those who know they could never be happy with Prince Charming... and want to meet the Beast.

xoxo
Sophie Lark

For all the former child detectives
(You're never gonna be as good at escape rooms as you think you are)

To my Grandma.
Carol, I think you'll hate this more than the first one.
ButI love you more than ever.
And close this book right now.
You need not venture any further.

This one is for all my Love Larks who have struggled with mental health. Writing this book was intense therapy for me, dredging up some deep hurts from a long time ago.

I just want to tell you that every part of you, the things that bring you pleasure and the things that bring you pain, the parts of yourself you're most proud of and the parts that seem like your own worst enemy eating you alive from the inside...it all makes up your mind, and your mind is beautiful and perfect because it's the only one like it.

You are irreplaceable. You are one of a kind. You are art.

Sophie Lark

This novel is dedicated to all the teachers
who told me I could always amount to anything,
and to my family and friends.

For my family, both chosen and those who didn't have a choice

for all who practice(d) abolitionist futures and
for the future generations who will live them

For my husband, Sean, without whom this book and this extraordinary life would not have been possible

This book is dedicated to my mother,
Nancy Milne Haff (1947-2010),
who from the beginning to the
end, taught me it was okay to cry.
BRANDON STOSUY

This book is dedicated to all the criers: thank you for your service.
ROSE LAZAR

The things I've written about are happening to people all the time.
And when they happen to you,
you believe nobody knows and nobody cares.
But I know and I care, and I've written this book for you.

To every marginalized person who survived a PWI—we made it.

The book is dedicated to my daddy, Elder Willie James Hersey.
When I was child and wanted to travel to the moon, thank you for buying me luggage from Sears department store.
You are my greatest Ancestor.

Having healthy boundaries has changed my life in ways that I didn't know were possible. This book is dedicated to those of us who are gaining freedom through unapologetic, healthy boundaries.

For my mother
Thank you for teaching me and so many children to read

For the girlhood
and for my large and imperfect family with love

"Without imperfection, neither you nor I would exist." - Stephen Hawking

TO THE THREE WHO MADE THE DIFFERENCE

JOHN W. BROWN
who taught me courage

EDYTHE KENAN BROWN
who taught me to fight

&

MARY KENAN HALL
again,
who showed me how to part the sea

undying love

For all lovers bown the color of earth.
This book is for us.

SHECHECHEYANU-
For the people who kept me alive to reach this day, and didn't even know it:
Rabbi Hayyim Kassorla
Andrew Melzer
Mark Meyerhoff
Elissa Kaplan
Phyllis Greene
Judy Treby, z'tl and Family
Adrian Durlester
Arnold and Gayle Brodsky
Rabbi David Shneyer
Meirav and Elah Levenson and Family
Rabbi Michelle Fisher
Lisa Pressman
Lisa Goodman
Rabbi Johanna Potts
Avi West, z'tl
Hazzan Enrique Ozur Bass
Rabbi Deborah Cohen
Sidney Stark
Razi Vichak z'tl
Dr. Marcie Cohen Ferris and Bill Ferris
Jennifer and Nathan Wender
Rabbi Yisroel Francis z"l

For those who've been with me since the beginning.
Shout-out to Nicola and David Yoon, my favorite neighbors with the biggest hearts.
They show me time and time again what love should look like.

For Eva and Solomon Nesser, and others who wore the numbers on their arms, and for all who still mourn them.

For Nancy Belle Graves,
and all of us who are her daughters.

یکی بود یکی نبود To Iranians in America

To my husband and soul mate, Jim. He died
April 5, 2021, but has not left me.

To Sam.
I will battle
one million Ender Dragons,
a hundred million Creepersm
twenty Cave Spiders,
and a Zombie Pigman,
for you.

To Jarmila Hruban. From a small village in Southern Bohemia, to a refugee camp in Germany, to the South Side of Chicago—the arc of her life's journey makes her my "eleventh great."— R. H. H.

To my wife Jan. In the words of Bob Dylan, "Without your love, I'd be nowhere at all."—W. L.

To Albert Einstein and all of those who he described as "passionately curious"

Dedicated to
Everybody scared as I used to be

To Karen,
whose spirit, wisdom, and inspiration
will always go with me.

FOR TUPAC SHAKUR (1971-1996)
a lover whose love was often deliberately misunderstood but who will live in the sun and the rains and whose name will echo through all the winds whose spirit will flower and who like Emmett Till and Malcolm X will be remembered by his people for the great man he could have become and most especially for the beautiful boy that he was

For readers, books, and the joy they bring

For Bret Easton Ellis,
whose generosity will never cease to warm my heart;
and for Paul Edward McGloin,
muse and Maecenas,
who is tthe dearest friend I will ever have in this world.

in gratitude for
the family we are given
the families we are choosing
+ ideas of home with room enough for both

To the women of the 1960s generation
(Were we not the best?)

For my family,
which includes
you,
dear reader

[below an illustration of a sewing thimble]

To the novelists who deliver the
eloquence of the edge of the world
rather than stammers from the psychiatrist's bin.
Roddy Doyle
Nadine Gordimer
Ismail Kadare
Thomas Keneally
Maurice Shadbolt
Tim Winton

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to the keepers of cottages—both to the protectors of charming houses that have provided hospitality and pleasure to generations of southerners, and to the builders of new ones that honor the lessons of these lovely old houses.

THIS BOOK IS ALSO DEDICATED to the memory of Gayle Fenning, whose spirit dwells in a dear old cottage home in the hearts of all who knew her.

for you, my family—
quilted together across dimensions and times—
who taught me how to tell my STORY and keep SURVIVING.

I love you ♥

To everyone who thinks they're done

To Vik Lovell
who told me dragons did not exist,
then led me to their lairs

For mad black women everywhere, and for my father, Osei Owusu

To the victims and the survivors of the Holocaust
and to those who preserve and tell their story

"Remember the days of yore, learn the lessons of the generation that came before you."—Deuteronomy 32:7

For Jairus, whose hands I'll recognize in heaven.

To my grandfather Harry Freedman, a tailor with the spirit of a scholar

The nature of this art is lonely: the writer puts forth a vision and hopes some other person will carry it forward; yet writers, like all people, need other humans. I have been fortunate that Gloria Haffer is my friend and attorney. I am even luckier that as my friend she is always on my side but as my attorney she stands solidly behind her own judgment. The twenty years she has been a force in my life and career have been good, fun, and productive and my only hope is that we will go through the next twenty or so years together.

To the memory of Stuart Berg Flexner (March 22, 1928-December 3, 1990), who listened to America, heard America talking, and brought the people's history back to them—in their own words

I hear the sound I love, the sound of
the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined,
fused for following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city,
sound of day and night...
hear the chorus...
—Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

To my wonderful son Clifton Louis West
who combats daily the hidden injuries of race
with the most potent of weapons—
love of self and others

Of course I dedicate this to the two women who truly touch my world every day: my beautiful wife, Jasmina, who has changed my life and made me a better person, and our beautiful baby girl, Issabella.—CM

In memory of my dad, who taught me to try everything; and for my two favorite picky eaters, Mom and Jessica.—МН

to the trans girls of New York

Dedication

This book is primarily dedicated to the gentle giants of our planet who are knocking on humanity's doorsteps, trying to awaken us—not to save their own species, but rather to prevent the collapse of the human civilization. I also dedicate this book to every single non-human, four-legged, feathered, and the tiniest of critters who appeared on my path to guide me. In addition, I honour those members of the human family who pushed me to delve deeper and connect with my shadow self, and those who drew out the very best in me.

Together, they enabled the writing of this book and gave me the license to shine a light on the myths and biases that are preventing human beings from conscious evolution. In this, I hope that my endeavours have served their small part in illuminating the interconnectedness of the sacred web of life.

This book is dedicated to everyone who gets lost
[sketched drawing of a tea set resting on a maple leaf]

For Stephen, who always knows when chocolate needs to be administered
(and who says his favorite mystery is my brain)

For everyone engaged in the hard, painstaking work described in these pages.
For Nir, as ever.

For Kate,
who said yes

To the Sphinx,
and Dorothy
and Ralph

To John,
For helping me figure out Bean,
And for loving her

For Alvin Davis,
the telepath,
the hoodlums' friend

for my mother:
your trip to Italy

For all those who are caught in the middle and pulled all ways
I dedicate this novel with love and respect

I dedicate this book to queer brilliance and resilience, and to all social movements and activists over time and around the world.

This book is dedicated to all of Jeffrey Epstein's survivors.

Especially Michelle Licata, Courtnet Wild, Virginia Guiffre, and Jena-Lisa Jones.

With special thanks to Michael Reiter and the late Joe Recarey.

For my parents, who set me on this path.
For my teachers, who keep me on this path.
For my colleagues and students, who keep me honest on this path.

To my entire family! My four amazing kids. My husbamd, Kyle. My brother. My parents, for fostering my love of reading from the start. And to the janitor. You'll see what I mean.

For those on their own journey

To my teacher, Nani Bala Barua (Dipa Ma), who went through so much loss and came to the power of boundless love.

Dedicated to those who are unfolding the power of the arts

With boundless gratitude to His Holiness and Greta

In memory of Frank Barone,
1947-2020
dear friend and Dharma brother

Now you know, or perhaps you don't—
and either way,
in the words of the nameless New York metaphysician,
"What it is is; it is what it is"

For my family, of course.
For Nora.
And for Jack, who is just as she said he would be.

For my scattered sisters.

For my mother and in memory of my father, who loved a good map.
And with love and thanks to Jan, who brought my passport when it mattered most.

For all who march to their own beat

To Hatty, innocent bystander

For Ruby Barrett. The beginning and end of it is, having you as my friend makes everything better.

for anyone who has ever left,
or wanted to

In memory of three Eliot readers:
Rhoda Press
Walt Litz
Helen Gardner

Dedicated to Selfhood

I would like to dedicate Binding 13 to anyone who's ever had a dream they dared to chase with insatiable hunger and drive. This story is for you.

This book is dedicated to my friends and colleagues in the digital revolution.
Thank you for considering my challenges constructively, as they are intended.
Thanks to Lilly for giving me yearning, and Ellery for giving me eccentricity, to Lena for the mrping, and to Lilibell, for teaching me to read anew.

My mother taught me that midwives are heroes.
My sister let me witness the miracle.
My husband sat beside me and held my hand.
For these reasons, and ten thousand more, this novel is dedicated to them.

For my family, the diaspora on which the sun shall never set

To my mom, and all those who have gone before, may they rest in the infinite peace of love.
To all of us who remain, may we alchemize our pain and heal our hearts.

To Mom and Dad
I'm incredibly lucky to have you both as my rocks. Thank you for always believing in me, and please don't read the sex scenes.

For anyone who took a little while to figure it out
and anyone who's still figuring it out—it's never too late.

For my beautiful mom, Deborah Inez Detering.
Again.
It's such an honor to be your daughter.
How can I ever thank you enough?

To Dora Kislig, beloved grandmother and vanilla pretzel queen

I dedicate this book to my mother, Phyllis de Urrea (1916-1990).
She was known in the Second World War as Phyllis McLaughlin.
She served with Jill Pitts Knappenberger and Helen Anderson, crew of the ARC Clubmobile Cheyenne, traveling the roads and locations visited in this novel.
RIP, heroes.

And this one is especially for Cinderella, who traveled thousands of miles and visited many museums and warehouses and ruins and archives and countries and crematoria with me. And who helped me interview survivors and experts. And who read a hundred drafts.
Everything, always.

ALSO FOR EMILY,
Who, for some amazing reason, gives me her love.

To Kaan, Jeremy, and Bill,
My three oldest friends—one thing I won't rethink

In memory of Marina Bokelman, second mother, healer, folklorist, embroiderer

For the 108,328 ancestors still held by institutions, and those working to bring them home

A writer is nothing without the people who take her words, characters and stories into their hearts.
My twentieth novel is dedicated to the devoted readers, booksellers and librarians who have made possible this writing life.
Some of you have been with me from book one— you know who you are!
Thank you for joining me on this wild, wonderful ride.

To Nelson, who was worth every risk

For all the angry girls who were told they were too much.

For Rron—you make the real world better than a fictional one

TO VINCE,
who is my home.

To the memory of my mom, who taught me that food is love. It was the first, and best, magic I ever knew.

And to the memory of my sister, who came before me and illuminated the way.

For Laura, Brandon, and Adam
How lucky I am to be stuck with you

Again, for Susan—whose friendship changed my life for the better and gave this book its heart.

FOR JACOB HENRY,
the best thing I ever baked

[black and white photo of a newborn baby]

IN TOKEN
OF MY ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS,
This book is Inscribed
TO
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

To my dead and honored Mother, whose life, no less than her pen, has been devoted to the welfare of others, this little book is affectionately dedicated.

To those whole love language is words of affirmation. Your praise kink is safe with me (and Julian Lopez).

To my best friend, Chris. Thanks for always taking jokes way too far with me, and giving me so much material for my books.
Also, you're super hot. So that's awesome too.

To my Grandmother Alice, Grandmother Lillian, Grandmother Cornelia, Grandma Bertha, Great-grandmother Ida Belle, Great-grandmother Rachael, Great-grandmother Missouri, Great-grandmother Anna Christian, Great-aunt Margaret, and to all of the greats and grandmothers whose handiwork made our survival possible

To Ingrid.
I was waiting for you.

For Mom (1959-2021)
And for all the women who raised me

In memory of Spencer Grogan. He would have loved this hemp caper. Rest in peace, brother.

To Judith, who has long heard the music

For Usha, Monica, and Charley.
Without you, I have no past.

For Manuela. Without you, I have no present.

For Isaiah, and for Bella. Without you, I have no future.

For Margarita
No amount of time would have been enough.

To Tim. This book wouldn't exist if you hadn't told me to send that email I was waffling over. Love you!

For my father, Michael Freedland, 1934-2018
His memory is a blessing.

for LITTLE CHMURA, who spirits my daydreams to life,
in exchange for the rare gift you so readily share,
and for the magic you have given me:
Here, have this book.

For my mother.
And for Nicolás,
light among all this light.

To the one in four

For my mother and her mothers before her.
For my daughters and their daughters after them.

To my mother, Juanita Bay, whose travel stories, love of Black history, and fierce critical intelligence guided my path

I dedicate this book to me.
We did it, Jen.

For Aaron and to crafting your own life's beat

To Jim Brown, my former radio cohost and UFC broadcast partner, who taught me so much about race in America. I grew up hearing about his legendary exploits at the bar my family owned on Manhasset, Long Island, where Jim also grew up. Getting to work with Jim for over thirty years was a great honor, but the greatest honor of all was getting to call myself his friend. Jim, I know you would have loved this project, and my only regret is that you're not around to read it. Without your influence, I never would have been able to tackle it. Rest in peace.

For all of the sufferers out there.
You know who you are.

To all the hamsters I've loved and lost
For The Speck, The Scrap, The Moose, The Witch, and The Patriarchy

To my mother, Kathleen, and all those of the war generation.

To my boys, who are my everything. - Tracy
To Rob, who has promised to explore space with me should the opportunity ever arise! - Nina

To the students of my freshman seminar class, who taught me to look anew at architecture through youthful eyes

For my father, who mailed me my Body Count DC liner notes from Virginia.

To those trying to discover themselves in a world that can be unyielding and unforgiving, this book is for you. May this story remind you that the answers you seek are not beyond you but buried within. Keep unearthing the brilliance and beauty that is you.

For John, my ever-patient Mayhem Consultant, because he is also a writer and he understands!

For Mommo and Daddo, I hope it's not too spicy for you.

TO LOS ANGELES AND ALL THE WACKY, WONDERFUL PEOPLE WHO MAKE THIS CITY THE NOURISHING, CREATIVE, AND LIFE-ENRICHING PLACE THAT I AM SO VERY LUCKY TO CALL HOME

For Annalee, who gave me a ride on their starship

To my parents, who loved cooking and eating - Jeffrey

For Anne and Liam, my two favorite dumpings - Kevin

For Wu Juhua 吳菊華
my paternal grandmother, who became a poet in 2020

Here is one of her poems:
万里晴空满天明，彩灯映照满城春。
黃鹤吐翠扬柳俏，江水含情樱花红。
武汉古道游人织，武昌寺院叩芳馨。
最佳春雨催时节，普降甘霖万物生。

In memory of Tian Suzheng 田素贞
my maternal grandmother

To those who want to speak up but don't know how

To whom it concerns (Silvestre, Alejandro, and Tere),
and to whomsoever if may concern

For the first of their name heiresses of nothing,
the different, and the wandering.

to the old you,
from the old me

For my parents & grandparents—
the living, late & all of you great

For Ronald, who told me where the wild things are.
And to all those who lives were affected when the catfish rolled.

To all the families who lived in the Louis H. Pink Houses in East New York, Brooklyn, from 1960-1970 —love from your paperboy

For Nola, one of the lights of my life, who will hopefully inhabit a world that's far more loving than this one.

for girls
with stories to tell
and secrets to keep

For Gillian Pensavalle and Patrick Hinds, who would never go to the murder mansion in the countryside

To Brendan Hay, everything I know about romance is because of you.

For Brianna Hill, who has always been there. I still can't make you un-my sister, and I'd never want to try.

For Tonya, proof that this is all one wonderful
simulation. I'm the luckiest NPC in the game.

To my partner of more than thirty-eight years, Terry Erickson.

You have been a steadfast presence in my life through sickness and health and without you, this book could never have been penned.

To the memory of both my brave grandmothers, Dora Liebling Yevish and Zelda "Jennie" Gluchowsky Schulman, who taught me to see the world through the lens of story

for the ones who feel like home

For my mother and everyone else who got on the boat. I hope you're where you want to be.

For Joe, who made me believe in fate. And for all the weird gay kids who grew up weirder and gayer out of spite.

For my children, grandchildren, and my husband, who ate all the cake.

For the first word I ever spoke, the first word I ever wrote: Mom

FOR MOM
i'm sorry, please forgive me,
thank you, i love you.
-ho'oponopono cleansing prayer

For Adam and for Isa, without whom
there would be none of it

for Edward, restless

For my wonderful mother, who made reading irresistible.

To my favorite Hamiltonian, Kath: When I write parts I hope are funny, it's your laugh I hear in my head.

For the journalists and citizens who #HoldTheLine

In appreciation of the cows and sheep who entertained David, Dylan, Mia, Michael, Eletta, Lenore, George, and Gene. -L.C.

In memory of Don Dennis, who many years ago gave this artist his first job. -J.L.

Dedicated
—never undedicated—
to my beloved wife Helen

To everyone, everywhere, fighting for their rights.

For my lifelong mentor, Dr. Wayne Dyer, who said, "When you have the choice between being right and being kind, choose to be kind"
Ephesians 4:32
-K.D.

[Two doodle-style illustrations of smiling bees]

for my family and friends on the prairies

To dearest Rae, my life partner, who saw me before I could see myself and who loved all of me long before I could love myself at all. None of my work would exist without her. And to the children we brought forth together—Daniel, Aaron, and Hannah—who light up our world.

For Ishmael and Colette
Keep looking up with me

To my mom, who let me stay up late reading whatever I wanted, including lots of Stephen King, V.C. Andrews, and Leo Tolstoy,

and to my dad, who showed me Night of the Living Dead when I was way too young and taught me to love all stories regardless of their genre

To the trees and all living things
that call the forst home

For Maya Ziv, who goes into the quicksand with me every time

For Rosalie, on dry land and elsewhere

To my heavenly Father, for being the ultimate Redeemer

To Lucille, Dick, and Bernette, who are in their own special way partly responsible for I Am Ruby Bridges. May they rest in God's Perfect Peace! - R.B.

To every child who was told that they do not belong. - N.S.

TO
Rachel and Meyer Ziskind
Gruna and Nathan Remen
Sarah (Gladys) and Isidore (Ray) Remen
for the blessing of life,

AND
Esther Newberg
Sisan Petersen Kennedy
Amy Beth Hertz
for the chance to bless the life in others

To the archivists, librarians, teachers, and fellow historians who give us a better, and more accurate, understanding of our nation's past.

for Betty and John Mersereau
best friends and
unseverest critics

Like all my work, this book is firstly dedicated to my mum. Thank you for defying all the odds.

I would also like to dedicate this book to any trans person who is confused, questioning, or in the middle of change. This book is to honor that state as a place that still deserves dedication.

I love us.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE WOMEN WHO'VE EVER BEEN TOLD THAT THEY'RE TOO MUCH. Maybe you're too loud, too crass, too open, too bawdy. You overshare too often, say too many bad words, you're too weird, or too emotional. To the women who, in their quiet moments, still think back on their social interactions and wonder if they really are too much, if they should feel embarrassed, or ashamed.

You are fucking incredible. You are my people. Don't you dare dilute yourselves to make yourselves more palatable. You are all heart and fire.

For Mom and Dad,
who encouraged the passion
and tried to understand everything else

For Kathy,
who taught me love through laughter
but still loves me in my quiet

This book is lovingly dedicated to Jennifer Dailey, a victim of cystic fibrosis a lovely flower, plucked up by the angels after fourteen years on this earth, March 12, 1997. Dear Jennifer, your family and friends will miss you. May your walk in heaven be joyous!

To Sig
who
when we were children
helped me to conceive myself
and as we grew to maturity
helped me to realize that self
we had conceived

To all the victims of that interminable night: those who were disapeared, the survivors, the tortured, and the witnesses who had the courage to speak out.

To Roberto Scarpinato, whose capacity to fall in love with the destiny of others is a source of inspiration and hope.

For pulmonologist Dr. Tze-Ming (Benson) Chen, who saved my life after Def Con 2014

For Tristan, who always pulled me out of my secret hiding spots
For Heath, who married me even though I couldn't tell him where I was hiding.
For Holmes, who hid in my belly.

For the good daughters
and for Tess, always

For Nell and Maddy and Sylvie and Nyxi and
Ali May and Shiloh and Sasha
who have tolerated my stern eye all of
their lives and accepted my love

For
Diane Dixon Tempest
who understood landscape as refuge

To Alex and Chloe,
and to Dr. Rob Ashton,
who created them with me
and adored them as much as I do.

For my darling Dad. He always believed that I'd write a book one day, and I'm just sorry I didn't do it in his lifetime. This one is for you.

For my mom, who gave me a Miss America lunch box in kindergarten and had no idea what she started.

This book goes out to zucchini bread everywhere.

This book is an offering to our white sisters in solidarity and with love.

It is dedicated to all of the People of Color who have asked us to take an honest look at ourselves and collect our people.

For Jordyn, Mommy, and Nanny—this book only exists because of what you three have given me.

For Ayan, and the next seven generations

The Seventh Generation Principle is based on an ancient Haudenosaunee philosophy that the decisions made today ought to result in a sustainable world, for people and planet, seven generations into the future.

For my parents, Jim and Helene, who married science and the humanities

To Nicola, incurably.

For Emmett Till
and Markis, Hannah, Abigail, Devonte, Jeremiah, and Ciera
and
For Shirley

For Ruby,
a most likeable female character

This story is dedicated to Tiffany Anne Willis and her truly remarkable triumph over our shared childhood trauma

To my ancestors, blood relatives or otherwise

For General Theological Seminary,
Good Shepherd New York,
and the city of New York
for welcoming me home
to myself

For Oilly—our supreme and perfect being

for the places that raised and sustained us, and my family

To Chip, Elizabeth, and Adelaide,
For all their hard work.

To Ellen,
For loving the result.

For Winnie Carter (1936-2023) who knew something about fun.

I am one of the few recognizable faces and voices from January 6th. I dedicate this book to the men and women who answered the inconceivable call of duty and public service that day, whose voices, faces, and names you may never know.

To the spirit of exploration and explorers everywhere. Never stop exploring.

For my sister Kelly Mullen Wieser, with profound gratitude—her unconditional devotion to the welfare of others, especially those in her community and, critically, in our family, has fostered my understanding of a true leader's role, burden, and unifying reach.

To all future birders
[illustration of the sillhouette of a bird in flight]

For my mother, obviously.

In memory of my Granny Şifa,
and other victims of nationalism.

To beloved Rae, my wife and dearest friend, who has lived these pages with me for forty years through thick and thin, for better or worse, and always for the best

To the truth tellers who reveal the tales of lives discarded, rescuing them and us from denial of a dark history

Dedicated to Katie Lehman,
who opens my ears to marvels

This book is for my teachers, whose guidance keeps me on the path.
For Adam, whose focus on what matters is unwavering.
For Clarabel and Sophia, pure beauty of Life's longing for itself.

For every person who is searching
for their voice, and all those who struggle to be heard.
We dedicate these words to you.
- E.G.

For sleepy teens everywhere

For my mother, Elinor Fuchs, and my father, Michael Finkelstein, the first and best writers and editors in my life

To Michelle, who tends the garden of my heart and enriches the world with faith, exuberance, and love.

for Lloyd Richards,
who adds to whatever he touches

for—
+ my little moonwalkers, Sallie + Rosa
+ my mother, Sally +the twin

To Rudolf
My blue-eyed funny valentine,
my true blue love
I love you forever

En recuerdo de Coretta Scott King
generosa y noble
radiantemente sonriendo;
feliz.
Antes de que la flecha acertara.

Y, con respeto, para David Icke
ese "loco";
que conecta puntos, encuentra flechas,
las saca también
cuando la gente ayuda.

Y para todos los de nosotros que alguna vez hemos caído:
que nos hemos sacado la flecha
en ocasiones muchas veces
y nos hemos levantado
de nuevo

Remembering Coretta Scott King
generous and kind
brightly smiling;
happy.
Before the arrow struck.

And with respect, to David Icke
the "mad" one;
connecting dots, finding arrows,
removing them too
when people help.

And for all of us who have ever fallen:
Who have removed the arrow
sometimes many times
and stood up again.

To my parents, for making me a prospect - Ben Lindbergh

For all those who didn't make the cut - Travis Sawchik

In loving memory of Edward John Willi, Jr.
(April 27, 1933-June 25, 2018)
a great baseball fan and an even better person.

For the players of the New York Islanders from 1995 to 1997

To Fraser Nelson and all my other courageous colleagues at The Spectator, whose editors never delete my jokes.

For all my students, past and future,
and for all of Kurt's.

To all the aunts and uncles out there.
Especially those without their own children.
We are trying our best.

To Phil, who first introduced me to Duchamp's strange world

For Clementine—and the hours we spent together in the British Library's First Floor Reading Room.

For Anna, who believed in this book long before I dared to myself

For Parker and countless other real [n-word]s—
who shielded me from the hit, making it possible for a
hood counterfeit to become mainstream legit.

For anyone searching for light in the dark,
you deserve every good thing

To James,
Your love and support have meant everything to me. For that, I'll let you be the funny one in this relationship (for now). Let's grab some steamed hams later. Love you 3,000 [emoji blowing kiss]

This is for Naomi.
Still.

This book is for some of the people who built my house:

Mary Shelley
Bram Stoker
H. P. Lovecraft
Clark Ashton Smith
Donald Wandrei
Fritz Leiber
August Derleth
Shirley Jackson
Robert Bloch
Peter Straub

And ARTHUR MACHEN, whose short novel The Great God Pan has haunted me all my life.

To Dad
Who gave us the wings... and all the sky to fly high

For Mariana,
inventor of spaces and time

For my parents—
back then, right this moment, and indefinitely

This book is dedicated to every person who faced their secret on a postcard, released it into a mailbox, and bravely shared it with me, the world, and themselves. - Frank

This is for Joseph and Leanora and Ethan:
I told you all that to tell you this.

To my beloved mother, thank you for instilling the virtues of faith, passion, and love inside me. If it were not for you, I never would have become a writer.

To my love, I am eternally besotted with you. No words can express my unbound affection, and admiration for you...
…fifty lifetimes…

This book is dedicated to Susan Mainzer (my constant inspiration), my family, my DJ partner Stephen Ives, and my friends in the California electronic music underground, constantly pushing the boundaries of music technology.

To
J.M.
Comrade: For Everything You Gave Me

One of these stories is for E. One is for F, one is for R, one is for L, and one is for X.

For my grandmother, who told me to write

To my parents, Rich and Judy, for not sticking a hot poker down my throat or otherwise attempting to trade me back to the faeries.

Dedication
I dedicate this book to the love of my life, my wife Laura, and to my wonderful children, Samantha and Jake. The three of you endured so much during my years with Donald Trump and in the years since then. You have been subjected to harassment, insults and threats; you have seen me get arrested and charged and put in prison (twice). But the deepest suffering must have come as you watched me play an active role in the despicable acts of Mr. Trump.
For this, I am deeply sorry. I feel unimaginably grateful that the three of you stuck by me through it all. My greatest desire in life is to do whatever I can to make up for the pain I have caused you and to bring happiness, pride, and a feeling of safety to the rest of your lives.

To Melissa, my greatest adventure yet

To my partners in our Italian adventure: my wife, Christine, and my children Aletheia and Isaac. And to my daughter Selene, who wisely kept her feet planted firmly in America.—Douglas Preston

A mia moglie Myriam e a mia figlia Eleonora, che hanno scusato la mia ossessione.—Mario Spezi

To my children, Donkey and Butters, for always being there... even when I'm trying to write

FOR HELEN
Whom I would have invented myself
if my imagination were that rich

For Clare,
like everything else

To the Rwandans, abandoned to their fate, who were slaughtered in the hundreds of thousands
To the fifteen UN soldiers under my command who died bravely in the service of peace and humanity
Lt. Lotin, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
1st Sgt. Leroy, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Cpl. Bassine, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Cpl. Lhoir, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Cpl. Meaux, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Cpl. Plescia, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Cpl. Dupont, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Cpl. Uyttebroeck, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Pte. Debatty, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
Pte. Renwa, Belgium, Killed in Action 7 April 94
L/Cpl. Ahedor, Ghana, Killed in Action 17 April 94
Pte. Mensah-Baidoo, Ghana, Killed in Action 9 May 94
Capt. Mbaye, Senegal, Killed in Action 31 May 94
Major Sosa, Uruguay, Killed in Action 17 June 94
Capt. Ankah, Ghana, Killed in Action 8 July 94
To Sian Cansfield, researcher, journalist and dear friend, who died on June 1, 2002, while working so hard to tell this story

To the people who dream of a better world.
And then fight to make their dreams come true.

For everyone we have lost too soon

To my dad, Paul Guillory.
You have always believed in me.
Thanks for raising me to believe in myself.

For Jamie, wherever you are

For Nupe
I'd choose you over Mr. Darcy any day.

For my husband, Theo, because he likes angsty, angry girls

Dedicated to:
MISS EMILY of THE GENTLE SKINS

For Sam and Elena.
You make every country home.

For the readers who believed in me before I did

For Eleanor and Edward, who already have begun to understand why out common humanity must bring us together. And for their mother, who has taught them so well.

To my father Martin, who taught me to dream big. He would have loved this book.

To everyone who still dreams of the city
To everyone who still dreams in the city
To everyone who still dreams

To my wife, Jessica, for the lessons and the guitars

To the dedicated staff, volunteers, partners, and financial supporters of the Clinton Foundation, Library, and School of Public Service, and to the memory of Ellen Verweij, a fine Dutch nurse who lost her life while serving in our HIV/AIDS initiative in Lesotho

To Bob Calle, my father,
the first to see each of the works included in this book,
from the first down to the very last.
And whose eyes I will miss.

To Monique Sindler, who plays the role of the mother in this book,
a role she recently left behind...

For my family: my parents, Roger and Theresa;
my sister, Laura; and my brothers, Richard and Tony—
who all love nothing more than a good story, well told.

To my readers...
thank you for trusting me.

This book is dedicated to Patricia Moss, who was as generous in sharing her death as she was in sharing her life
and
To hospice workers and volunteers all over the world.

Dedicated to
Jimmy Dye, Glenn Frazier, Floyd Hall, Marve Mershon, Warren Earl, Vaughn, Dick Woellhof, Grady York, the Unidentified Airman, and to all Others

For my beautiful AMR
with gratitude
for walking with me into the Mystery

To Vivian, who has kicked my ass and stolen my heart

To my father, who taught me
To my mother, who loved me
To my sister Carol, who has always loved and supported me far and beyond
To my daughter Nicole and her children, who give me a special joy of life every day
To my family, friends, and supporters, who never gave up on me
And to the people of the great city of Providence, who elected me six times to be their mayor.
Thank you.

For my family: Brendan, Ben, and Lady.
And for Lisa Bonchek Adams, who really should still be here.

For Aunt Joan
May you find a cozy spot by the fire where the door never closes, the owner runs credit, the taps never run dry and the piano is always playing.

And as always
For Captain Tamara Long, USAF
Born: 12 May 1979
Died: 23 March 2003, Afghanistan
You fly with the angels now.

For my uncle, Doug Elgin,
who inspired my love of college sports...
and taught me that it's more than just a game

To the fathers,
Galileo Galilei
and
Samuel Hillel Sobel, M.D.,
in loving memory

For Kyle Cameron van Leer, through whose eyes I get a chance to rediscover the world

Dedicated with admiration to Gracie, a Yorkshire Terrier living in Cape Town, South Africa. She has her human beautifully trained.

When Abigail Adams was mourning the deaths of her parents, she quoted a popular paraphrase of a Psalm in her letters to her husband, John:
"The sweet remembrance of the just
Shall flourish when they sleep in Dust."

And thus, this book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Joyce Holcomb Halse, and my father-in-law, William Robert Larrabee Sr.

Abigail Adams once described her husband, John, as him whom my Heart esteems above all earthly things. I understand that feeling. That's why this book is dedicated to my beloved husband, Scot.

To my mother, Mary Ann Hearte Dreher, whose agency, courage, and grace ave given me a powerful model of what it means to be a woman

For my parents—
for giving much in their lives so that anything might be possible in mine

To all the irl gamer grrls out there who totally pwn the boyz. Hawt chixorz FTW

DEDICATION
It is to my heaven-sent wife, Marina, and to our beloved children, as well as to good fathers everywhere (and all of us who want to be), that this book is dedicated.

For my daughters, Kendall and Brooke,
and for the daughters of us all

To Mom and Dad
or, as they will be known by the time they read this, Mamó and Daideó

DEDICATION:
To the Memory of Ruth Bader Ginsburg

For Luke, Sam, Mala, Floyd, Evie, Felix, and all the other characters I have had to shelve. Your name is in print, guys. You live.

And for Benji, who is real and patiently allowed me to write this book.

For girlfriends

Dedicated to the people of Tibet and their freedom

To all my ancestors who traveled across the foam

For Jason and Kat, as you start your life together. May the garden you plant root strong, blossom with the colors and shapes each of you brings, and both of you tend, so the blooms flourish.

For
LINDA LEVY,
whose work is here plagiarized without mercy

To women who risk telling the hard truths

For Edyth Van Rees Conlon
and the myriad women travelers
whose stories inspire us

To Todd, my husband, my everyday hero. Thank you for loving God, loving us, and always playing hard. Thank you for teaching me patience and mercy. I love you and promise to finish our journey well. See you later...

To My Faithful Olivetti,
Model ETV300,
For Writing This Tale with
Almost No Help from the Author

For high plumage and southern winds.

To Victoria, Brooklyn and Romeo
The three people who always make me smile
My Babies Forever

Love David
Daddy
xx

[below black and white photo of Beckham's right soccer cleat, which has the names Romeo and Brooklyn printed on it]

To God, to my family, and to all the lives that were lost during the Arab Spring

TO EGON,
who gave me
the children and the name

This book is dedicated to my dad, who through all his hard times kept a smile. Within his pocketbook, he may not have had as much as many, but within his heart he had more than most.

To my sweet Penelope, who inspired this book, and to my mormor, who would have loved to meet her.

TO THOSE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED STATES WHO GAVE ME THE OPPORTUNITY TO EXPERIENCE AN UNEXPECTED PUBLIC LIFE

To Linda
who saw through me
and saw me through

To my incredible wife, Kathy—the love of my life and my rock, who never wavered in her belief in me and gave me the courage and strength to endure—"You are so Beautiful."

To my first teacher, Kathy Ruhl. Thank you for taking me to the theater.

For the late Peter Fagan,
WHO COULD HAVE TOLD THIS STORY
FAR BETTER THAN I HAVE DONE.

To the late DANIEL RUDMAN, M.D.. His vision and pioneering human research with growth hormone for anti-aging marked the beginning of the end of aging, and the birth of the "ageless society."

For Michael F. Vaccaro Sr. (1932-2003), who on June 29, 1974, took me to my first baseball game (Mets 4, Cardinals 0), bought me my first knish (with mustard), taught me how to keep a scorecard (in ink), pointed out the press box, and started the whole thing.

This novel is dedicated to the reader.
For this singular moment, it's just the two of us.

For Steve, who reads to me

TO THE IMAGES OF WHOM
ROBIN AND TILLY ARE REFLECTIONS,
AND THE GHOSTS WHO
SLEEP AT THIKA

For
Amanda Urban,
who changed my life,
and
Patricia Yarberry Allen,
who saved it.

FOR MOM AND DAD, WHO ALWAYS HELP ME KEEP MY HEAD ON STRAIGHT.

For my mother Patricia and my late father Chuck "Sonny" Brumfield. A perfect marriage of Old Spice and Persian Wood. You are the essence of my life.

To my family, and to lesbians and gay men who are taking their next step in the process of coming out and the families and friendswho love and support them

To Helen...
who likes my worlds

For Yvette Pierpaoli
who lived and died giving a damn

My grandfathers, whom I never knew, Nwoye David Adichie and Aro-Nweke Felix Odigwe, did not survive the war.
My grandmothers, Nwabuodu Regina Odigwe and Nwamgbafor Agnes Adichie, remarkable women both, did.
This book is dedicated to their memories: ka fa nodu na ndokwa.
And to Mellitus, wherever he may be.

For Joan, who has, as I suspect of Rachel Robinson, made all the difference

To Grandpa, who asked me to split the check before I wrote a word

To my wife, Sherrie, who sometimes wishes my commentary was a little blander, but whose love and support are constant

And to our daughter, Lily, who has added so much richness and joy to our lives

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY DEAR FRIEND AND THE GODFATHER OF MY SON SAMSON, KEVIN HUVANE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR VISION. THANK YOU FOR YOUR FAITH. AND THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS HAVING A SOLUTION AT THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING (PACIFIC STANDARD TIME). RALPH WALDO EMERSON SAID THAT EVERY WALL IS A DOOR. THANK YOU FOR PROVING HIM RIGHT!

This is not for you.

for my mother(s)

Dedicated to Kabir, and all those working confused in inner labor

Rumi says: Ecstatic love is an ocean, and the Milky Way is a flake of foam floating on it.

For Andres. Who doesn't miss a beat when I IM him with questions like "Should they steal a ship or be rescued by space pirates?" I couldn't ask for more in a partner. I hope you're half as proud of me as I am of you. (The dog thinks you're awesome, too.)

For Todd,
my other whole

In memory of
56 billion each year
153.4 million each day
6.4 million each hour,
106,546 each minute

Dedicated to the American Nurse—
The world's finest

In loving memory of Sarah Monahan, a beautiful Irish woman who, by her very nature, disproved my hypothesis.

For Liam, Aoibhinn, Cathal, Hazel, Nora, Sadie, and Daniel. You think I am your aunt, but really I am your mother.

TO MY TWO COLLEGIANS
You have been a joy, a surprise, a source of wonderment for me at every stage of your young lives. So I suppose I shouldn't be astonished by what you have done for me and this book; but I am, and dedicating it to you is a mere whisper of my gratitude. I gave you the manuscript hoping you might vet it for undergraduate vocabulary. That you did. I learned that using the oath Jesus Christ establishes the speaker as, among other things, middle-aged or older. So does the word fabulous, as in "That's fabulous!" Today the word is awesome. So does jerk, as in "Whatta jerk!" It has been totally replaced by a quaint anatomical metaphor. Students who load up conversations with likes and totallys, as in "like totally awesome," are almost always females. The totallys now give off such whiffs of parody, they are fading away, even as I write. All that was quite in addition to the many times you rescued me when I got in over my head trying to use current slang. What I never imagined you could do—I couldn't have done it at your age—was to step back in the most detached way and point out the workings of human nature in general and the esoteric workings of social status in particular. I say "esoteric," because in many cases these were areas of life one would not ordinarily think of as social at all. Given your powers of abstraction, your father had only to reassemble the material he had accumulated visiting campuses across the country. What I feel about you both I can say best with a long embrace.

This book is dedicated to the Kendrick boys—Capt. John (deceased) and Billy (kicking); to Shazam, to tiny Terrie, and to the "fantastic foolybear" wherever she may be.

For Rip and Fleet and Capt. Kirk

TO
MY FATHER
AND
THE LAND OF MY FATHERS

For dear S. C.—
who got lost
and then found

To the friends who have stood by me,
to the history that has sustained me,
and to my wonderful husband,
photographer Donald Woodman,
who has been the best partner imaginable

Doffing his hat,
the author dedicates this book to
COUNSELOR EDDIE HAYES
who walked among the flames,
pointing at the lurid lights.
And he wishes to express
his deep appreciation to
BURT ROBERTS
who first showed the way

For Michael McDonough, who knows where all the acute angles are hidden in the grid

To
K.D.B.
keeper of my flame

With a deep bow, the author thanks Christina Verigan for such a big slice of her erudition

PARA MÉXICO

DEDICATION
I would like to acknowledge the Whadjuk Noongar people past, present and future for this book. The ideas, recipes and food within were created on their land.
I'd like to dedicate this book to my Grandmère. If she hadn't been so excited about cooking herself, sharing her knowledge and exposing me to different foods, I wouldn't be where I am today.
From a young age, I didn't have much of an appetite —I would rather have played—but she forced me to eat and eat every last spoonful.
Boy, how things have changed!

To my mom, for all her support and encouragement over the years. Mom, if you're reading this, turn back immediately. There are scenes in here that will scar you for life.

Amanda,
You are with me everywhere,
I see you where I go,
You surround me always,
Even though
I know
Exactly where I buried you.

For siblings, including mine
And friends, including yours

For Miriam Pastan, who read my fortune in a cup of coffee

To the Swifties,
and Miss Swift,
for inspiration evermore

To Jay and Maddy, the greatest content created in the aughts

In loving memory of the Gchat era

For my mother,
Irene,
in memory and in wound.

For my brother,
Jardel,
close and far.

إلى الشهداء
For the martyrs

to those who have kept faith in a better freedom

To my mother,
Rose Northington Packer,
who "made a way out of no way"

For my mom and dad, who instilled in me a love of movies ever since The Silence of the Lambs

for those of us who are small and
lost our baby hairs in the fire

For my grandmother, Rifqa El-Kurd,
and for occupied Sheikh Jarrah

For my parents, for Anita Hoffer, and for Rebecca Loudon,
who once wished for me a desire to engage
in deep play in my art.

I dedicate this book to these 5 lightbearers:

Zehline A. Davis
who expected excellence

Patricia A. Keenan
who dared me to leap

Karen "Poochie" Madison
for my first quiet lessons in craft

Bernice "Bunny" Leslie
for circles and fires and portals

&

Jeannie Jones
for unerring angelic heart

To inspiration and patience

For those who hear the songs of the wolves, listen well:
your pack is howling you home.

For Patrick, my stringmate. I can't wait to see where our latern will take us.

To Daddy,
Thanks for giving me my height, a great head of hair, and most of all, a passion for food.
Your love was apparent in every bite.
Wish you could've seen this. Miss you.
Mahal kita

for n+1

For Ely, because of all those Tumblr links.
You know the ones.
The thirst is real.

This is for my grandmother, who was actually pretty awesome.

To the loving memory of Teo Hunt Surasky, who left this world in 2020 much too soon. And to his mothers, Carolyn Hunt and Cecilie Surasky, who have enriched and strengthened Mitchell's life in more ways than they can imagine.

To Ahmed Erekat (الله يرحمه), a beautiful spirit stolen from the world two weeks before his wedding. May his grave be made spacious, filled with light, and placed in paradise.

dedicated to Strong Independent Chicken, a bird in a million

This book is dedicated to my mother and my grandmother. My mom always allowed me to express myself through fashion and never made it seem like there was such a thing as the "wrong" choice when it came to what I wore (although, looking back, it must have been hard to encourage some of these looks). In the same way, my grandmother taught me how to shop. We were always smart and thoughtful, but we also knew when something really spoke to us! We liked to think, but not overthink it.

In Remembrance of Mahasweta Devi:
"I'm being condemned as a witch."

Dedicated to my survival.
I'm proud of you, Fa.

FOR SWAMP HONEYSUCKLE

For Naima, for encouraging me to risk beauty

For
my Mama, who had a book in her
my Dad, who wanted to finish his book
my Siblings, who have always been there
my Sons, who inspire me to keep at it and keep at it
my 5 x 7s

For GCH, who has my back,
and my heart

For my two London girls

In loving dedication to Chris Kaminskas (1961-2009)
and my madrina Maria Pusz (1947-2014).

You were the safe havens and secure
bases that I owe my resilience to.

for the martyrs, who live

For my talisman,
Henry Atlas

This book is dedicated to Josh, Mia, and Isabelle—the loves of my life
to Lyna, Nancy, and Caroline—my beloved sisterhood
to my parents，葉世福 and 林桂英，
who did their best for me
and to my brother Mau,
who walked me safely down the street

To Gloria Close, for helping today's families find safe homes.

To Andy and Diane, and to the dedicated keepers of the Historic New Orleans Collection. Thank you for preserving the history.

To the Lost Friends, wherever you might be.
May your names never go unspoken and your stories forever be told.

For everyone whose story is still in progress

To Chutinun Muelae:
You've been a part of our lives for a long time although an ocean separates us once again.
I pray we share a home together one day soon.
I love you beyond words, dear one.
Cindy

To my mother, Norma Rainwater:
Thank you for raising me "wild" in the outdoors, from running trails
and splashing in mountain streams
to the many summer weeks spent roaming St. Simons Island on bikes.
Thank you for the gift of an adventurous childhood.
Erin

To the graphed, the charted, the data processed and to all the uncounted

For teachers, who are a kind of home, and the following, who have been mine: Donald Darr, David Gates, William Glavin, Carl Haarmann, Mary Karr, Donna Lanza, Judith Mandelbaum-Schmidt, Charlie Miller, and Amber Smith

For Charlotte
Nothing makes me happier than raising you in my magical, ghostly world. I love you and I can't wait to read your book one day.

And for Mom
I miss you constantly. I can say with certainty you're the ghost I wish I'd find more than any other.

To all the writers who made me a reader... thank you. And for my fellow bookworms, with love.

To the journalist I dreamt of becoming.

For Scott and Jeff. We got it right the first time.

In memory of my beloved parents,
Rev. Pamela Flower and Thomas Flower
Our time here on earth together was shorter than
we wanted, but in heaven, it will be eternal

To T and T, for cracking my heart open

For the man who inspired this book
You're damn right I wrote about you

From Trae: For Spook, who dreamed of such travels.

From Corey: To Danny Pye, for teaching me to treat everyone with kindness and to see things from a different point of view. If you were wrong and you're up there somewhere, I know you're smiling down and are proud of me. Go Dolphins.

To Judy, my favorite dancing partner, and to my children, Ronen, Ilan, and Ari, for whom I wrote this book

For Black founders—especially my parents—who dream and build worlds where our joy and our imagination can thrive. Thank you.

For Helen,
my first patient and the catalyst of my calling.

To my kids
I once used parenting as an excuse to drink.
But you are my favorite
reason to abstain.

For Soriya, who healed me with our first murmured exchanges.

And for my sister, who repeated in the dark, her hand in mine, the refrain from a cherished song:
'In two years, we'll both laugh about this.' (From 'Palladium', by Brigitte)

For those who have and those who will.

TO MY MOTHER
WHOSE LOVE IS DEEPER THAN THE MARIANA TRENCH

To all the teachers, coaches, librarians, guidance counselors, admin staff, students, parents, best friends, and strangers who helped a young, in-the-closet kid navigate a nightmare
Thank you.
You were my light in the darkness.

Note: This will be a difficult novel to read. Please consult the author's note at the end for content warnings if needed.

To everyone who has ever been made to feel bad at mathematics. You didn't fail math: math failed you.

For my father, author of the original Hideout, who told us stories about the player who ran the other way

FOR DREW
FWD: PLEASE READ

TO ALL THE
ambulance drivers
firewatchers
air-raid wardens
nurses
canteen workers
airplane spotters
rescue workers
mathematicians
vicars
vergers
shopgirls
chorus girls
librarians
debutantes
spinsters
fishermen
retired sailors
servants
evacuees
Shakespearean actors
and mystery novelists
WHO WON THE WAR.

For my family, who taught me that when you are knocked considerably sideways, you get up and keep going, or you get up and go in a slightly different direction

For my parents, Frank and Bridie Devlin, who always make me feel the centre of their universe

To our parents, who brought us into a life of creativity
Nat & Yanna
Cirel & Arthur

our wives, who fill our lives with novelty
Karol
Sarah

and our childre, whose imaginations summon the future
Sonya, Gabe, Lucian
Ari and Aviva

TO ELLEN AND HER ISSUE

For Elby, Sadie, and Xander: You are the how and the why of it.

For Phillip—our very own tiny event that changed this household forever, and without whose constant support and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time. (with apologies to PGW)

FOR MY DAD WAI KEUNG LUI / A TENDERHEART

FOR
Mary, my spiritual Mother,
Minnie, my mother,
Vincenza, my grandmother,
Hazel, my mother-in-law, and
Ida, my surrogate mother—
because you can never have too many mothers!

For my beautiful mother, Carole Lalli, who showed me that love is a thing you can taste

To Hatty, innocent bystander

FOR GUTHRIE
whose name means freedom

This book—with the exception of the dirty parts—is for my mother and father, with love.

To every transgender kid who has wondered or
is still wondering if they belong here.
You do. And this book is for you.

This story is dedicated to the memory of Buddy Diliberto,
alive in New Orleans hearts forever;
and to Bobby Herbert,
the only act who could follow him.

For Marion Jeanne Hoff,
one of the "Looney" girls
and my mother

For my mother, who taught me to hold on to a dream

for everyone who deserves a better story than the one they have

For Torin Passmore,
You Little Merlin

My gratitude to Robert Bly an Gioia Timpanelli, brilliant teachers of these intricate stories.

In memory of Felicia Stewart, an outspoken feminist and pioneer in women's reproductive health, who understood these women. And to Matt Stewart.

Dedication
To my parents,
with much love,
but with regret
that my father is
no longer here to
share this dedication
with my mother.

To the late ELEANOR ROOSEVELT, who founded the WILTWYCK SCHOOL, which is still finding Claude Browns

For my Aunt Karen, and the millions gone

To my agent, Doug Stewart, for liking it weird.

To Dr. Michael Daras, who told me where to go, and to my family, who followed me there.

This book is dedicated to my father, Captain Angelo Pullara, USAF.

He died so that someone else could live.

For Jane and Mike, my bedrock

To the inhabitants of space in general
and CJ and AB in particular

FOR THE DISABLED ORACLES OUT OF TIME;
I JOIN YOU IN THE CHORUS OF OUR WISDOM.

With thanks to Lea Guldditte Hestelund for her installations and sculptures, without which this book would not exist

Dedicated to Perry DeAngelis,
A friend and skeptic of some note

To those who have not yet found their voice,
To those who can no longer speak,
And to those who ask me,
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
And for Jon

I would like to dedicate this book to Robin Hood, the most miserable man in all history. You'd be miserable too, if you had a "Little John."

Special thanks to Jack Paar who has put the W.C. where it rightfully belongs—in the living room.

To Wingate, whose heart reflects my glow.
To Stephanie, whose love is my Lofoten snow.
And to Steven Spielberg, whose answer to me was "No."

For my mother—the reason I love books.
For my father—the reason I wander, and dare.

to the men who made me scream
and the women who let me cry

To my dad, José Roman; uncle Joe Sweeney; and friends and colleague Jim McCarthy—whose atoms are now part of new constellations

[line drawing of a toddler leaning over to pick up a seashell on the beach]

When I was a small girl, it was the fashion in our circle to borrow the neighbors' babies. I myself was never a very accomplished nursemaid, although I had many happy hours pushing the perambulator of a young cousin; but some of my friends had a positive genius for taking care of and amusing babies. They never thought of receiving pay for this delightful pastime. Minding a baby was its own reward.

It is more difficult to borrow babies now, I understand. Whether this is due to a scarcity of babies or to more particular mothers, I am unable to say. But I am quite sure of this: there are just as many little girls who love babies as there ever were, and it is especially for them that I have written the story of BABY ISLAND.

CAROL RYRIE BRINK

For Beatrice—
My love for you shall live forever.
You, however, did not.

Dedication
This book is dedicated to women and girls—
and especially to teachers of sewing everywhere—
who enjoy the feel of fabric, the beauty of textures,
the precision of stitches, the smoothness of seams,
and who delight always in appropriate fabrics
carefully cut and made up for a happy purpose.

IN MEMORY OF
MY PARENTS
AND OF
MY BROTHER LELLO
WHO WERE MY TEACHERS

FOR MY CHILDREN
CHET, RONA, AND GIA
SO THAT THEY MAY CARRY THE TORCH
OF OUR BEAUTIFUL HERITAGE

TO THE WONDERFUL WOMEN
WHO NEVER COOKED FROM A BOOK

If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then knishes will get there faster... and stay longer.

To the children of three and a half million black South Africans who have been involuntarily or forcibly removed from their homes under the government's policy of reserving certain areas of the country for whites only

To Cort, Callie, and Carter, who know the kitchen is the first place to look for me and accept my love of cooking as they accept my love for them

In memory of Annie (Nanou) Cerf Weil,
July 24, 1944-April 16, 1988,
a dear friend who introduced me to the France she loved so well,
but who died much too early

To my parents for giving me the gift of life.
To my husband for teaching me the meaning of life.
To my daughters for giving my life new meaning.

For Penelope Lian, my daughter, who crossed oceans

For Anita and Nick: the lights on the hill.
And for MH, whose faith has transcended reason.

This book is written with deep love and gratitude for the family I found—
ALEX
NATHANIEL
SIMON

—and in loving memory of the one I lost—
H.A.F.
J.H.F.
C.C.

To Lee Hindley Chadwick,
the teacher every child should have

For J,
Whatever the weather—

This book is dedicated to the memory of three friends who, in different ways and in different fields, carried on the work of Frantz Fanon:

MARIE-JEANNE MANUELLAN,
French social worker, activist, and secretary to Fanon
(1927-2019)

OKWUI ENWEZOR,
Nigerian American curator and critic
(1963-2019)

AMINA MEKAHLI,
Algerian poet and novelist
(1967-2022)

To all those who believe in justice and resist settler colonialism in Palestine and beyond

In solidarity with the Palestinians and Israelis fighting for a just future

To the one who burns bridges—
better be prepared to swim.

For my parents, grandparents, sister,
and Ana Mendieta

For —, who didn't need my urgency

For Colin, who I'm glad exists

For Jeremy, who said I had too many Jawbreaker shirts

For Nelson, who is not dead

For...
My mother, who taught me that I could do anything I wanted and helped me live it, often at great personal cost.

Rohith Vemula, who lit a flame that made my silence impossible.

To
S.L.O.,
an American gentleman
in accordance with whose classic taste
the following narrative has been designed,
it is now, in return for numerous delightful hours,
and with the kindest wishes,
dedicated
by his affectionate friend,
the author.

FOR QUEER PEOPLE EVERYWHERE

To the unknown man

To Nila, Gulzar, and bell
And for all the feminist killjoys out there
still doing your thing

To my parents, who taught me about movements.

This book is dedicated to the past and the future:
In memory of my Beloved, Jim Maxmin.
In memory of my courageous friend, Frank Schirrmacher.
In honor of my children,
Chloe Sophia Maxmin and Jacob Raphael Maxmin—
I write to fortify your futures and the moral cause of your generation.

To disabled everything, and everyone, especially my local crip community in the Disability Alliance and Caucus and the New River Valley Disability Resource Center

anthony, the first love letter I ever wrote was sent to you, it included this quote from Malcolm X: "We ourselves have to lift the level of our community, take the standards of our community to a higher level, make our own society beautiful so that we will be satisfied. . . we've got to change our own minds about each other. we have to see each other with new eyes.. we have to come together with warmth..."

celebrating ten years-the warmth you bring to my life—all praise

"Alchemically transforming lead into true gold, men are given the opportunity to burn, to be touched by an inner fire, to live a life of substance, to be changed utterly."

This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Gus Oldham-burning, a heart on fire, whose love, stronger than death, illuminates.

To Itziar,
Although changes are not always exactly what we expected.

For Summer Reign-Justice Kruzan,
Zuleika "Zuzu" Angel Diaz,
and
all mothers, their daughters, and their daughters...

This is for all the women and men like me, who at one point only had literature and film as an outlet to feel comfortable with their sexuality

Dedicated with love, reverence,
and a bit of exasperation to
Princess Pretty Pie and Cap'n Cuddles

To the savage thinkers

Dedicated to the memories of Mary Turner, her husband, Hayes, and their unborn child

For L
For B
For Baby and Me

For teenage Brianna, who struggled so much with self-love, confidence, and opening up to others. Look at you now.

For my families: biological, chosen, and of Earth. You have all shown me what it means to be embodiments of love.

To all the brokenhearteds for the world...
One day all the pain will make sense.

To all the sex-positive pioneers.
You make the world a better place.

For Wendy,
the best days and best work of my life
have come by your side.
Thank you for taking my hand
and still holding it.

In loving memory of Jeff Chan.
Asian American studies and literature pioneer.
A singular friend, mentor and inspiration.
Rest in power.

For the restless

To anyone in search of a big, full life fueled by friends and food

For Ben and his microbes.
My favourite superorganism.

For those who survive.
For those who do not.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO YOU
A BUSY HOMEMAKER WHO GLADLY PREPARES THREE MEALS A DAY FOR YOUR FAMILY, AND WHO DELIGHTS IN DOING IT

For Jeffrey, who makes my life fun—and so easy!

To my mother and my Aunt Re, who while sitting at my kitchen table and talking into the night taught me that sad stories stop being sad if you can make them funny.

To John. When I was lost, he helped me find the way.

To Tim, the icing and the cake

To Claire Roscow (1988-2010),
Dr. Jonathan Leong (1983-2019),
and Cam Christie (1982-2020);
all, whose neurons turned in early

For all the women who fight for other women.
And all the women who make my life wonderful.
(PS: You'd better believe the pledge of corpse-burying assistance is legit. Naturally, I expect this to be a reciprocal bond of love, devotion, and, if necessary, dismemberment.)

To all the brave souls who dare to remake the world

To anyone who's ever visited the yellow house next to Toftasjön, just outside of Marbäck

To Oluremi Abake
and
You who has dealt with a mad man
I salute you

For Sariya, Merel, and Jasper
IN THE HOPE THAT
THEY WILL CLAIM US

To my sons, for helping me to see that parents, while imperfect, are doing the best they know to do.
To Christopher, for making the journey with me through difficult paths.
And to Greg, for coming alongside me on this journey, and for your guidance, affection, and love.

To Vsevolod Dmitriev, a passionate archivist and idealist who can't stand violence

For the innocent children in Syria
and the world who are paying the price of wars.
And for all the women fighting for their most basic rights.

For my mother,
the ghost who lives with me.

For all the patients who volunteer to participate in clinical trials.

For the too many victims of violent crime
and the loved ones who grieve their loss.

For every sex worker, in love and rage

To my younger self and all the underserved public school kids out there. You are more than your circumstances.

To my nieces: Elena, Tesfanesh and Mya.
May you slay all the monsters.

For Eben and Themy, whose generosity and infectious love of Ireland were so inspiring.

To Mia, James, and all of the children of Baltimore.
I believe in you. And we will do better.

With so much love to my grandparents
Phoebe and Walter,
who always said I would write a book.
I'm so happy you were right.

To my mom, Shirley.
Thanks for planting the horror seed early on.

This cookbook is dedicated to a greener future

To my parents, Nick and Joan Gage, for inviting me to the party; my husband, Emilio Baltodano, for filling my life with even more love; and our children, Amalia and Nico, who make every day a celebration.
And to the readers of this book, I wish you all the luck in the world.

For my mother and father, who bought me a typewriter when I was nine.

For Samantha, and the people of the North Star State

In memory of Nicole Lewanski

May your love of books live on in others.

For Jeanne Fey:
Happy Mother's Day. I made this out of macaroni for you.

For my parents, who gave me wings, and for Gabriel, who gave me someplace warm to land.

For the birds
—Bette and Michi

I dedicate this book to my younger self for having the courage to carry me through pain, my current self for facing my shame and learning how to heal, and to my future self, because the journey to greatness has only just begun.

Life is a big, fat book.
Alex... you are my favorite chapter.
I love you.

For Kerrie, who tramped the ridges and braved the ghosts

For Abby, my love and co-conspirator
And for Syria and her people, for a future brighter than the past

For the murderinos

For my wife, Joanna, who listens to the whispers
of my soul and loves me for who I am.

For Ruth,
who taught me to jump

To Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah
for his tireless fight against crime

For teachers... who see the child before the student, who remind us that we all have special gifts to offer the world, who foster the importance of standing out rather than fitting in.

And for kids ... who find their grit to conquer life's challenges-no matter what those challenges may be.

You are heroes. This book is for you.

FOR MY PARENTS,
KARL AND LYNNEA MCHENRY.
ALL THE BEST PARTS OF ME ARE YOU.

Thanks to Brian McGinn and Will Moore for their help, advice and recipe for batter

For Sally, whose inside face is as beautiful as the one outside.
We survived the comet!

For Mum,
the first storyteller I ever knew

For my mother,
Wanda Setzer,
an encourager

For my parents, Duane and Sylvia Danforth,
who filled our home with books and stories

To the parents, relatives, caregivers, and friends who are helping children through adolescence empowered with knowledge and self-esteem, surrounded by love and understanding

To my fellow zebras.
Not all strenght is physical.

To Ma, for her stories of the Monkey King

And Ba, for his stories of Ah-Tong, the Taiwanese village boy

To Mom, who always knew I could do it, even when I didn't. And when the load got too heavy, sat with me until I grew strong enough to carry it again. This book is for you

This book is dedicated to Richard Torregrossa, Jr. (1957-2020), who would have found much to argue about in its pages.

for the young people who still teach me

for Dani
who (once again) provided me with
invaluable feedback, inspiration, support, and love

and in loving memory of Coby
our jenday conure
who used to sit contentedly on my shoulder
while I would write

she was one of the sweetest,
quirkiest, and best friends that I have ever had
she is dearly missed
"love you, Coby. love you!"

I am grateful to the other mothers of this book: Sandra Dijkstra, Molly Giles, and Faith Sale. As a writer, I feel lucky to have your wisdom and advice. As a friend, I feel blessed. And thanks always to Robert Foothorap, Gretchen Schields, and Lou DeMattei for warmth, humor, and Chinese take-out food—essential ingredients for writing this book.

For my daughters, Ella, Isabel (R.I.P.), and Esther
For the refugees of the world

To Mrs. Pabst, my eighth grade English teacher, who started me on my journey as a writer

To Mia,
the toughest, most resilient person
I have ever known.
I'm proud to be your dad.

This book is dedicated to
Bonnie Singer, my mom, for being a lighthouse in my life;
Ed Farrell for remaining my teacher long after the semester ended;
and George for showing me what happens when kids can't read.

For my dad, Gene Linett, who was always the coolest-dressed cat on the block

[photo of a black cowboy hat with a metal chain as a hatband]

This book is dedicated to my law clerks, who helped me learn, research, and appreciate the Court's history, and to Craig Joyce, who encouraged me to write this book, Out of Order.

It is written after my retirement as a Supreme Court Justice and with the benefit of twenty-five years of service on the Court. I began my service there with admiration for the Court but trepidation about my role as a Justice. I look back on it with continued admiration for the Court and for my colleagues there. The Court is as much needed today as it was when it began. Long may it survive!

This is presented as a work of fiction
and dedicated to nobody

In memory of James Alan McPherson (1943-2016), who taught me that writing fiction is a form of play

This collection is dedicated to the memory of Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)

To Max, Tommy, Charlie, and Nick,
their grandmother's grandsons

For everyone who teaches, and anyone who'll learn

And in continuing memory of the greatest teacher I've ever known, or will know, Kirk Varnedoe

This one's for my girls:
Dream even bigger.
Reach impossibly higher.
Don't you dare ever settle.

For all the queer educators out there. You save lives simply by showing up.

And for every queer teenager who became a little too attached to their English teacher.

To those women who have embroidered with me.

For those who swim to stay afloat

This book is for my wonderful readers. I started writing just for me. I never thought it would go anywhere or that anyone would see it. Now I write for you. It's way better with company.

To Amy Dawson, for giving me the best advice ever

To the Cleveland Public Library, without which this book would never have been

For Terry, my favorite husband

To Dawn,
my first reader, my final proofreader,
my life partner, my love

For we who seek forgiveness

For my daughter, Karenna,
and for your daughters,
and their daughters—

Hold the torch higher and brighter with each step forward through time.

To three women who, in different ways, taught me much about the truth of maternal love:
my friend and mentor Estela Welldon,
my daughter, Hannah,
and my late mother, Lotte

For my grandchildren, who will one day look for themselves in this story

One of the sages of Mishnah is quoted as saying,
"May you be covered in the dust of your Rabbi."

To my teachers and mentors, who have helped me on my journey and whose dust I bear with gratitude.
Khushwant Singh, Girilal Jain, Robin W. Winks, Paul M. Kennedy, Samuel P. Huntington, Stanley Hoffmann, Robert O. Keohane, Joseph S. Nye Jr., James F. Hoge Jr., Leslie H. Gelb, Richard M. Smith, Mark Whitaker, Jonathan Klein, Richard Plepler, Jeff Zucker.

For the teachers and principles at P.S. 3, LAB Middle School, Baruch Middle School, and Brooklyn Technical High School, who have devoted their lives to nurturing children, including mine.

for this kid named Jason.
I would have swam out for you, man.
we all would have.

For my eighth grade English teacher, Mr. Marchese, at Osterholz American Junior High School in Osterholz, Germany. He told me I was destined to write novels, and I believed him.

For Renée.
I hope you can hear me.

It's probably considered eccentric to dedicate a book to its editor, but I'm willing to risk it all for Josh Kendall—a generous giver of time.

for my sister, Audrey, witness to it all

For Erik Helewa.

You're the biggest fan of this musical I know.

And I'm the biggest fan of you.

This book is dedicated to the late Nora Ephron—the greatest rom-com writer of all time and the queen mother of autumnal comfort movies.

And to the readers who create playlists, aesthetic boards, and full-on edits—everyone should be so lucky as to connect with stories in such an immersive way.

For everyone who's ever wondered if there's such a place as "away" —R. D.

This one is for all the girls,
but most especially the girls like me
and the ones like Miss Beckie.

To my parents, who never told me to stop reading—even at the kitchen table. And to Loren, who believed in this story first.

For my mom and dad.
You somehow knew thar one day I'd write a book.

For those who are also mixed and have felt like they aren't enough or don't belong. You are and you do.

This book is dedicated to all the women out there who no longer have the patience or desire to put up with any nonsense.

For my mouth
and the water
for the mirrors
and the rope
what a waste

To those who missed their goodbyes

TO NONNA
forever and always my biggest inspiration, in and out of the kitchen

[photo of an older woman in a kitchen shaping dough]

To Granny, your infectious love of cooking inspired this journey. Every pinch from the salt pot and opening of the spice drawer reminds me of you. We miss you dearly. Hope the food is good up there!

For Stella and Nico and a lifetime of meals around a table with you.

For Eve Balfour
"The health of soil, animal and man is one and indivisible."
Founder of the Soil Association, UK

This book is dedicated to Afro Culture and all its many blessed variations- African, Afro-Caribbean, Afro-Latin, and African American. The recipes written herein represent not only an interpretation of our food, but more so an invitation to sit at the table and converse about our common heritage through food. It matters not whether we call it barbecue or barbacoa, sofrito or the Holy Trinity, whether we put buttermilk or sugar in our cornbread, or sip hibiscus tea or drink red Kool-Aid. The divisions we've been taught and absorbed, whether they be steeped in classism, colorism, or sexism, do not honor our kinfolk and have no place at this table because all are welcome to join this celebration. I found a piece of myself, a piece of my family, in the writing of this book. I have a common bond with people I don't even know because of these food traditions.

[image description: a color photo of author chef Todd Richards, sitting on a bench with a cocktail in his hand]

For Lauren, who, upon hearing me complain that there wasn't a written history of women drinking, told me to write it.

To my children, Clara and Johan, for listening to my stories.

And to Ann Walling, for encouraging me to share them with the world.

To my children, your children, our children.
To my inner seven-year-old, thank you. Go play. I'll lead the way now.
To my rage, I hear you. You make sense. You are welcome here.
To our ancestors, who read this through your eyes,
we are because you were...

For Leigh, my partner in crime
and
In memory of my friend Fay Webern (1927-2019), author of The Button Thief of East 114th Street

For all those parenting in hardship: during pandemics, through climate crises, and under occupation. For those struggling to keep food on the table, and juggle multiple jobs and impossible childcare. For everyone who's set aside their own dreams, briefly or forever, to life those of the next generation.

To my readers. Thank you for adopting the aunties as your own.

For my parents, the beginning.
For J, the end.

To the bookstores that helped my teenage self discover astrology books—thank you!

For FZ and BBZ
Always in memory, especially here

For my heart-of-gold Dad, who taught me the meaning of an honest day's work

For Zack, this is a love letter.
And for eldest daughters of immigrant parents, this is a love letter for you too.

To fandom friends and enablers everywhere—you run the world

For all the mermaids out there
(you know who you are)

For my Dad
from whom I get my sense of humor
and who always had a mustache

For my parents,
who met every unconventional turn in my career with unwavering support.

For
My mother Tria, who taught me integrity
My father Ichak, who taught me passion
My stepmother Nurit, who taught me art
My wife Icari, who taught me intimacy
and my two children, Cosmos and Lylah Oceana, for the lessons I have yet to learn.

For Simon, who makes everything matter

To my mother, Judith. Your name was well given after all.

This book is dedicated to you, for having the courage to pick it up in the first place.

For my family

and for every woman with a body—it's not in our heads, we're not alone

In memoriam
Peter Abbs
(1942-2020)
writer, educator, poet

For all those who journey at night

This book is dedicated to my "Nana" and "Papa"—Eva Marie (Pilon) Keyes and Herbert Keyes Sr.—who, in their retirement, adopted me and my sister and gave us a home where the seed of flourishing was sown.

This book is dedicated to Ms.'s loyal supporters and readers. And to the millions of women and men in the United States and around the world who have marched and mobilized, been arrested and imprisoned, and spoken out at great personal cost in support of the simple belief that women and girls have fundamental human rights to equality, self-determination, autonomy, and dignity.

Our work together has only just begun. Here's to the next fifty years.

In my life, I've known may women who got what they needed through unconventional means.

Of these,
TONI
LIZ
ALISON
SERRINA
LISA
SONJA
MAREN
CASSANDRA

... were just the worst
Thank you so much for all you taught me.

To my loving family, for their unwavering support and steadfast belief I was worth the effort, despite all evidence to the contrary

For all of my sisters: the ones I shared a womb with and the ones I share a world with

To my family—for loving every version of me

For Nate and Erin—
and, most of all, Naomi,
my biggest break of all

To all the queers, ordinary and extraordinary, whose names have been destroyed by history, and to the rosy-fingered custodians of the queer archive.

To Roman Hoel
May he and his generation go further
than I and mine could

For Mom, Dad, and Benny... oh, and also for Gidgett, my Yorkie terrier—silky terrier mix and constant companion who passed away during the writing of this book and whose pawprints will be with my always

[image of two small dog pawprints]

To my wife Katie, who encouraged me to keep writing and figure it out along the way.

For our grandparents.
(Sorry.)

To
the Zanzibar I knew.
With Love

For Nox & Floyd, because it isn't easy loving someone who doesnt belong to you. And for our readers, who love them all the same.

To my mother, Connie Atkins, and her partner-in-shopping, Ginny Russell—the original Shoe Addicts in my life. They're probably in a shoe store right now!

And to Jen Enderlin, my editor and friend.

For Beatrice—
When we met, my life began.
Soon afterward, yours ended.

This book is for those who kept me here when I wanted to leave, and for those who gave me a reason to stay. For those who fought alongside me, dragged me up the mountain, helped me draw a line in the sand. Thank you.

It is also for those who solved their own mysteries, but most especially, this book is for those who could not.

It is for The Kid, who I love, eternally, without bounds.

And lastly, this book is for me.

To Peter, Alessi, and Danny, my parents, and the over sixty-five million people who have been forced to flee for their homes.

To
You

the Other

to
Poets
to
Come

and to

Stephanie Jane Harrison (1964-1986)
Harry Smith (1923-1991)
Marjorie Keller (1951-1994)
Joe Brainard (1942-1994)
Hannah Weiner (1928-1997)
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)

Agnes Lee Dunlop Wiley
my maternal grandmother
(New Year's Eve, 1902- Valentine's Day, 1999)

For our grandchildren
and theirs

To my three sons
Ian, Douglas, and Gordon
victims of the principles herein described
this book is affectionately
dedicated

To you who are committed to creating a stable, sustainable, and peaceful world.

For everyone out there who has the good sense to be a little afraid when swimming in deep, dark water.
You tell yourself there's nothing down there, but there is.
There always is.

To Judy, Ruth, Michael, and John—the best chapters of my life

In memoriam Arno Gutberlet (1906-1996), the teacher of my school days, whom we called the Sheikh and whose teaching in the subjects of mathematics and physics determined the direction of my life

For two African writers who stared war in the face and chose not to look the other way—
Alexander Kanengoni and the late Dan Eldon
With much respect

And for K and Mapenga
"Only the dead have seen the end of war."
—Plato

To my father, Fred, my mother, Della, and other people on the Great Plains who taught me—never say die.

TO FREDERICK J. TEGGART, 1870-1946
whose book it is

Dedication

For my parents, who taught a little hellion that marching to a different drummer was a good thing.
I love you both and owe you everything. Mom, sorry about all the ridiculous diets and experiments.

For Mark Twain, who had a great mustache and put it best:
"Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it's time to pause and reflect."

For leekspin.com, the most ridiculous site on the web.
You helped me finish this book.

And for those who defend sustainable agriculture and promote truly good food. Ten percent of all author royalties are donated to rock-star nonprofits, such as American Farmland Trust (farmland.org) and the Careers through Culinary Arts Program (ccapinc.org).

This book is dedicated to my
brother, Jerry W. Raines,
who was born knowing
where fish live and what they want.

To the memory of Ottla Kafka and Milena Jesenská

This book is dedicated to
Ted Gold
Diana Oughton
Terry Robins

and all the others who gave their lives during the upheavals of the 60s and 70s

To the children of Ibrahima,
wherever time may have scattered them

This book is dedicated to Pam Clark: muse, scribe, editor, and summa wife

Dedicated to the students, faculty, and staff of Starr King School for the Ministry, the members of the First Parish in Needham, Massachusetts, and the memory of James Luther Adams, liberal theologian and prophetic social ethicist

For Miles Davis,
John Coltrane,
and John Lennon

DEDICATION

To powerful minds, deep voices, and long legs.
To committed hearts, fierce fighters, and passionate lovers.
To men who bow their heads, read their books, raise their fists, handle their business, and never abandon their families.
To beautiful men who still have the glow of God in their eyes.

By Sister Souljah

To my wife Gunilla,
and to our children, Anna, Tobias, and Carin.
They paid the price while I rendered years into pages.

For my tap dance teacher, Louis DaPron, 1913-1987

For all the hoofers who, through their artistry and lifelong devotion, made tap dancing a national treasure

For anyone who has ever been ignited by the syncopated sounds of a tap dancer's feet

To the teachers, to the storytellers

I read On the Road in maybe 1959. It changed my life like it changed everyone else's.' - Bob Dylan

[Image description: a black and white photograph of Bob Dylan standing at the headstone of Jack Kerouac]

To Bob Dylan, who put the beat behind the Beat

Dedication

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of Anna Mae Pictou Aquash, Micmac warrior woman, assassinated on Pine Ridge, February 1976 and to Naiche Wolf Soldier, strong warrior and good friend who passed into the spirit world as we were writing.

It is also offered in memory of the others, many mentioned herein, who have fallen, and with the renewed commitment to the struggles of Leonard Peltier, Geronimo Pratt and the thousands of kindred POWs/political prisoners/fugitives who mark the modern landscape of American "justice." One day justice will prevail.

Dedication
This book is dedicated to my brothers and companions Barshawn Merciful Life Allah and I-Glorious Koran Allah. There is no death in God.

To the dead and dying among the Intifadeh and the Kurds, to those who fight oppression in whatever land, and stand up not only to be counted but to be shot.

To Booker T. Washington, from whose autobiography, UP FROM SLAVERY, which I read as a child in the 1920s, I learned the meaning of empathy.

To Paul Robeson, from whose lifelong struggle on behalf of his people and of working people around the world I learned the meaning of the word hero.

To Dean Dixon, from whose frustration over being denied permanent conductorship of a major orchestra in the United States because of his color I learned the meaning of black rage.

To the Joint Veterans' Council of Peekskill, New York, from whose instigation of mob violence to prevent a concert by Paul Robeson (the first of the two 1949 "riots") I learned firsthand the meaning of the fear for one's life that accompanies ugly hatred, racial insults, and physical attack.

To Zola G., the hard-working young black single mother from whose sharing of her history and her dreams I learned the importance of the dignity without which she "would slowly and surely die."

To Eddie Vanderlip, from whose completion of high school (and later, junior college) after I had tutored him in algebra and self-esteem I learned that it was possible to make a difference in one person's life.

To Dick M., from whose angry recital of clichés about blacks today and the disclaimer that followed (which inspired, and became the title of, this book) I learned that "nice" white people can be racist even when they think they're not.

This play is dedicated to
My son, David Dubois Elder
My wife, Judith Ann
To the memory of my life's teacher, Dr. William E. B. Dubois
To the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King
To the Negro Ensemble Company

To John Jacob and Carl Macki
POETS WITH HEART

I would like to thank my adoptive mother, Ethel, and her daughter, Donna, who placed a sweater on my shoulders in the bitter cold of Canada, for thinking of me then as I think of them now. To all my relations who think of me in ceremonies today and tomorrow, your prayers keep me strong because you know the true meaning of Mitakuye Oyasin.

For my graduate students, past and present

To two men who reminded me of G.K. Chesterton
My father, Professor Raleigh Webster Stone and
My uncle, the Revered Paul Stevens Kramer
in loving thanks for what they taught me

To Frank G. Jennings and Franklin C. Kehrig,
and to my grandfather Meyer Kroll,
who loved the utopia of the Automat.

If to anyone,
of course
to
JANE

This book is for my own team: For Charlie, my dad, who is gone, who was the anchor of the family, and for Myrtle, my mother, who is the glue; for Wink, my wife, who is my anchor; and for all my children, Tony and Diane and Danny and Alicia and Matt and Jordan, with the hope that they will know the friendship and love that I've known, in union and reunion.

For Sharon
AS IT IS EACH DAY

A William Styron, cuyo padre me incluía en sus sueños sobre la guerra civil norteamericana.

A Normita de Barrio Puertos

This book is dedicated to my mother,
Nancy Ruth Riordan, who gave me my
sense of humor and, hence,
the ability to survive
in this world.

To S. R. Slavson
to whose wisdom, insight, and
sinew mant future generations
will be so deeply indebted
(if man has a future)

For somebody
who made me want to change
the title of this book

With gratitude for the circles of love and support that surround me:

My parents, for instilling unconditional love. My dad, Bruce, for always cheering me on with unflappable optimism, and my mom, Jacqueline Kerr, for imparting that love knows no boundaries.

My sweet snuggle bunnies, Max, Ryan, and Zay, for teaching me love is limitless. Each of you is a miracle of light and love. Watching you grow is my biggest joy.

Padraic, the dashing stranger from the plane and love of my life, for helping me believe in magic. My life forever changed for the better the day I found you,

My wonderful family and friends who feel like family, You give me endless strength and are close to my heart even when we are far.

My clinician and public health colleagues, for your idealism and unwavering quest to heal human suffering.

My teachers, students, and mentors, for sparking a fire of curiosity and the courage to fan the flames.

My adopted hometown of New York City, for inspiring big wild dreams and making them look doable.

My fellow humans who strive for equity, inclusivity, and peace.

And you, dear reader, for fearlessly creating positive ripples. Your compassion is my inspiration.

MOTHER NATURE, THIS ONE IS FOR YOU

For our loving parents,
Donald Napper and Betty Griffin Napper
and Salvatore Rao and Rita Rao:
You were the first to give us agency.

To the memory of Ruth Rosekrans Hoffman, who delighted us all.

In memory of memory

For my children:
Juan Arturo, Lucas, and Marcelo,
Americans in the truest sense of the word.

And for my father,
Orestes Ojito,
who made it all possible.

This book is dedicated to all of the people in the struggle, and to my loved ones who fought to see me shine one day.

A special thanks to Jessica Tilles lead editor and book cover designer. Many thanks to Christine Summer and Beth Kripner for their assitance with the editing. Big ups to John Powell, Esquire for believing in me and my story from day one.

For Chris, Alex, Zach and Hannah. You all made me as happy watching you play soccer as you did everywhere else. And for the former Taylor McKelvy, of course.

For the survivors

"I always had the impression that we were a strange family, neither rich nor poor, much richer than the poor and much poorer than the rich, with a garden that was like a garden for the rich but a dark toilet where fungi grew." - Natalia Ginzburg, Childhood

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Beth Wilmot for her courage in testifying against Randall Brent Woodfield, and to the memory of Shari Hull, Donna Lee Eckard, Janell Jarvis, and Julie Reitz. With deep appreciation to the scores of lawmen who worked so many overtime hours to catch the "I-5 Killer":

In Oregon: Marion County Sheriff's Office, Salem Police Department, Marion County District Attorney's Office, Oregon State Attorney General's Office, Beaverton Police Department, Eugene Police Department, Springfield Police Department, Corvallis Police Department, Medford Police Department, Ashland Police Department, Grants Pass Police Department, Sutherlin Police Department, Linn County District Attorney's Office, Benton County District Attorney's Office, Lane County District Attorney's Office, Multnomah County Sheriff's Office, Oregon State Police.

In California: Shasta County Sheriff's Office, Redding Police Department, Yreka Police Department, Shasta County District Attorney's Office.

In Washington: King County Police Department, Clark County Sheriff's Office, Bellevue Police Department, Bothell Police Department, Olympia Police Department, Vancouver Police Department.

With the author's utmost respect for the efforts of Dave Kominek, Monty Holloway, Dave Bishop, Neal Loper, Ron Womack, Ron Griesel, Gene Farley, Rick Burnett, Rusty Brewer, Chris Van Dyke, and Lisa Cisneros.

This book is for Mike, who loves storyies about foxes.

For Laura, Emma, and Daniel. Thank you for having so many ideas.

For Jen Enderlin, who made me an author.
There will never be enough thank-yous in the world.

For Jordan and Lauren.
Pregnancy would have been a lot more confusing without you.

For the wives,
who know this story as well as I do

to, for,
and because of
MARY PAT

To Raj Orphans
and their parents

To all the "crazy" ex-girlfriends

To everyone who rarely sees themselves represented in books and movies.
To everyone who doesn't conform to mainstream beauty standards.
You are worthy of an epic love story. We all are.

For all the Emilys who inspired and encouraged me while writing this book—

-Emily Bain Murphy, my friend through every mountain and valley;
-Emily McClendon, who sharpens me on and off the tennis court;
-Emily Wibberley, whose books made me fall in love with rom-coms; and
-Emily Henry, whose rom-coms made me finally decide to write one of my own

And for everyone who always
-wished for Topanga's hair;
-cheered/cried when Ross and Rachel finally had their first kiss;
and
-had Big Opinions on whether Joey should choose Dawson or Pacey in the end.

This one's for you.

I dedicate this book to my long-suffering family.
The time I spent writing it belonged to them.

To Severino, my dear Severino.
Deep in the heart.
And in each individual story.

To anyone who has ever felt like a black sheep—this one's for you.

To my patients and to the community of Bayview Hunters Point. Thank you for teaching me more than any university possibly could.

to my parents, to my friends, to me, and to you

This one's for the quaranteam

For those who are the stuff of other people's nightmares.

For Linda;

and in memory of Andy Harris, Doug Hansen, Rob Hall, Yasuko Namba, Scott Fischer, Ngawang Topche Sherpa, Chen Yu-Nan, Bruce Herrod, Lopsang Jangbu Sherpa, and Anatoli Boukreev

To Mom and Dad: Your love keeps me grounded yet gives me the courage to soar toward my dreams.

This one is for my son, Tucker.
It seems like only a few years ago I could hold you in my arms. Now we're touring colleges and talking about your future. I am so proud of the boy you were and the man you are becoming. Soon you will be leaving your dad and me to find your own way in the world. Know that whatever you do, wherever you go, we will always love you.

To my sister, Adriane, who taught me to value my heart

For the dairy princess of Wayne County and the crack shot of Cabell...

In memory of my father, Albert Edward Doman (1904-1983), who wanted to be an architect

For my parents, Jacqueline and Thomas Rogers, who gave me the freedom to play outdoors

For all the Ghanaian youth—we're the ones we've been waiting for.

And for all the governments past and present: the room for improvement is so vast it looks uninhabited.

For my parents, who brought me into this world—and for Nance, who helped me live in it.

To Luke, Josiah, Everest—you are each my favorite (don't let any of the others in this dedication tell you otherwise)

For every queen standing with a king, binding wounds.

For every mother fighting for her children and her children's children.

For every woman choosing self over duty.

For every Haitian—we lift and believe.

To all the students in all the schools across the country:
You are bold, you are brave, you are whole, and you deserve institutions that honor you as you are

To Trish, Emily, Elizabeth, and Halley
To all my patients and all the doctors who've tolerated me as one
To all my coworkers and colleagues, present and past

TO YOU

YOU HAVE MORE POWER THAN YOU KNOW

Dedication

Decolonizing Design is dedicated to the ancestors, whose wisdom and resilience have co-created the conditions of possibility for me to exist with a deep sense of freedom and thus fearlessness.

Decolonizing Design is dedicated to the love warriors of today who fight oppression, discrimination, and colonization with a deep love for self, family, community, the earth, skies, and all in between, and always love for "da culture."

Most importantly, Decolonizing Design is dedicated to those who are yet to come. I am lovingly obligated to co-create the conditions for you to exist with a deep sense of freedom and thus fearlessness as well.

For the man in the skirt, with my eternal love.

In memory of all those who died defending freedom, theirs and ours

This book is dedicated to our wives, Theresa and Rita, for enduring the agony of living with authors.

For my family
&
the friends who make DC home

For every woman within these pages

For anyone who's ever come out and then wondered what comes next.

For Kathleen and Baxter.
In a world full of lost things, thank you for helping me find my heart again.

For Neil Greenough, because every author needs a helpful and full-of-ideas (and noncorrupt) former police officer to help them.

For Malu—who doesn't ride a bike... yet

Dedicating this one to each other, obviously.

This is for
JEROME BADANES
(1937-1995)
who taught me that sometimes
it has to be over the top
to be in the right place,
and for
LEE GOERNER
(1947-1995)
who cared about every last word.

for you, Mom—
love you lots and acres

To my ancestors and descendants;
my blood relatives and relatives-in-love

To Amanda—

It turns out
that you did not
weigh the same as a feather
when thrown from a great height.

My saddest day—
yet what a victory for science.

To the anonymous person who offered me a substantial sum not to print this book.

FOR MYSELF

This one's for Joseph, who asked me if I was ever going to write a book about a boy.
I love you.

This book is dedicated to the four proofs of God's existence: Michael, Diana, Jason, and Nicole. There may be other such proofs, but these are mine. And to Claudia, who makes everything possible.

This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandfathers: Albert Turrell, who told me stories even more wonderful than those I could find in Andrew Lang, and Thomas McKinley, who was a soldier and fought for a Queen

For my grandparents Ordie and Mary Dellinger

They gave up a house in Cleveland for Interstate 71.
He worked thirty years for General Motors.
She never learned to drive.

To Kirsten, my partner in food—and everything else

For Thomas, Lena, and Noah.
Hearts of my heart, the reasons for everything.

And for everyone fighting for liberty and justice for all so that this nation, of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from this earth.

To Papi, my first teacher

Amanda,
True love is putting someone else,
Before yourself.
Which is why I thought,
You should walk across that ice,
Before me.

For my late father, who would have preferred me to follow my first ambition to be the Arab Marie Curie but was then perfectly happy to see me switch to art, and later to food!

Dedication

The 1989 Albemarle Academy Yearbook is dedicated to Amanda Beth Cohen.
Her loss has made us deeply aware of the dangers posed by the alligators who inhabit our marshes, creeks, and golf courses. A memorial shrubbery has been planted in her honor by the cafeteria.

To my friends in the LGBTQIA+ communities in Lebanon and Palestine.
Resistance and freedom.

FOR IRAJ, WHO KNEW HER.
THANK YOU.

for Tiyam and Dania,
to drink the sea at Gaza like their parents

To my father, Kenneth Baker, with whom I always got along best at the ballpark, and to my uncle Bruce Baker, who took me to see Willie Mays. Both fans of the old breed, Giants rooters from the Irish Bronx.

To my wife, Ellen Abrans, who wanted to see this book finished even more than I did. With love.

And to Abadi Leynse, who loves the game today and who I hope finds as much joy and gratification in it as I have.

For Sloane, who lights up entire universes with her smile

To Lori Barra, Sarah Hillesheim, and so many others working for a more compassionate world

For Carl Lindgren, who taught me to look for the beauty where there is seemingly none. And for the women of Cloverlea, who taught me to look for the magic.

For all the underdogs
who don't let fear stop them from fighting

To Chuck—This book wouldn't exist without you.
If nothing else, you believe in the unfathomable power of garlic.

To my parents, who made me who I am, and to June, Gus, and Sam, who make me better than I was.

For all my red herrings

To my children, C & E—for helping me unlearn so much and teaching me anew; for grounding me in daily practices of care; and for tethering me to this world

and to Judith, in loving memory, for everything.

For Texas
& all my bois who didn't get to be boys

This story is for Jenella DuRousseau,
wherever she is,
for always and always.

But since, for so many reasions,
it would never have reached anyone at all
without the aid of my beloved friend Kathleen Hunt,
this story is also for her.

For anyone who has ever had a crazy boss,
felt "out of the loop,"
or wanted to kill (or marry) a coworker)

For Mom
I hope me dedicating this book to you will make up for the fact
that I'm going to make your funeral all about me.

For Amos,
Walter,
Nora,
and Soren:
resurrections all.

For the housemates

For the Rydzes, who love words as much as I do

To my family, and other magical creatures

To the people who contribute the most to my domestic tranquility: Julie, Jasper, Zane, and Lucas

For Susan Kamil, my beloved editor, who asked me to write this book. It makes me so sad that she will never get to read it.

To my grandmother, and all grandmothers, for teaching me how to laugh

To Tory and Kathleen, with whom I have shared many glasses of wine, and to Taylor Swift, with whom I would like to

For my high school English teacher, Mrs. Parker
Because I said I would

For J., who wrote back

To my grandfathers, Edouard Hilal & Afif Massih, who have kept Lebanon alive within me.

Para toda me gente isleña
For all of my island people

For Riana, Mila, Mom, and Katrina, and the dance we dance.
And for Hilo, where the heart beats loud and clear.

This book is dedicated to the animals. We long for a world in which you are free from harm and exploitation. A world in which you are not seen as commodities and food, but as sentient individuals. To those we have already lost: we see you, you matter, we will keep fighting for that world.

For Dave, who helped me believe in second chances

for Western Massachusetts

To all of you.
May you always have something to run toward, and good people to run beside you.

For all our readers who are forever '90s kids at heart, may this story temporarily transport you back in time to our golden era

For my mother and brother, my everything.
Let's get pizza, you know where!

for my family—
Callie
Ray
my parents and sister
Aunt Mary and those gone before
plants and birds and beasts tame and wild—
for all of you

For my big sister, Kellie.
(And for you, Mom,
After all, you were the first to say,
"Let's go to a séance...")

For Nûdem Durak, free one day

For Moo (when you're old enough!!)
You're fucking amazing.

To Jasmine
and to the future

Manni dedicates this book to anyone who has ever lost their way

Reuben dedicates this book to his family and his friend Tommy Boy

FOR RELLE—
You will forever be my home.

To David, for twenty years of little talks,
and to the women of fandom,
who first made me feel there was space for my voice.

for the drunk girl in the mirror

For my soulmate, love, and partner in all things, Andy Scott. And for our children: you are inheriting a broken world. Your father and I have worked to mend it, but we have much further to go. I hope this book will give you some of the tools you'll need to continue our work.

To Kristina, Peter, and Jamie.
And to all of you who helped our family though.

To the memory of my late grandparents
Hernando Martínez and Natalia Jaramillo, whose grit
and melancholy live within me

Dedicated to the workers.

For Kelley, my love and my lake

Here's to my hubby, who does my laundry, makes me coffee, and brings me hot and sour soup when I have a cold. Thank you for making me laugh, for believing in me when sometimes I don't. Thank you for being my real-life hero. Thank you for being so brave, for not letting the health hurdles you've faced strip you of your sense of humor, and your sharp wit. I love you.

For anyone who finds this book in the midst of wandering. I hope it makes for good company on your journey home.

For my father—
How I miss you!

Dedication

To the smokers I have failed to cure,
I hope it will help them to get free.

And to Sid Sutton

But most of all to Joyce

To my late grandmother,
for the gift of her genes.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to our grandmother, Gloria Feeley, who after reading the first manuscript said, "This book stinks." We love and miss you.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

the One in Whom we live and move and have our being
to my parents, Nedra Carroll and Atz Kilcher
to my brothers Shane, Atz, and Nikos
and to the land which inspires my heart to sing, Alaska

For Grandma Alice, whose fingers danced across those beads
and brought Mary to me

To my wife Amanda
Your love is the most important thing to me on this earth

And to Jesus,
Thank you for never giving up on all of us

To the memory of my wife Mary Hayward Weir
without whom even the past would
lose its meaning

For her, who saw what she saw of life
And kept up the struggle, with characteristic pride

In memory
May Mansoor Munn
author of Where Do Dreams and Dreaming Go?
A Palestinian Quaker in America

And in honor of Janna Jihad Ayyad and her cousin Ahed Tamimi—
all young people devoted to justice
and sharing their voices.

For Dan and Stacie.
For Jason and Kat.
For all the moments.

Dedicated to all the readers who have waited, patiently and impatiently, for this second volume, with my deepest apologies for taking so long.

For the dreams that slip through our fingers,
May we hold them in our arms one day.

Dedicated to my daughter Caroline and the city where she was born—Nashville

To Adamma, who first called me "Daadi"
and to the memory of all who perished during the war

to all sluts everywhere—cheers

For anyone who's ever walked into a dyke bar and realized they were home.

To everyone who almost kissed their best friend and then finally, finally did. Or they kissed you. For every one who thought about it during late-night talks and driving around with no destination. For our yearning imaginations and vulnerable hearts.

For Mommon, who taught me that words have power

For the family I was born into,
the family I made,
and the family I found along the way.
I love you all.

For all unwanted children

To every starry-eyed wanderer who has texted a parent asking for your exact birth time: Keep looking up.

For my mom, Joany, who is still as close as my breath

For the queers who threw the bricks, and the ones who carry the torch

For all who facilitate discovery, especially:
teachers
library workers
naturalists
and creators of every kind.

For anyone who has ever felt hard to love,
to those afraid to ask for what they need,
and for myself.
It's not easy being brave, but I believe in us.

TO THE PROTESTORS
who stand up again and again for people and planet,
however often they are knocked down.

For Grillo, for all the years

For You
Yes, You

For the girls eating noodles on the sofa beside me

For anyone who has been told that they should not be alive.
Together we will survive this war.

For Deanna, my never-ending supply chain of love, brilliance, and grace

For Hushi
dearest friend
muse & musemaker
& emperor of Persian party girls

Again, for Matthew,
bright, dark, and tender.

For Holly Black, who knows many things, yet seems sometimes not to know she is both kind and clear-eyed, sharply hilarious and bone-deep sweet, and a bona fide genius. I know.

For Jessie Redmon Fauset, Gwendolyn Brooks, Dudley Randall, and Naomi Long Madgett,
champions of Black poets;
we remember you,
we say your name,
we give thanks.

For Veronica Ellams, Mariam Asuquo, Hadiza Alex Ellams, Claire Trévien,
Annabel Stapleton Crittendon, Imogen Butler Cole,
Joelle Taylor and Michaela Coel.

In solidarity with women who have spoken against or stood up to male abuses of power in all its forms.

from Sylvia:
Especially for my two sons,
Chris and Paul,
who, by being such wonderful parents, pay me the highest compliment a mother could ever receive

from Lindsay:
For Dad, who I know is watching and to whom I owe a dance.
And for Mom, who will always be my hero.

To everybody who has ever wondered
why astrophysicists have jobs at all

DEDICATION
This book is a love letter to every actor or artist who has ever heard the word no or at times, nothing at all. Having a dream is a beautiful thing. Please don't lose sight of that. You've got this.

For Ladis and Jane, David and Alice, who nurtured us.
For Darrell, Sirena and Sondra, who shaped us.
For Gregory, Geoffrey and Caroline, who exhausted us and enriched us.

And for all those passing through the inferno
who spoke to us honestly about their struggles so that the public might understand and support wiser policies.

For Caitlin,
the best part of L.A.

for my mother Mebarka,
who can't read.

To Karen, my extraordinary wife, whose golden smile can wither away the darkest shame and who loves me unconditionally.
To my longtime friends (who used to be my children) Brad, Brenda and John. Forgive me for all the times I've transferred my shame to you.
To my father, Jack. Toxic shame took your life and robbed us of our time.

This book is dedicated with optimism about our future to my newborn, Lara Catrina Seligman

From Gideon:
To Perry, who scarfed down more puns and recipes than he bargained for; and to my family, who aided and abetted my sick passion for theater.

From Adam:
To my parents, who taught me to love food and musicals; and to Craig, who's as enthusiastic about my cooking as he is annoyed by the show tunes that I blast in the kitchen.

To Chris and Chrystal Raptis, who entrusted this precious piece of Catskills history to me.
To my mom, Marie, for instilling in me that sharing food around a table is the simplest but most powerful expression of love of family and friends—a gift I will forever carry in my heart.

—Mike

To Marly and Marty Solomon, the OG New Yorkers, whose stories about their childhoods made New York sound both thrilling and terrifying.

To my mother, Effie Holmes, who always said a recipe is not the rule but a guide. Thank you for showing me how to smile and stand tall in the face of adversity.

To my father, Ulious Raiford, for showing me that although a zebra may not be able to change its stripes, a man has the opportunity to make things right not by showing his hand but by his actions.

To my sestra, Althea Raiford, for being both my cheerleader and the kick in the pants, often both at the same time.

And finally, to my Seven from Heaven—Shanelle, Kayla, Kenton, Kyra, Korvin, Evan Amir, and Khloe—you all are the legacy. You are Jupiter's wildest dreams come true and the reason I do this every day in the kitchen and on the farm.

To Jessica, thanks for teaching this dickhead what kindness and friendship really is. I bloody love ya!

This book is for Peter
who has been showing me for ten years
(and continues showing me every day)
that the idea that "love hurts"
is absolute bullshit

To everyone in cramped spaces and stifling atmospheres
letting in fresh air and finding wiggle room
embracing messiness and mistakes together
learning to move with fierce love and uncertainty
making us capable of something new

To all lovers of horror

For all those who shared their stories—
and for those with stories yet to be told.

To Lisa and Ike, apple magicians and North Stars each

for frishta
who stayed

For the six-books-a-week, just-one-more-page, trope-loving, library-card-owning, smutty-audiobook-in-public-listening, HEA-chasing dreamers. This is a love letter.

FOR SAMUEL L. JACKSON
The quintessential on-screen badass who exemplifies the Crazy as Hell spirit.

For
St. Hildegard of the visions

For my grandmother Kathy, and for all the impossible girls.

To Alvin R. Tarlov,
who has always tried to do the right thing,
even—especially—when it was complicated

Thank you for entrusting me with your memories

For little Z, who is not allowed to read this until I have been dead, like, a decade

I dedicate this book to my Self
because I put in that work.

For Mona and her profanely inspiring advice

To anyone who has ever whispered a wish in the dark

For Mum and Dad, who instilled in us the joy
of observing things just as they are

To the memory of
Wolodymyr Darmochwal,
founder of Veselka

To Ma and Ba,
for all the meals of my childhood.

To Ian, Penelope, and Hamish,
for all the meals yet to come.

To Clive, with chains of love

To Gabe and Alex,
I agree with Orwell—kids are awful fun
in spite of the nuisance.

For Alex and
our two beloved cubs

To those of us who cannot help but to look at true things

To my three free, beautiful Black children,
William, Josephine, and Charlotte.
You bear the names of ancestors, abolitionists, and activists.

"We are the children of those who refused to die."

For Alfred and Jenail,
whose love for land birthed my own.

For my son.
May you always know and love the Land.

TO ALL OF US

For my great grandfather,
Albert Edward Leland,
who flew.

For my father,
James Leland Randall,
who gave me my wings.

To people kept out of the record
이책은 기록되지 않은 사람들에게 바칩니다

For Lindsey Leavitt Brown, Ann Dee Ellis, Josie Lauritsen Lee, and Brook Davis Andreoli.
I love you.
Thank you for coming to find me.
Let's go somewhere fun.

For my father and my husband,
two men who have become far more than
the world expected of them.

To anyone who has ever been lonely.
Keep searching, your people are out there.

To those who have dared to be a beacon of light in the bleakest of moments

For those who have been with me since the beginning: look at what we've made. Thank you.

for Steven and Eliza
for setting the stage again and again

For Fred. Forgiven.

To the UnCreatives, the Colonists

To Elayne,
for holdng us all together

To the memory of my father, Maurice Hawes,
and the future of my third son,
Karl Maurice Hawes v. Oppen,
whose lives crossed for a few hours on 25 February 2015

To Sr. Mary Nerney, CND, and all the women still at Bedford.

For Margaret and for Graeme, who have shown me wonders

For Murphy and Hamish who manifest the best day ever, each morning.

To Chris. Thank you for being the reason I know more is possible.

Dedicated to my partner, Andy, and our two beautiful boys, Phoenix and Sebastian.
None of this would have been possible without the sacrifices overcome by our community.

Dedicated to everyone I call family.
(You know who you are.)
May we continue to grow from
each other's mistakes and triumphs.

To my grandsons

As you grew out of adolescence, Antonio, you worked with me on the earliest stages of this book.
As you grow into adolescence, Zai, this book is for you and adolescents everywhere.
With thanks to Brandon Almy—you have been with me every step of the way.

For my family—converts, exiles, and ghosts.
A mi familia—conversos, exiliados, y fantasmas.
A mi famiya—konvertidos, surgunlis, i fantazmas.

To all the girls who said fuck Prince Charming,
give me a scarred knight

To our sisters,
for all that we share

We dedicate this book to those who have come before us, and through their work, have made our own paths easier.

For Melanie,
To whom I can always turn around and ask,
"What do you think Bergson means when...?"

for Myla
for Will, Naushon, and Serena
for Sally
for Howie and Roz
for all those who care
for what is possible
for what is so
for wisdom
for clarity
for kindness
for love

For all the kids who wish to be a little less visible.
And for my niece, nephew and godchildren—the stars of my heart.

We dedicate these pages to our angels–at home, in neighborhood bookstores, and in the glitzy outer reaches of the media.

to my father
for my sons

SIEMPRE
Stephanie Dante, who rocked it on water
John Lovelace, who pulled it from fire.

MEMORIES
Robert Kirsch * Dorothea Oppenheimer * Henry Robbins

This book would never have been begun without
Robert S. Bravard and David G. Hartwell;

it's written for my ideal readers,
John Del Gaizo, Kathleen L. Spencer, Anthony C. Lilly, and Marilyn Hacker;

nor would it ever have been finished without
Robert Morales, Ricky and Janet Kagan, Shelley Frier, Mia Wolff, Linda Alexander, Daniel Sundance McLaughlin, Susan Palwick, and Charles Solomon Coup.

For Michael Stearns,
passenger indeed

For Deborah and Robert Harris
and their boys

and

For Karen Weller-Watson,
who has her own magic

For Frannie, late but heartfelt
Special thanks to Amy Edgar Sklansky and Diane Hart

For my father, who loves books and who introduced me to Star Wars when I was ten. A New Hope is the best one, by the way.

To the Palestinian children, killed, wounded and traumatized by living in the biggest prison on earth.

To Stav and Ido
May they help others
draw water from the
wellsprings of liberation

To my dad—so much of what is written here is a prolonged conversation with him; and to Maya and Noa, whom I have moved away from home, but for whom I'm trying, endlessly, to build another

In memory of my father, who told me so many stories about before.

For Lucien, with love from Dad

and in memory of Armen Mazloumian, proprietor of the Baron's Hotel in Aleppo, who refused to abandon his city and died there on January 15, 2016.

For Christopher Joseph Gould (1949-2022), lover of free inquiry

Between 1982 and 1990 an unknown number of Iranian women political prisoners were raped on the eve of their executions by guards who alleged that killing a virgin was a sin in Islam.

This book is dedicated to the memory of those women.

For Vee, who lives by the truth.

To Gaza,
The Truth

For Aria and Hawthorn
For Taj and Zakira Syed
and
For those lost in the pandemic

To the Syrians who rose up to demand freedom and dignity: Your heroism, sacrifice, and story will never be obscured by lies.

To the memory of the thousands anonymous
Who died in Gaza before their time
Though they had a life to live
En famille and in peace

To Khalid Hassan and Fakher Haider,
friends and colleagues who were killed
while looking for the truth
and
Lance Corporal William L. Miller,
who went first

To all the African immigrants around the world
who are striving against the odds

For Margaux Mae and all the daughters before her.

To the Rafah refugee camp
that my grandparents built
and that in turn gave birth to me,
the scene of my first smile.

To the class of 2016, who became the class of 2020

For my sister, Rebecca, who also knows these woods

For my sister, Tara.
Always an army of two.

To Kyle, for staring joyfully into the void with me, every day

For my mother, who taught me how to write

To our shuhada, those departed souls who bear witness to the crimes against them and humanity in front of our Lord.

To the living, who insist on existing, on being, beautifully, compassionately, where these is no compassion to be found.

And to the unborn thorns of disquiet,
flag bearers of freedom and tenacity.

To the defiant.
To the brave.
To the human.

To Abbu, who told me stories, and to Ammi, who taught me how to write them

For my mountain

For Shax
For my parents
For Berlin

For those who have always been deemed different
You will save us

For all ghuspetiyas everywhere, real and imagined, near and far.
For Carl Bromley, who asked me what I was smoking when I wrote this.
And for Ranen, who was always there.

For my parents,
their parents,
and your parents, too.

To A.D. and Diana
For your dreams and the dreams they've begotten

to all the women who supported me
even when they were in peril

FOR ANYONE TAUGHT THEY WERE GOING TO HELL

To the gardeners

and in memory of Pauline Craig

This book is dedicated to all those who have fought, and all those who will ever fight, for a more inclusive American democracy. We certainly wouldn't be legally permitted to write this book if it were not for you.

To the Masters of the Dew

to SHEIDA,
who betters worlds

I dedicate this book to everyone who has played my games. This book would not exist if not for you. Thank you for allowing me to fulfill a childhood dream, and thank you so much for playing my games.

Of these players, I wish to call out one specifically: my wife, Brenda. She is my best friend and love of my life. She has played all my games, is my number one fan, and supports my need to code and create. This book is for you.

For Herself:
Always, now, forever.

And for Those Who Came Before,
whose lives and too-often-tragic ends
imparted so much of the knowledge that
allowed me to build a secure world with Masha.

To my Nature Boy, my love
To Mama, for her unwavering support and love
To Papa, I'll always be your Bojojoy
To Tigerlily, for showing me the magic onstage

to teachers everywhere, sung and unsung

Whatever we do, we have to make our life vectors.
Lines with force and direction.
-Liam Neeson as FBI agent Mark Felt in the 2017 movie of the same name

To our grandmothers, mothers, and daughters

For Dad
who showed me how everything that matters
is pregnant with its opposite

To Cyra, Lucia, and Ramona, my candles in the dark.

To the people who do the work of the western valleys

This book is for anyone who needs a love story of being alone

Aleesha Paz.
At last this one's yours.
Though they always have been, and always will be.

This book is dedicated to my Carabinieri bodyguards
to the fifty-nine thousand hours we've spent together
and to those still ahead. Wherever they may be.

For all the women of the world
who have had no history

To our parents for their inexhaustible support
To Jessica and Sarah for... everything
To Jane, it really is fine if you opt not to become a bird scientist

FOR TABBY
this chest of wonders.

FOR THE STUDENTS AT YALE,
WHO MADE THIS BOOK POSSIBLE,
AND FOR THEIR GENERATION

This book is dedicated to my mother, Irene Ronita, whom I love with all my heart and soul, who carries my love with her on another plane, who believed in my dreams, who bought me my first typewriter, who knew even before I did that this day would come.

For Leo
husband, lover, collaborator, critic
and dearest friend,
who urged this book into existence
and saw me through
to the finish line

For Jennifer,
my beloved ideal companion

For my parents,
George and Janice Knipfel,
who have never once given up hope,
even after I have, time and again.
I love them with all I have.

FOR WOOD, MURPH, AND MIKE
WE SAW THE YEAR THAT REALLY CHANGED EVERYTHING

To the memory of my beloved parents, who unwittingly gave me—among many other things—the most paradoxical gift of all: a confusion about heroism.

Brother David Darst
In Memory
(1942-1969)
Because the work
was finished
in that flare.

We dedicate this book to all resisters
in American prisons—Prisoners of War
in their own country.
- D.B. & L.L.

This book is dedicated to
My wife, Caren, and my boys, Michael and Larry.
It ain't easy putting up with an author around the house.
To my Mom, Dad, and Beth and Richard
And to my grandmother, Goldie Weiss,
who believed early and never stopped.

To my companions in misfortune who were executed although innocent or who died in prison.
To all the innocent victims of the trials.
To all those friends, known and unknown, who fought and who gave their lives in the hope of achieving a better world.
To all those who carry on the struggle to restore humanity to socialism.

To Eve
these memorials of her native city

For the vision of Albert Wayne Wilson & the memory of Hannibal Cleveland Carter, and for all my other supports-Mary Carter Wilson, Kristin, Amanda, Nell L, Baraka, Brooks, Reed, Rasul, Ghasem, Jan, Yon, Melody, Mary Mo (oh don't you know?), MLS, S&Q, RL, RA, BR, CW, CB, AMT, CC & all the rest of the bumped-out goodcompany, jammin up a squared off storm!

This book is for Shirley Sonderegger,
who helps me mind my business,
and for her husband, Peter.

Dedicated to:
Dr. William Robert Jarrett
(1953—1993)

With an earth-based heart, he was water and sun to us and he smiled a lot.

Gwendolyn Brooks
Betty Shabazz
Ossie Davis
Ruby Dee
Avery Brooks

Abena Joan Brown
Barbara Sizemore
John Henrik Clarke
Delores E. Cross
Vivian Gordon

Our Best

and

The Students of Chicago State University Studying and Struggling to be Our Best.

To my wife Joan
for giving me the title
and a certain look
when I write too many words.

This book is dedicated to Edwin F. Berry (1894-1976), late of the AEF. This grand fellow was captain of the Hartford Public High School baseball nine in 1913. In 1975 he became the first person in the history of the Hartford Golf Club to shoot his age at that challenging links. In between those two milestones in his life he made a tremendous amount of friends.

To my analysands,
past, present,
and future

To
Charles Fort, who doubted.
Hayes Jacobs, who believed.
Eileen Garrett, who trusted.
Iris Vaughan, who helped.

This is for all the mamas.
You deserve respect, dignity, and recognition.
I honor you.
I celebrate you.
I see you.

To our respective families, we dedicate this book. We understand the price they have paid for us to write this book.

To all the Sinéads

Dedication

To the Michelle of five years ago,
and those of you who
may be in the exact same place today:

Here's the book I needed to survive.

I wrote it for us.

To Mom and Dad
for the roots and the wings.

This is for all the people serving time who did what they did, but are now doing something positive. I see what you are doing. I know who you are.

One hundred percent of my portion of the proceeds of this book will go to help people coming out of prison change their culture and remain free, and to the people in Haiti trying to rebuild their society and return to the glory of their past.

For Sam, Maya, and Mohamed.
Thank you for loving me, believing in me, and inspiring me to be a good ancestor.
I love you.
This is for you.

For Edward and Susan, who started it—
With Selby, who puzzled through—
To Evan, who dances me on home.

For Yulan who taught me eternal love.
For Chelsea, Natalia, Wilmer, and Husna.

For the one who deserved this more than I did

To David "Dawud" Lee, who I have loved imperfectly and will forever mourn.

To my children, Adrian and Sydney.
If you are never more than you are today,
to me you were always enough.

To my exes, my true loves,
wherever you are

If you're here,
I hope you like my dedication

Thank you for giving me my most intimate meaning:
If I hadn't met you, I wouldn't know what love is
I wouldn't know a thing

Mwah

To the memory of
Anne Sullivan Macy
humbly

for those who've helped in various moves

I dedicate this book, like the previous Da Morte, Odes Minimas, and all my future works, if there are any, to the memory of Ernest Becker, for whom I feel unrestrained vehement and passionate admiration.
H.H.

For all of my mothers, each of who fed me in her own way, and for everyone whose voices have gone unheard.

for the girl-thems

For Feroza Freeland,
whose light brightens our path

Author's Note

I am delighted to acknowledge my indebtedness to Ferdinand Monjo for his perceptive criticism and continuing encouragement through three years of work on this book; without him I think it might have taken ten.

These pages are dedicated to the memory of three fathers:

A. T. Hoban,
Edward Lewis Wallant, and
Harvey Cushman, under whose Christmas tree I first sar the mouse and his child dance.

R.H.
February, 1967

To everybody who left home

I dedicate this book to all the people who have shaped me and continue to shape me to be the best that I can be. None of us do it alone and the best of me is really a reflection of you. Thank you.

TO ALL RIOT GRRRLS,
PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE.

For Bram Boroson, astrophysicist and pirate,
the best brother I've ever had,

and for
Sammo Hung Kam-Bo.

For Melissa
who said, "Yeah, sure!"

This Book is Dedicated to
CHARLES DICKENS
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
DOROTHY L. SAYERS
JOHN H. MACDONALD
and
P. G. WODEHOUSE

To the women—living and dead—
of my family, all of them
ladies and guerrieras

And to James, who always believed

For my parents,
who taught me that imagination is precious

To the memory of
MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL
Whereon so'er thou looked
The light was starred in gems and the gold burned.

To the women who are done with other people's shit

For Florida, and Ders

For Tania, my last child, the joy of my life

To the truth tellers and truth seekers;
to those who live honestly now and to the others
who will one day; and last, but not least,
to those courageous enough to love in a way
that only creates freedom

Dedicated to my sons, Austin and Adam:
I could not be more proud of the men you continue to become.

FOR THE BOYS

To my mother, Rebecca,
and my wife's mother, Rose,
who also pioneered.

For playing partners departed—Dorothy Wilde, John Conley, Ted Lucas, Miné Crane, Jerry Mason, Hank Bourneuf—and for those still swinging: Wick Potter, Ted Vrettos, Vas Vrettos, Steve Bergman, Dick Purinton, Josiah Welch, Joan Hart, Dick Harte, Jacques de Spoelberch, Arthur O'Brien, Peter Connolly, Sonny Palmer, Sid Cohen, Stuart Strong, Bill Nichols, David Updike, and Michael Updike, to mention but a few

To Diana

my heavenly host on this earthly way, and to those unique and irreplaceable predecessors and successors, parents and children, without whose dedicated upbringing there would be no pages to fill, this book is offered.

To the memory of my revered teacher
ALBERT EINSTEIN

"This book is dedicated to the blessed memory of my parents, Otto and Frieda Michel, who were killed in Auschwitz in August, 1942.

My life's greatest regret is that they died without knowing that their two children, my sister Lotte and I, would survive the Holocaust. Between us we have seven children and nineteen grandchildren, sixteen of them in Israel.

This book is also dedicated to my children, Lauren Shachar, Joel Michel and Karen Daniels, and to my six grandchildren, Noga, Yair, Rachel, Nesia, Gil and Evan. I hope and pray that they and their descendants shall remember my miraculous survival as proof of the strength and continuity of our people.

Last, but not least, part of this dedication belongs to my wife, Amy, who has given me a new life."

For my spouse, living proof that flamboyance and discretion are not mutually exclusive

To the librarians and archivists who saved all this stuff.
God bless you and keep you.

To my mother and father, again. And again.
And to Michelle, as ever.

Dedication

You gave me Christopher Robin, and then
You breathed new life into Pooh
Whatever of each has left my pen
Goes homing back to you.
My book is ready, and comes to greet
The mother it longs to see—
It would be my present to you, my sweet,
If it weren't your gift to me.

This book is dedicated to every writer—aspiring and otherwise—who has a story to tell, a love of the written word, and a burning desire to see the fruit of their labor on a bookstore shelf. In a prime position. Cover out. With full publisher support behind it.

To my children,
Laurie, Jenny, Scott, and Lesley

May you enjoy a lifetime
of genuine peace
and love

For Brad
and for everyone else I've met while traveling
(but mostly Brad)

For everyone touched by dementia,
especially for Pat Hanrahan,
who will never be forgotten

To those of whom the record is made.
In gratefulness and in love.
J.A.
W.E.

To my husband, Greg...
A gentleman, and a gentle man
Love always,
L.K.

TO MY MOTHER, Grace Wolfe McCormack, who instilled in me, always with a twinkle in her eye, an awareness that money was indeed worth being concerned about and

TO MY FATHER, Ned Hume McCormack who, more than anyone I have known, demonstrated to me the importance of being highly sensitive to people's feelings no matter how difficult the circumstances.

Dedicated to The Scully Circus,
our trained fleas from heaven—
Skip, Syl, Pat, Non, and Mike—
and may they someday fly in one

To Michael Rothschild
Short Story Writer ~ Sculptor
Print-Maker ~ Orchardist
Farmer

Dick's Best Friend
and
Mine

To Vivi,
my own private
Statue of Liberty

TO MY SISTER MARY
who has always believed that I can
do anything she puts her mind to

TO MY FELLOW CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

I put the following work under your protection. It contains my opinion upon religion. You will do me the justice to remember, that I have always strenuously supported the right of every man to his opinion, however different that opinion might be to mine. He who denies to another this right, makes a slave of himself to his present opinion, because he precludes himself the right of changing it.

The most formidable weapon against errors of every kind is reason. I have never used any other, and I trust I never shall.

Your affectionate friend and fellow-citizen,

THOMAS PAINE.

Luxembourg (Paris), 8th Pluvôise.
Second year of the French Republic, one and indivisible.
January 27th, O. S. 1794.

TO MY WIFE

Who is the creator of the most charming character in this story, "Mrs. Godd," and who positively refuses to permit the book to go to press until it has been explained that the character is a Grecian Godd and not a Hebrew Godd, so that no one may accuse the creator of sacrilege.

FOR SUSAN—
AN EVER-FIXED MARK.
AN EVER-CHANGING DELIGHT

For Abigail Trillin and Sarah Stewart Trillin—
precisely the granddaughters Abe Trillin would have wanted

This book is dedicated to my mother,
and to the memory of my father, who in all probability
is still scratching his head in wonderment.

Dedication:
"So shall the last be first, and the first last."
(Matthew xx, 16)
-I.L.

For William Shawn, and no wonder

To my fellow journalists

To the dogs

For readers

For anyone who ever searched deep inside themselves and found a darkness that scared them.
And especially for Callie, who made this book whole.

To you, the reader
May your Universe be filled with friendship and love.

For those who lack voice

For Danielle, who's number one on my A-list

For the five fingers of my right hand— Judah, Gabriel, Lydia, Ruth, and Asher; for the one man who holds it; and for Ezra, who reminds us that God's dreams are always greater.

This is dedicated to the memory of Dr. David Maehr, a gifted wildlife biologist who helped me during the research for this book. Dave spent many years tracking and studying Florida's endangered panthers. Because of his efforts, and those of others who followed, these magnificent cats still roam wild in the swamps and prairies of southern Florida.

For you and you
and you.

To anyone who isn't ready or feels like they're falling behind.
Remember, it's not a race.

For Dylan
This is a novel based on my ninth-grade year of junior high. I wrote this story because I wish I could go back in time and give this message to myself.

To my grandmother Sitti Jamilah, who passed away on April 24, 2008, aged 98. I had hoped you could live to see this book and that you would be allowed to touch the soil of your homeland again. It is my consolation that you died surrounded by my father and family and friends who cherished you. May you rest in peace.

And to my father—
may you live to see a free Palestine
in your lifetime.

For those who go.

For Shelby Belle. You were no help editing this.

To Jonathan, who is writing a better story with me,
and our children, who bring us so much joy.
I love y'all the most.

TO THE MEMORY OF
Edward Said & Ibrahim Abu-Luhgod

For Peanut, for the fam, and for those whose stories are yet to be told

THIS ONE IS FOR ALL OF YOU WHO, AS I DID,
NEEDED SOME BRIGHTNESS DURING A DARK TIME.

To the Syrian and Palestinian families who taught me about home
by welcoming me into theirs

For Paige
(May you find happiness every day)

To my children
Christine, Carole, Cynthia
my hope for a long and
satisfying life for them

For my dad.
Still the best writer I know.

Dedicated to the queerness
in each of us

Dedicated to all the vagabond mamas in my life.

For my parents—forever hungry for knowledge, stories, and good food

Dedicated to all the fat kids. It gets butter. Better!
Sorry. Better. It gets better.

This one's for Duncan, a rocket nearing escape velocity

In Memoriam
Herbert Elliot Mandell, M.D.
Who taught me to love unconditionally

Dedicated to
John Crothers Pollock III, Ph.D.
Who loved me back to life.

To little Ben in 2015:
Thank you for choosing to stay so I could write this book for you.

For You

For all fans everywhere who have suffered for their passions

TO
CALVIN H. HIGBIE,
Of California
an Honest Man, a Genial Comrade,
and a Steadfast Friend.
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
By the Author
In Memory of the Curious Time
When We Two
WERE MILLIONAIRES FOR TEN DAYS.

FOR JORDAN SANDERSON
Who can explain to any who ask
What it's like to have a brother
Who spends most of his time dreaming.
(Thanks for putting up with me.)

For P. You were right. I could. And I did.

To Bubbe, who introduced me to New York

TO AIDAN
For all its mayhem and exhaustion, there has been no greater adventure and no prouder project than being a part of your pit crew

I'm the Girl is dedicated to my sister, Megan, and out mother, Susan.

This might be the only page in one of my books they wouldn't be afraid to see themselves.

Thank you both for all you have and
—thankfully—
haven't inspired.

In memory of my mother, Dorothy Elizabeth McMahon—my co-conspirator, my teller of tales, my blue-eyed newt.

I know we'll meet again; you'll be waiting one day, with a bottle of gin and a smile. We'll climb into your old Vega, crank the radio as loud as it can go, and ride right on our into the stars.

This book is dedicated to the three million workers of the Civilian Conservation Corps (1933-1942)

For Mom and Dad, who taught me what is real.

For Calder, Jack, and Sadie, my sweetest companions, both in the kichen and out.

Dedicated to everyone who works to keep our public lands preserved and pristine.

To my dear sister Boni, who listed to my very first stories and asked for more -L.J.

To my beautiful wife Lisa, for being the person behind the elephant, with a shovel cleaning up my messes. And for her meatloaf.

To my late mother, Jinny Chalmers, you taught me how to love and live life fully while standing for justice. I miss you every day.

TO MY PARENTS,
WHO SAVED THE VERY FIRST CORK,
AND TO MY AUNT MARLENE,
WHO SAVED THE LAST

Dedicated to the hope that somwhere in our universe there exists a civilization whose inhabitants possess sole dominion over their own lives, where every individual has the ability to regognize and the courage to acknowledge reality, and where governments as we know them do not exist.

For my father and mother, Beck and Emma Gipson, whose memorable tales of frontier dogs supplies me with the incident and background for this story.

Dedicated to My Parents, Brother and Sisters
Who Did Not Survive The Holocaust
And Whose Love and Nurturing
Gave Me The Strength To Survive And Tell This Story

For all victims of terror, and those who loved them.
May God comfort all mourners and wipe the tears from their faces.

To the brave women of Haiti,
grandmothers, mothers, aunts,
sisters, cousins, daughters, and friends,
on this shore and other shores.
We have stumbled but we will not fall.

For Ismene,
and all the mothers who have lost her.

To Mariano Cornejo, who showed me how to stand firmly on the ground, and to Dunan Macdonald, who taught me how to navigate by the stars.

TO MY BROTHER, JOSEPH V. JONES
and, again,
TO THE MEMORY OF OUR MOTHER, JEANETTE S. M. JONES
who could have done much more in a better world

To all the children like Maurice whose lives are harder than we can imagine. Never lose hope that you can break the cycle and change your life. And never stop dreamong, because the power of dreams can lift you.

For my grandfathers:
Lt. Col. Lawrence Aubrey Greensides, USAF (Ret.),
and
Lt. James Irwin Wilson, USN (Ret.)
who tilled the soil of my imagination

To the eastern white cedar and the redbud in my front yard,
who bring me shade, joy, and medicine in the heart of the city.

For my mother,
who taught me to tell stories and
find truth in make-believe

TO JORGE LUIS BORGES LAPRIDA LAFINUR SUÁREZ ACEVEDO LYNCH

and his idea of Ireland
as a vast theatre
where a ritual drama
is ceaselessly enacted
under the direction
of a Great Director & Dreamer

AND TO THE RE-CREATED
AND RE-ENACTED
SINN FEIN AND I.R.A.
OF THE FUTURE

To my first teacher, my mother, Rosemarie Greb.
And in memory of my father, Lewis Mays, who,
as a lad of seventeen during the Second World War,
left the countryside for the sea and, aboard HMS Nelson,
defended Shakespeare's England.

For my sister.
I know how much you miss him.

This book is dedicated to my family—by blood and by bond. Your love continues to carry me.

For the culture...

For Ishara and Najja, the best stories I ever wrote

for Mosiah, Irie, and Nazareth,
my beloved monsters

To the Earth.
Thanks for feeding us so well.
This book was written on the traditional lands of the Duwamish people. I'm grateful to those who tended the land before us and to those who call this land their home.

For Fred
(aka my marine biology textbook)
and for the much abused Caribbean Sea

For baby Leela:
may you stay safe
and wild

And for imperfect mothers

To the island and people of Ibiza

For my packpackpack

To
Bob Wunsch
Who is one of the long-winded angels
Right round the throne
Go gator and muddy the water

For Lisa Sanaye Dring, who asked for the body and the earth.

To my family, for all the adventures we've had that shaped how I see the world.

To all the sweet piggies

To those who love birds
and defend their place on earth

For pleasure

This book is for Brandon, who saw me and loved me, even when I could not see or love myself, and for Joshua, the first to show me that love is a living link to the dead.

For the trans community the world over:
I see you, I hear you, I love you.
This story is for you.

TO MY HUSBAND, JAROD, AND SON, ARTHUR
YOU ARE THE SUNSHINE OF MY LIFE

TO MRS. DOBRY, WHO TOLD ME
I COULD BE A WRITER IN FIFTH GRADE
AND CURSED ME FOREVER
THANK YOU

For Michael
and
For the women who fell victim
to the 1645-47 East Anglian witch hunt:
in these pages, you are remembered.

For Courtney Love, Deborah Anne Dyer AKA Skin,
Dolores O'Riordan, Donita Sparks,
Fiona Apple, Juliana Hatfield, Kat Bjelland,
Kim Deal, Kim Gordon, Liz Phair,
PJ Harvey, Shirley Manson, Sinéad O'Connor,
Tori Amos, and my teenage self

For Riann
You can ask me a thousand times, in this lifetime
or the next, and the answer will be the same: every day.

Dedicated to those women who were told or made
to feel their voices were incendiary.

For Craig Markus, the best Feh I ever knew

To anyone who ever played on the Scottwood Courts.
To anyone who never wanted to make it out of the places that love/d them.

For the river pride.

For Alice and David Belgray
Mom, maybe skip Chapter 9? Dad, if you're up there, you, too.

For Cade, the new light
in a grandfather's eye

For my queer family:
I do all this through you who give me strength.

For Johannes,
without whom I wouldn't.

For everyone who couldn't think what to say

For Jerry McGann
a light to lesson ages, rebel nations,
and voluptuous princes

For my mom...
though, were she here, I'd definitely urge
her not to read this book.

Dedicated to my parents, Mim and Lou Castleman, who once asked,
"A writer? How on earth will you make a living?"

And to Anne Simons,
for more than fifty years my partner in love and life, who always encouraged me to chase my dreams and never once said, "Mike, get a job."

To Geronimo, whom we named after the warrior,
and to Ben, who named himself,
I offer this quilt.

My family—which includes my daughters, my sons-in-law, and grandchildren—has a new member. His name is Clive. Clive is a step into the future. Unbeknownst to him, the world is changing rapidly. The recipient of all those changes will be Clive. This book is dedicated to the Clives of the world, who are being born into a maelstrom of activity. If we are diligent enough given all the new, wonderful things that are being invented even as you read this book, the world as we know it may continue to exist. That will be up to Clive and company. I wish them well.

To everyone who has ever sought, received, or provided
healing through erotic pleasure

For Danil:
so that you discover one day that you walk
among friendly shadows.

For Eliza, who picked up the pieces

For my children, and all children

For those who were there

With gratitude to the fungi from which I have learned

For Mum and dad, who unlocked my first words,
and for mīne mōdlufe Ryan

TO MY MOM.
There's a confession I must make:
during middle school, I stole every shirtless-cowboy
romance novel from your nightstand that you warned me
not to read. Miss you every day, and
I hope this makes up for it.

For my father
And for all those who nurture tropical
flowers under grey northern skies

Dedicated to my children:
May you strike to make
the world a better place.

For me. I love you very much. You deserve everything you desire.

For Devyn,
whose facial expressions already say more
than any equations can

For the ones like me who stare at a mirror all day hoping to fix it all with their eyes...
I have broken my mirror, please break yours.

Also for Olúrèmi Àbáké
Òrisà bí yá, kò sí láyé.

For Seán, always
and Father Eamonn, who did not laugh when I said I raved

To all those touched by the Kent State tragedy

This is dedicated to the founders of Promise Land, Tennessee,
the founders of the Shrine of the Black Madonna,
and those who carry on their work

For my parents, Safia and Yassin Mohseni, who encouraged us to be passionate and curious; for my children, who, at times, had to share their father with Afghanistan; and to our fallen colleagues at Moby, whose memory inspires us to keep working.

For those donating their time and energy to preserving the records of the flying-saucer era

To my grandmother, Jidatee, who taught me that a free woman has nothing to fear

To my father, Abouee, who always believed in me

To my mother, Ummi, for whom I am full of admiration

To my brothers and sisters who share this story

To Anwar who has shown such independence throughout his life and has proved the perfect partner

And to Moad and Adan, may you find hope and justice in your own lives

DEDICATED TO THE ONES WHO
LIGHT UP
MY HEART AND MY SKY

This book is dedicated to Reem Makhoul—an extra-ordinary wedding gift to you, Reem, from the authors.

In memory of my beloved friend Shireen Abu Aqla, the 'voice of Palestine'. These days, I find myself looking back on our times together, wishing you were still here.

To Catrin, whom I met in Gaza

To the memory of James Roderick (Roddy) Evans (1923-2020)
Irish surgeon, scholar and peacemaker who courageously
acknowledged the shadow side of his community's past policies
veritas sine timore

For my parents,
who made it all possible

And my wife and children,
who make it all worthwhile

To Widad, my mother, a storyteller, who fell silent
before she could find out the end of the story

To my dad, who is voting for him

For Jeff Griffin, whose moonlit kindness saved me

to life as it arises, Suzanne

FOR ZACK
King Suddhodana did say that love for one's
children pierces the skin, sinews, and soft tissues,
and then pierces the bone.
It comes to rest there, pressing into the marrow.

For Julia—my second, and my first

For Jude Fawley; for Ida, who shares his vision; for Annie, who didn't.

To Yousuf and Noor. Thank you for always helping me to put things in perspective. I hope one day this will all make sense.

This book is dedicated to the thousands of working people with whom I worked, whose courage and sacrifice and hopes and fears are, in the end, the only reason this story matters.

This book is dedicated to Syria
and its people.

To those who do not have freedom of movement (yet)

For two dreams.

To Razan al-Najar (1996-2018):
Martys don't die; they soar.

To the memory of
MAGDA AL-NOWAIHI AND EDWARD W. SAID

A Simple Word of Thanks

Thank you to those women who escaped the clutches of Daesh for their willingness to speak about the details of their suffering, despite the fact that deep wounds don't speak, they can only be felt.

Thank you to those victims who were killed but didn't die, who came back to tell us their stories.

Thank you to all those people in the camps for their hearts, which are as open to the air as their tents.

Thank you to Abdullah Shrem, a hero of our time.

To Ido and Yonatan, my two lovely boys. May they live not only in a modern Palestine but also in a peaceful one.

Dedicated to the youth of Palestine,
who from their parents'
unwavering struggle for freedom
will build a future of their own choosing

To Ingmar Bergman, whose film Wild Strawberries was an inspiration for this book

For all the flying fishermen of the apocalypes,
especially Jimmy

To my dead cat
SPIDER
born in Palisades, New York,
now a resident of Positano,
my cellmate for most of these pages

To
Carl Van Vechten
God's image of a friend

To my mother, Marion J. Hill,
and to the memory of my father, Paul Laurence Hill.
For the unspoken as well as the spoken.

dedicado a todos los que siguen luchando por un puerto rico libre del yugo colonial y para mi madre, yolanda rivera castillo.

This book is dedicated to Christopher Meyer, and to the next generation—and the next, and the next— of readers and writers inspired by June Jordan

Dedicated to new peoplelife
with gratitude to R. Buckminster Fuller

Dedicated
to the liberation of all my love
and
to the memory of Granville I. Jordan
who fathered many dreams
and
to the memory of Mildred M. Jordan
whose sacrifice I hope to vindicate
and
to life itself

For all these people and times
and for Peggy DeCoursey,
whose constancy and support
have mattered for so many of us.

dedicated to the children of Atlanta and to the children of Lebanon

dreams
arms
doors
air

ash

dreams
arms
doors
air

dedicated to love

To my parents—
Thank you for having me.
Now look what I've done.

For all of us

Dear reader,
Please, always drive responsibly.

Humbly for George Jackson, who could "still smile sometimes..." Whose eyes warmed to life until the end; whose face was determined, unconquered, and sweet.

And for my heroes, heroines, and friends of early SNCC whose courage and beauty burned me forever.

And for the Mississippi Delta legend of Bob Moses.

And for Winson Hudson and Fannie Lou Hamer whose strength and compassion I cherish.

And for my friend, Charles Merrill, the artist, who paints skies.

And for Mel, the Trouper's father, who daily fights and daily loves, from a great heart.

For my mother, Olla Vaisman, who encouraged me to dream hard and let me read books instead of doing chores.

For my husband, Terry Montimore, who encouraged me to write hard and gave me the time and space to do so. (Sorry about the book hoarding and messy house.)

FOR TIMOTHY DONNELLY
everything and always

To all those wonderful people out there in the dark

To Ian, Luke and Chyler:
no house, not even The Astrology House, is a home without you.
Thank you for every day and every adventure.

For my wife, Lisa

"You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how." - Clark Gable, Gone with the Wind

TBD (if you get a copy of this book with this dedication, someone messed uppppp because this is a very unedited version okay bye)

This Book Is Dedicated to
Kermit
My Life, My Love, My Frog

FOR JONATHAN STARCH,
WHO TOOK A SURVIVOR AND
WALKED HIM BACK TO LIFE

For EVE, AREN, AND WILL,
my all and everythings

To the staff and volunteers of Washington County Hospice and Palliative Care, and especially to the patients I visited with my border collie, Izzy. I'm grateful to them and to their families for allowing us to share one of life's most intimate moments.

Time and again, we met people driven to the very edge of life, often alone, sometimes weary and afraid, and we saw the greatest love, faith, and courage I've ever witnessed.

This book is dedicated, with gratitude and undying respect, to all the librarians (with a particular nod to my friend Becky Spratford) who help to ensure that we are not forever condemned to repeat the past

This is for Chris Lavin, who doesn't have all the answers—just the ones that matter.

For
Lynne Marie Nichols
and
Hope Virginia Nichols
Expert wife and peerless daughter

To all the men and women who lost their lives in war

to the endangered and vanishing ones

For May, and Isla, and all my friends who carried me through, and all our hopes for a liveable future.

To you, all of you,
who embody anarcha-feminism every day.
Who tend unceasingly to life.
Who too often are unseen.
Without you, the ground would crumble
and the stars would fall.

TO

CHIKANOBU MICHIBA
(1967-2016)

ALL THOSE LOST LIVES
NAMED IN THIS BOOK

ALL THE LOSS HELD BY
THOSE STILL LIVING

AND MY THREE
NOW-DEAD PARENTS,
BARB AND DAVE MILSTEIN,
AND MARY BURKS

For the families we build from scratch.

To the practical utopians.

To Lally and Katherine and Pamela Weymouth,
who have the old-fashioned kind.

TO OUR
ANCESTORS

Dedicated to my ancestral mother Boda, who survived the transatlantic initiation ad to you Sangodare, my star at sea

Exactly fifty women were sent into France as secret agents by the Special Operations Executive during the Second World War.
Of those, thirty-six survived the war. The other fourteen gave their lives.

This book is dedicated to all of them.

For
AVERELL HARRIMAN
who has seen the cycles pass, and turn again

For My Husband—for Every Reason

For all the children of Israel and Palestine.

For inconvenient women everywhere

To the far too many who have been murdered or are still missing. Let them never be forgotten.

To the shooters—
who have been,
and always will be

To my parents, for their faith and patience,
and to Jay, for everything else

To those courageous enough to seek their adventure.
Be Bold. Dream Big.
For the adventure you're ready for...
is the one you get
-JP

To those who survive
against all the odds

For my parents.
Both of them, because I couldn't choose.

For my wonderful Tamara, who juggles golden balls
and carries heavy burdens with equal grace and style

For those in the shadows

For Will
These years with you have been the most excellent adventure

And for Keanu & crew: some mentioned here, and many more in my heart, thank you for bringing much needed smiles when at times all we could see were our masks.

For Mary, as all of them are.

TO LEON WERTH

I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world. I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold.
He needs cheering up. If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew. All grown-ups were once children—although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication:

TO LEON WERTH
When he was a little boy

To everyone who has been made to feel as if their nuance is a nuisance.

And to those picking up the pieces others thought they had broken beyond repair.

To the Rafah refugee camp
that my grandparents built
and that in turn gave birth to me,
the scene of my first smile.

DEDICATION
This one's for Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Anderson, my high school English teachers, without whom I wouldn't be doing this for a living.
-Rosemary Edghill

Dedication
To all individuals throughout history who searched for the truth and when they found it, taught it and lived it... regardless of the consequences.

For my wonderful parents, Richard and Brenda.
After filling my childhood with mythology books and romance novels, you guys had to have seen this coming.

Some repetitions are cliché. Others are priority. I dedicate this book to those we owe a future: to Rowan, to Bruno, to Ara, to Lucía.

For you
when you're feeling lonely and worried
so you'll remember that you're not alone
-S.H.

For Shannon
-L.P.

To the memories of
Nya Nje, Nya Keke,
Nya Ndig-ge sia, and Kaynya.
Your spirits and presence within me
give me the strength to carry on,

to all the children of Sierra Leone
who were robbed of their childhoods

and

to the memory of Walter (Wally) Scheuer
for his generous and compassionate heart
and for teaching me the etiquette of
being a gentleman

To Vaclav Havel, Nelson Mandela, and Paul Wellstone
Pioneers of twenty-first-century politics

This book is dedicated to all of my families—the one I come from, the one I married into, the one I am making with my own children, and the one I cook with every day at the restaurant. You are my blood, my bones, and, for sure, my sweet butter.

In memory of
David George Perry
A good Baptist
A very good friend

To Billy Wilder
Somebody's perfect.

For Sam, Rose, Heidi and Karen,
My closest links with time...

For you and you
and you.

Dedicated to hard-working 411 operators all over the world.

FOR PSYCHE

To Jacob
Without whom none of this would be possible.
You saved my life,
And fixed my grammar.

To Mama, who always took me dress shopping at Dillard's.
Thank you for everything.

For Opa,
who taught me I could take on anything,
but don't have to put up with everything.

To all the strangers who made a dreary moment magical

This book is for my mother,
who lives in every line.

For everyone who has ever entered a room and felt they did not belong.

To the women who held my hand when I was lost.

Amanda
Carmel
Holley
Irene
Jill
Kylie
Lauren
Maria
Sarah
and
Petunia

For Missy and Melita
and
For all those
who have seen and heard what others can't

For James and Jonah, for the continuous softening.

For all the girl monsters.
May they conquer the world.

To my family—Mama, Baba,
Nana, Aisha, and Mohamed.
It is an honour to be part of us.

To Jason and Josie—because they are my everything

To Judy Blume and Michelle Obama (in the unlikely event that they read my book)

To my parents (in the likely event that they would disown me if I dedicated this to Judy and Michelle but left them out)

For the librarians. Invictus.

For all my badass grandmas

For Mum and Dad, much better parents
than are often found in Greek mythology

For Mary Shelley, mother of monsters

For Su, my mother,
and for Beryl, my grandmother,
and for my kids, who will climb mountains because of them.

And for Jonny.
This one doesn't count, and I know it.

for all the attic girls

To those who escaped a love like death,
and to those still caught in its grasp,
you are the heroes of this story.

For Christine Blasey Ford,
whose testimony triggered this narrative;

And for my children—
dragons, all.

To Ashley,
who knows just how long ago this story begain;
and to Stu,
who listened patiently to each and every ending.

For past me,
who didn't give up,
and future me,
who will look back on all of this and be so proud.

For anyone who's been scared or hurt,
who's loved and lost.
You're brave.
You're enough,
I believe in you.

for queer folks, all of us, far and wide and throughout time

To all the little girls who learned to stay quiet and not take up space in the world. May you find your inner harpies and demand your due, at long last.

For goddesses of all shapes and sizes

To romance authors, veterans of this industry and debuts alike—thank you for writing the kind of love worth believing in and giving readers (including me) hope

For my fellow queer folks who love Christmas. May we continue to make the Yuletide as gay as possible...

To Gwen—thank you for staying by my side through the darkest years of my life. I hope you'll still be by my side through the brightest times to come.

FOR
George Lucas
Harrison Ford
Mark Hamill
Irvin Kershner
J. J. Abrams
Rian Johnson

FOR THE SUICIDAL PERSON IN ALL OF US

For Mom, Dad, and Tess—
my favorite Midwestern conversationalists.

And for Felipe—
my home away from hometown.

To the people who gave me one-star reviews
because the first book "had lesbians."
I doubled the lesbians in this one. Just for you.

To friends—
Phillip has been there since it started

and lovers—
Jesse was there until the end

For Victoria and my mother's mothers,
My sisters, Brooke and Kate,

And especially Stephen, who helped me roll this curse

To Dad, whose generosity of spirit was an inspiration in life and beyond—and who might actually have read this book if only I had completed it on time.

And to my baby daughter, Frankie, whose birth finally made me realize what I put my poor parents through. Sorry Mum (and Dad, if you're listening).

For Rory
My beautiful, heartbreak boy
with galaxies trapped in your head.
You are so loved.

A WORD OF THANKS

To these I owe a debt past telling:
My several muses, harsh and kind;
My folks, who stood my sulks and yelling,
And (in the long run) did not mind;
Dead legislators, whose orations
I've filched to mix my own potations;
Indeed, all those whose brains I've pressed,
Unmerciful, because obsessed;
My own dumb soul, which on a pittance
Survived to weave this fictive spell;
And, gentle reader, you as well,
The fountainhead of all remittance.
Buy me before good sense insists
You'll strain your purse and sprain your wrists.

To
the folly of Man
and
the mercy of God

This book is dedicated to you,
the ever-constant student, teacher,
and practitioner of this continuously
evolving art and science of medicine.

To Mindy Jenkins and Jake Jenkins
(May this serve as the final word that I
have the best feet in the family.)

Fighting Times is dedicated to my sons Eli and Noah, whose questions about my life, during the period I battled pancreatic cancer, inspired me to write this book. It is my deepest hope that they will continue to find their own ways to better society as they proceed along their lives' paths.

For Carlotta, on our 12th Wedding Anniversary

Dearest: I give you the original script of this play of old sorrow, written in tears and blood. A sadly inappropriate gift, it would seem, for a day celebrating happiness. But you will understand. I mean it as a tribute to your love and tenderness which gave me the faith in love that enabled me to face my dead at last and write this play—write it with deep pity and understanding and forgiveness for all the four haunted Tyrones.

These twelve years, Beloved One, have been a Journey into Light-into love. You know my gratitude.
And my love!

GENE
Tao House
July 22, 1941.

for Massie and the boys
WHOSE EXISTENCE BEFORE, DURING, AND AFTER
MAKES FAILURE AND SUCCESS
A STUFF OF DREAMS

To everyone my daughter will know
as she grows up.

I hope she will be able to invent her place
in a world in which it's normal to find
success and fulfillment.

In memory of Joseph Duell, 1956-1986,
that the cry for help might yet be heard.

For Thaddeus and Skyla.
Because being your mum makes writing only
the second-best job in the world.

For my four-legged family in fur coats: Wendy, Marshmallow, Pasta, Gremlin, George, Lucrezia, Cesare, Falstaff, Bunny, Luigi, Thisbe, and Catallus

For Brenna

y que se atreva el tiempo duro
a desafiar el infinito
del cuatro manos y cuatro ojos

And in memory of Lumi Videla (1948-74) and all those who fought fascism in Chile fifty years ago

For everyone who figured it out a little later in life.

This book is dedicated to the trans people who lived the lives that made the history I've outlined here, and to the trans people, and our friends and allies living today, who continue to make history by advancing the cause of social justice.

For Benjamin D. Hitz,
Close friend of my youth,
Best man at my wedding.
Ben, you used to tell me about
Wonderful books you had just read,
And then I would imagine that I
Had read them, too.
You read nothing but the best, Ben,
While I studied chemistry.
Long time no see.

for the ancestors (always)...

If the reader gets half the pleasure that I got from this book, I will feel doubly rewarded. All the work—collecting, designing, calligraphing, the illustrating, binding—except the printing is mine. Any deficiency is solely my responsibility. But any credit I must share with many supportive friends, especially Caroline Kandler and Gould Hulse, Pam Moore, Ann Medlock, Jack Robinson; all previous collectors of Irish proverbs; my family in Ireland and particularly my grandmother, who for me embodied the soul of Ireland. This little book is lovingly dedicated to her memory, and to my daughter, dearest Sion.

For my parents, my children, and my husband,
whose love gave me strength.
And for the people of Iran,
whose perseverance gave me hope.

THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
TO THE HALOED MEMORY OF ONE WHO, PONDERING THE HEROIC RECORDS OF HER RACE, DEDICATED HER LIFE TO IRELAND'S HOLY CAUSE, AND IN UNDYING STRAINS SANG THE GLORIES THE SORROWS AND RADIANT HOPES OF HER LAND BELOVED—
EIRE'S QUEEN OF SONG,
ETHNA CARBERY.

For my husband,
Richard Jed Wyatt
With deep love
and
For my brother,
Dean T. Jamison
Who kept the night at bay

TO THE UNRELENTING VOICE IN MY HEAD
THAT WILL NEVER ALLOW ME TO STOP.

This book is dedicated to the millions who battle mental illness in the shadows. May it help you come into the light, find your support tribe, and live another day.

To those who've lost someone to their mental health battle: I see you. I feel your pain. You are not alone. Keep pressing forward.

And finally, to the tribe from which we hail:
David, Page, Asa, Chandler, Brooklyn, Jet, Raegan, and Rodney. Thank you. We love you.

For my darling Kayla, the new light in my life. My wishes for you are too many to count, so I'll just wish you love. Everything magic and everything real, everything that matters springs from that.

To a World Without Oil

TO
JANET AND DAVID
AND THEIR CONTEMPORARIES
WHO MUST CARRY THE TORCH OF LIBERTY
ON ITS NEXT LAP

For the eight thousand Italian Jews who could not be saved.

For the millions taken slave by the Nazi war machine, and the countless who did not make it home.

And for Robert Dehlendorf, who heard the tale first, and rescued me.

To Bounty,
without whom
nothing would
be possible

DEDICATION
To the loving memory of those Palestinians who fell victims of aggression in defense of their homeland and to the future generations of Palestinians lest they forget what they lost and how they lost it!

To my mother,
who told me
the best picture is still unpainted,
the best book is still unwritten

To my father, Harry, who fought and survived in the forests of Europe and taught me to question the hidden histories.

This book is dedicated to ordinary men and women, whose voices deserve to be heard in the corridors of power.

To my father, who will not be mentioned in the world history books, though he is written in the heart of God as His beloved child: Michael Moussa Chacour from Biram in Galilee, refugee in his own country and one who speaks the language of patience, forgiveness and love.

And to my brothers and sisters, the Jews who died in Dachau; and their brothers and sisters, the Palestinians who died in Tel-azzaatar, Sabra and Shatila refugee camps.

For my family, who taught me how to have a mind of my own and respect for the rules

DEDICATION
For Toby Dalton, my wild knowing boy,
who connjures the universe according to his own design

For Erik, keeper of the faith
last of the true believers.

This book is dedicated to
the Freedom Fighters of Africa
living and dead

For Ian, Ben, and Jonas,
for always believing in dragons—and in me

To the people of Greece in these difficult times

for Eli Zal
who has done so much to improve this book—
and my life

To the ones who have slipped into the mirror,
And the ones who reflect it in their eyes.
To the ones who must hide everything,
And the ones who lose what they hide
To the ones who cannot be silent,
And the ones who must lie.

For those who die in war,
and those who die opposing it.
For the dead in Viet Nam:
for Tom Merton and Dave Darst.

To Alexandra, who grew up with Goddesses

This book is dedicated to my mother,
Nancy Ruth Riordan, who gave me my
sense of humor and, hence
the ability to survive
in this world.

For Beatriz,
my architect

For anyone who really needs a cup of tea and a nice book.

Take a break. You've earned it.

To my wife, Felicity.
To my family.
To my friends.
To those I loved who are no longer at my table.

This book is dedicated to the men and women
who saved my life

To my father, Kenneth Baker, with whom I always got along best at the ballpark, and to my uncle Bruce Baker, who took me to see Willie Mays. Both fans of the old breed, Giants rooters from the Irish Bronx.

To my wife, Ellen Abrams, who wanted to see this book finished even more than I did. With love.

And to Abadi Leynse, who loves the game today and who I hope finds as much joy and gratification in it as I have.

IN MEMORY OF CLAIRE HAWKINS, MY GREAT-AUNT, WHO LIT MY CHILDHOOD

To the librarians,
The animal rescuers,
Every last rebel.

And to my Chupacabra,
forever and ever.

To Anne and Jeff, who see the big meaning in small things.

For Daisy, for being there from the beginning.
And for Henry, for promising to stay until the end.

For Chloe and Emily,
because friends will help you move,
goof friends will help you move a body,
but best friends will badger you into taking a nap, going on a walk, and drinking a glass of water before you snap and commit felony homicide in the first place.

In the name of Ana and of Daniel,
this other name,
with all the letters of my name.

this is my mixtape for you

To anyone who's ever entered one of the clubs in this book, walked onto its stage, tuned up, and changed lives

To all those who did not live to complete their stories.

To my recently deceased father, Lawrence S. Phillips, who was a champion of social justice.

This book is also dedicated to breaking the cycle of betrayal and abuse that has afflicted the Kurdish people.

To everyone who understands why some of this might be serious.

For our babies—all of them

For the unseen

For anyone who has ever aggravated, irritated, antagonized, dismissed, offended, harassed, diminished, provoked, peeved, angered, annoyed, riled, disturbed, miffed, vexed, irked, crossed, or wronged me in any way...

I forgive you.

To Samira, the auspicious symbol of Syria,
And to Syria, the symbol of a progressively Syrianized world.

The time of my life: for Sarah ("Long Live"), Sydney ("Tim McGraw"), Allison ("Right Where You Left Me"), Charlie ("Enchanted"), Matthew ("Champagne Problems"), Jackie ("White Horse"), David ("Clean"), Maggie ("Nothing New")

To my parents, Abbas Sameh and Stephanie Sameh, who taught me about justice, and my sister, Sarah Sameh—border-crossers all

For Erik Doxtader, who pointed out that ISIS is the doubling in capital letters of the verb to be in the third person: ISIS, is, is, is, is...

For my daughter, Clara, in the hope that she will grow up into a world genuinely at peace

For...

T.P. McKenna (1858-1929) and Sarah Clinton (1867-1904)

Mary Teresa McKenna (1894-1983) and Terence P. O'Reilly (1889-1945)

Máire O'Reilly (1920-2012) and William Niall Dungan (1906-1964)

Without whom...

And for my beloved brother Niall Dungan (1943-2019)—
'without whom' in so many different ways...

For Ernest Mandel
who has always believed that the real meaning of life lies in conscious participation in the making of history.

IN MEMORY OF MY PARENTS
whose love of Dublin was infectious

To my son, John,
who loved the children of Ireland and could not be indifferent to their pain. Whatever he may have done, he did not deserve to die.
Emily McIntyre

for Russell
1963-1997

the beautiful boy
has entered
the beautiful city

For the wild Irish girl

In memory of the 5.2 million children rendered orphans by loss of parent or caregiver during the pandemic as of October 2021.

In memory of those rendered orphan by wars across the planet, especially those in the Middle East, Africa, and the Ukraine.

And in memory of all the living species and natural habitats lost during the current and ongoing Anthropocene Era.

For all those rendered orphan through the age or illness of others.

for
sassafrass, cypress, indigo,
graciéla & smoke
sierra, seattle, memphis
melissa, mykko, lily & trinidad
memories & hopes

& love to
ronare bearden
in all his hues

For my baby,
who doesn't have a name yet.

For the children
of Flint

This book is the physical manifestation of lessons learned through the school of everyday life.

It is for the seeker.

It is for the one who chooses to dive into unexplored depths.

It is for the one who is ready to meet the truth within themselves.

It is for you.

May you connect to the universe inside.

To my mom and dad, for being happy and loyal in every way imaginable.

For you/yes/you

To all my teachers, whether they intended to be one or not

for my parents
for John
for you
for always.

To the divine feminine within all of us.

To my children Sila Grey & Luma Rosie and to all the women and girls of the Global South and their sacred knowledge.

Deep gratitude to my partner and husband Colin (Collis Browne) Vernon, to my mother Ghada Semaan and her whole lineage, my father Samir Semaan and his lineage, my grandmothers Albertine Samaha and Souad Semaan, and my great-grand mothers Téta Marie Aoun and Shams Semaan, my sister Laeticia Semaan Aoun and brother Cyril Semaan, my aunties Mona Azzi, Hala Samaha, and Samira Semaan, Samia Semaan, my dearest soul sisters Anita Kopacz and Yvonna Kopacz-Wright, LexyRose Scott, Nidia Temple, Syntyché Francella, Laura Chung, my editors Suzanne Potts and Farah-Silvana Kanaan, my Slow Factory team Paloma Rae, Nicole Nimri, Daleen Saah, Yassa Almokhamad-Sarkisian, Joshua Potash, Afeef Nessouli, and to my dear friend and forever designer Maya Moumne.

To my people in Lebanon, Palestine, and Syria who deserve to live free and sovereign. End the occupation.

To the young, who never forgot

For Abdelwahab El-Affendi... the Quiet Revolutionary

This book is dedicated to
Mama & Baba
Sahar
Palestine
My queer comrades
Takweer community

To Palestinians everywhere and to all who wish for freedom, justice, toleration, and peace in Palestine.

And in loving memory of my grandfather Samuel Richman.

To the seen and the unseen advocates
struggling for a beter world.

To my communities. To Awrad & Basma.
You are my country.

To the memory of
Wolf Auerbach (Abu Siam)
and
Radwan al Hilou (Musa)
the precursors, who strove to maintain the ideals of internationalism

For Hanine and Nafez,
the suns of our solar system

To Arabic and English, the two languages of my pen.
Arabic moves on the page from right to left. English
moves from left to right. They meet in my heart,
forming a bridge od peace between East and West.

To my family members, the Barakats.

To my people, the Palestinians.

To our Qur'anic and Biblical cousins, the Jews.

To everyone who help create more kindness among the peoples of the world and more healing for the family of humanity.

And to readers everywhere.

In memory of Hillis L. Howie,
(1903-1982) amateur naturalist—

A good man who took me and my best friend Ben Hitz and some other boys out to the American Wild West from Indianapolis, Indiana, in the summer of 1938.

Mr. Howie introduced us to real Indians and had us sleep out of doors every night and bury our dung, and he taught us how to ride horses, and he told us the names of many plants and animals, and what they needed to do in order to stay alive and reproduce themselves.

One night Mr. Howie scared us half to death on purpose, screaming like a wildcat near our camp. A real wildcat screamed back.

This book is dedicated first to my mother for saving my drawings when I was a child; my father, for taking me by the hand to my first drawing competitions; my siblings, my greatest supporters; and to Athar Hodali and dear Salma, for putting up with my absences both while I was preparing this book and when I was in prison.

For all the defenders and truth-tellers fighting to save our planet.
And for my grandmother (baa), Narabda Sanchdev, who would have been very proud.

For my wife, Jessica Jackley, and the entire Jackley clan, whose love and acceptance have taught me more about Jesus than all my years of research and study,

To Fidel, on his ninetieth birthday.

To the steadfast ones

To my nephew and niece, Aziz and Tala, with the hope that they will be able to walk in the hills of Palestine.

TO ESLANDA GOODE ROBESON
Distinguished writer and anthropologist

Thanks for many things—

For your untiring labors in the interests of the African peoples,

For your devotion to the struggle of our folk here in America for full freedom,

For your constructive analyses of the momentous events at the United Nations, which affect all manner of human societies,

For the deeply shared belief in and labors for the attainment of a lasting peace for all the peoples of the earth,

And deepest gratitude for your help and guidance over many years of struggle, aspiration, achievement, and the constant awareness of a better future for our children and grandchildren.

To Aruna
For Times Yet to Come

For Emilio,
my family,
and,
anti-imperialists everywhere.

For the members of Detention Watch Network,
past, present, and future

In solidarity with Palestinains everywhere struggling for freedom, justice and equality;
and for my family, and chose family, with love.

For Myla, Will, Naushon, and Serena,
wherever you go

Hanford is located on Native grounds, the ancestral home of the Cayuse, Umatilla, Walla Walla, Yakama, Nez Perce, and Palouse peoples. We pay our respects to their elders, past and present, and acknowledge the ways that we have benefited from, and continue to benefit from, the ongoing theft of these lands and erasure of their cultures, voices, and lives.

This is their land, and this book is dedicated to their struggle.

DEDICATION

To my children,
My greatest source of inspiration.

To Fidel,
To whom I owe everything.

To Alfredo Guevara,
A friend for all times.

To Abel Prieto and Roberto Fernández Retamar,
Patrons of a different kind and of a new era.

To María del Carmen Ariet,
A friend, always willing to offer her help.

To Camilo Pérez,
Thank you for your much appreciated support.

For Alan, my partner in love and politics and to new generations of socialists and communists worldwide, who face tasks made immense by the failures and mistakes of the past

To Bram Fischer, who inspired me - though we never met.

To David Rabkin, who was in prison with me, who should have lived
to make the great contribution of which he was capable. I miss you.

To Chris Hani, whom I knew too briefly. I remember your laughter and joy and irreverence.
We need you now.

To Nomboniso Gasa, who has been with me through hard and good times, who puts up with some of the legacy of my imprisonment. She has opened me to things I would not have noticed, and helped me to voice emotions I would not have found.

DEDICATED TO
TWO TRANSGENDER WARRIORS
WHO FELL IN BATTLE

Brandon Teena
Marsha P. Johnson

This book is dedicated, first and foremost, to my best friends, my parents:
George A. and Betty Baker Hodgman.
Every word about them is written with love.

It is also for my grandmothers,
Margaret Callison Baker and Virginia Rachel Hodgman;
my great-aunt Bess Baker; my aunt June Baker;
and Alice Mayhew, always loyal, ever generous.

Finally, it is for Madison and Paris,
where so many I care about have walked.
I will always remember you, good people.

dedicated to the only three
people alive who genuinely believe it rivals
War and Peace:

my mother, Cheryl, the mom
"a million girls would die for";

my father, Steve, who is handsome, witty,
brilliant, and talented, and
who insisted on writing his own dedication;

my phenomenal sister, Dana, their favorite
(until I wrote a book).

To the memory of Spark Matsunaga,
Poet and United States Senator

Our souls which rise...
Are dead to things untrue, unreal.

For Ousmane Koné, my father, in loving memory.
To all the doll thinkers, makers, players, and lovers out there ...

FOR ROBIN
AND IN MEMORY OF MY GRANDMOTHER, MISS BECKY,
WHO TAUGHT ME TO READ

This book is dedicated to the Medicine Buddha, who resides within every heart and mind as the potential for freedom from all sickness and suffering, to the healers of every tradition who embody the deity's compassionate wisdom; and to the multitude of sentient beings within the plant kingdom who provide foods and medicines for humanity.

For Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis
as you set out for Ithaka

To the humble companion of bad days
and worse.
Since this book is a work of fiction
any resemblance to real persons would
be fortuitous.

For Venla and Kaisa
Women on the way

To Malick, my father,
to Baba, Sëñ bi, Mara, Khadim, Souhaïbou,
Cheikh, and my entire family.
And to my Mellie.

But above all, I dedicate this novel to my grandmother Marie Madeleine Mboyil Diouf, who passed shortly before its release.
She didn't know how to read. I would've loved to read it to her
and translate it for her into Serer.

In grateful memory of Professor M. S. Huzurbazar, who told me to listen because mathematics was calling my name.

To René Ménil
born Negro, died communist

For Vidiya,
who said: Write.

To Terri Bruce and Henry Berg-Brousseau,
who gave their lives for us.

To Nex Benedict and Acey Morrison,
who deserved better.

For my friends. Forever wouldn't be long enough.

FOR

001 - Saartjie (Sarah) Baartman (born c. 1789, d. 1815),
who was sacrificed and extracted from, yet without whom
we would not have performance as we now know it.

002 - The unnamed Black jockey riding the named
horse "Annie G." featured on plate 626 in Eadweard
Muybridge's stop-motion Animal Locomotion (1887).
Perhaps you were the first Black transmitter to grace
the screen, a GIF before the GIF.
Never viral, we wish we knew you.

003 - Saint Suttle and Gertie Brown, who in "Something
Good—Negro Kiss" (1898) showed us what Black love
could look like on the silver screen

004 - For Sakia Gunn (1987-2003), failed by the
algorithm, but who we remember here. Say her name.

005 - Jalaiah Harmon, who has made history, now,
hrough and beyond the internet.

You are loved.

To the
investigative journalists
public-interest advocates
public-interest litigators
principled scientists
whistleblowers and
WikiLeakers
who made this book possible.

As for me and as for you,
I write for the many, not for the few.
Whether many of the many read it or not,
If wealth beyond reason is not your life's lot,
This book was most certainly written for you.

For Matthew Roland...
and all those Saturday adventures hunting down these records

For my daughter Lin, because hers will be the first generation to see this stuff happen. And for my wife, Suzumi, a boundless source of insight and inspiration.

Dedicated to Jean-Michel Basquiat—analphabetic writer

for

for Kelly and Natalia,
whose hands I am always reaching for

For Adam,
with love and raspberry jam

I dedicate this book to my son,
and the person I became because of him.

To anyone who never outgrew fairytales. Here's a grown up one just for you.

This one is dedicated to all my readers. Sometimes we just need a fun, sexy book to make it through these tough times.

For Franny, Sally, and Molly

... with the wish that you inherit a nation that is everything our founders hoped and dreamed it could be...

For Martha and Avery, obviously and infinitely

I dedicate this book to my daughter, Samaya. From the moment you were born, you've had people telling you who your daddy was, but only you know who I am. Never let anyone on this planet tell you who you will be. That is to be decided only by you.

This version of Dungeon Crawler Carl is dedicated to the star of one of the greatest, most inspiring, most amazing survival stories of our time.
Fiona.
Fiona the hippo.
Yes, I am dedicating this book to
a goddamn hippopotamus.

Sorry, Mom.

FOR ALL THOSE WALKING THE PATH OF GRIEF

It's a winding road that changes but never ends.
Just remember, you're not alone.
You carry them with you wherever you go.
And you'll see the world in all its colors
because you loved so deeply.

to you.
my people. of color.

you are an altar of stars,
remember this.
always.
do not ever forget this.

For all the women I've ever had crushes on, who will never know how much they meant to me in those longing, lonely moments.

I dedicate this book to
SERGE-SAMUEL VORONOFF
who, I believe, has taken undue blame for the
excesses of the gland transplant era.
I admire his enthusiasm and persistence: moreover,
he was not the first, nor the last,
scientist to deceive himself.

TO MUSIC

[Music stanza with lyrics]
Mè - re du sou-ve- nir — et nour ri — ce — du rê — ve, C'est toi

— qu'il nous plaitau — jour — d'hui, d'in-vo-quer sous ce toitl —

(Mother of memory and feeder of dreams, Thee would we fain invoke today beneath this roof!)

"TO MUSIC"

Chorus for female voices with solo
(for a friend's housewarming)
Words by EDMOND ROSTAND
Music by EMMANUEL CHABRIER

To those who live for the hope of it all.
This one is for you.

For my thirteen-year-old self. Your obsession with Greek mythology, bad guys, and romance novels will eventually bring you here. I'm proud of you.

And for those who prefer the violent, broody villains. May you find your Kallum Anderson.

For the man who invited me on a little walk,
and turned it into a magical journey

To the girls out there who are deemed "too much."
No, you're not. You're just right.

To Sascha,
who from gentle
silence came

To all my family

There are bird tracks
And nothing in the sky;
Something lived, left,
And left something.

FOR TAMARA

This cool sweet moon (now defeated by night
Which crossed her with raincloud and mirk)
Had, under her first rising, sent momentary light
Through every tree in the park.
Every bush, every pool, every thicket abhorrent
Remain to my blind sight apparent:
And I can walk yet without danger or fright.

On the last day that my mother spent on earth,
I learned her real name, as well as that of my grandmother.
This book is dedicated to them.

This book is dedicated to the residents of the Gulf Coast and New Orleans who know better than most why we rebuild.

For my children,
who taught me what love is and also fear

For my mother, who taught me how to be a friend

To my Father
for a Valentine

This one's for the me, who sat in the dark, staring at a glowing screen, dreaming of exactly this. Keep choosing bravery over perfection.

And, okay, this is also a little bit for James Acaster on that episode of The Great British Bake Off when he said the most relatable thing every creative spirit has experienced:
"Started making it, had a breakdown. Bon appétit!"

To Jason and our son:
You both teach me, day after day,
that love can be bigger, stronger, and more beautiful
than I ever could have imagined.
As long as there are stars in the sky, I will love you.

For Pawpaw, who was always there for me
and gave me the life he deserved

For Ridhima. There aren't many greater joys than a long lunch with you. One day I will write sci-fi for you.

For those who feel small and quiet.
Spread those wings and roar.

For James P. Whittenburg,
who encouraged my study of the past,
and
For Everett, Luke, and Madeleine—
my hope for a more just future.

We dedicate this book
and all the effort that went behind it to
Kathy and Nancy, our wives;
and to our children and families,
because families are what matters

For all those who have faced the darkest trauma of their lives
and struggled to move through, or move on,
and for the peace that may come one day after the cucible,
in the light
of a path toward acceptance.

This long song is for my family, from our inner sanctum to the edges of its extended threads, and to the memory of my brother David Cherry, who went in search of his next riff (1958-2022).

For Momo, Grandma, and my dear ol' Granddaddy.
I wrote this with my best foot in my mouth.

For my parents, who showed me every single day
that the type of love in between the pages of
romance novels exist outside of them. too.

This book is for everyone who knew my mother and brother.

This book is dedicated to all Americans:
Together we share the heritage of the restless spirit, the eternal seeking that expanded our geographical borders and subsequently has made us the greatest of nations.
Dana Fuller Ross

For Linco and Peeps

For all the seedlings fighting for sun

To the people who have joined me in exploring the complex relationship between history, humanity, and modern politics—this book is yours as much as it is mine.

TO MY GRANDPARENTS BEP AND HENDRIK,
who gave their son an illustrated edition of
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
on his fifteenth birthday,
December 19, 1938.

TO MY FATHER, WILLIAM,
who gave me that book—
reading it launched my love of Mark Twain.

MOST OF ALL, TO MY ANGELS —
A. E. DEE, ALIDA, AND FRANCES.

for Lloyd Richards,
who adds to whatever he touches

TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER,
WHO ARE STILL WEEDING THE ETERNAL
STRAWBERRY FIELDS OF CHILDHOOD.

Uncle Nearest and Uncle Jack,

thank you for choosing me as the keeper of this legacy for this leg of the race.

I will hold on to this baton for dear life until it is time for me to pass it to the person assigned to the next leg of the race.

I trust they'll be born on September 5, too.

Dedicated to all taxi drivers
in the known universe

To all the brilliant, angry fags and dykes and gender outlaws who came before, and who taught me how to survive: this one's for you.

To librarians.
Because you built me.

To my mother, Carol Markstein-Moran. There is no one who embodies the spirit of The Sound of Music more than you. At eighty-two years old, you still believe that any mountain can be scaled, and that's such a beautiful thing.

For Todd
And then you arrived.

For anyone who didn't jump in the river.
And for anyone who did.

DEDICATION

In the memory of a very good friend of mine, Archie Walker, who was killed at Detroit Metropolitan Airport on November 1, 1973... shot down in the parking lot by killers who didn't have the sense to get it for themselves. They had to try and take it from him.

To my late friend and publisher Susan Kamil, who believed in this book well before a word of it was written and whose memory helped me to write it.

To Harry Arthur Kobrin and Van Samuel Hix, two future feminists

To the Autumn People.
Blessed Be the Bones!

Opposite: The author's dedication in his own script. The literal transcription below is followed by a modern rendering)
Whan of IX wyntre age
I toke siege wyth Kinge Arthurs felyship emonge knyghtes
most orgulus and worshyppful as ony on lyve
In tho dayes grate lack was of squyres of hardynesse and noble
herte to bere shylde and glayve to bockle harnyss and succoure woundid knyghtes
Than yit chaunced that squyre lyke dutyes tell to my systir of
vi wyntre age that for jantyl prouesse had no felawe lyvynge
Yt haps somtymes in saddnesse and pytie that who faythful servys ys not faythful
sene so my fayre and sikker systir squyre dures yet undubbed
Wherefore thys daye I mak amendys to my power and rayse hir knyghte and gyff hir loudis
And fro thys hower she shall be hyght Syr Mayrie Stynebec of the Vayle Salynis
God gyvve hir worshypp saunz jaupardye
Jehan Stynebec de Montray
Miles

When I was nine, I took siege with King Arthur's fellowship of knights most proud and worshipful as any alive. —In those days there was a great lack of hardy and noble-hearted squires to bear shield and sword, to buckle harness, and to succor wounded knights. —Then it chanced that squire-like duties fell to my sister of six years, who for gentle prowess had no peer living. —It sometimes happens in sadness and pity that faithful service is not appreciated, so my fair and loyal sister remained unrecognized as squire. —Wherefore this day I make amends within my power and raise her to knighthood and give her praise. —And from this hour she shall be called Sir Marie Steinbeck of Salinas Valley. —God give her worship without peril
John Steinbeck of Monterey,
Knight

Sassafrass,
Cypress &
Indigo
is dedicated to
all women
in struggle.

To everyone who believes the difficult issues in life are worth talking about

To Mulatwa, Tedla, Dawit, and Melesse:
How are you? I am fine, thank you.

For my dad, Bill, who loved writing and playing catch in the backyard,
and for Uncle Duke, who always had time to take a kid to a ballgame.

TO BRADFORD HALL WILLIAMS.
Although you had little time for fiction, you'd have liked this book.
Who would have imagined that a cantankerous misanthrope
would be so fiercely missed?

TO MY DAUGHTER LEAH,
deep as the ocean, high as the sky

For anyone who's ever been at the wrong end.

TO
BERGER:
one of the three people who make
my life worth living

To Emile, Amal, and Zeina—husband and daughters

To the memory of Daud and Wadi'a Mikhail and Hanna Mikhail (Abu Omar)—parents and cousin

To Muna, Abla, Huda, and Nadia—sisters and friends

To the Palestinian people—the rest of the family

With love and amanah

for
our movement elders
who teach us
how to be brave

Dear who are or used to be Chicagoans,
Sara Black, Kelly Kaczinsky,
Staffs at La Colombe Coffee on the Rush street,
Marie and practitioners at Ab and Flow studio in Old Town,
Kate and Bo,
Jasmin, Clara, Grace, Juyon, Naoki,
And to all aliens.

사라 블랙, 켈리 백진스키, 러쉬 스트릿의 라 콜롬베 카페와 직원들 올드 타운의 앱 앤 플로우 필라테스 스튜디오의 마리 와 수련인분들, 케이트와 보,

쟈스민, 클라라, 은혜, 주연, 나오키,

그리고 모든 이방인들에게.

To George R. R. Martin. See? It's not that hard.

For my parents,
who survived the pandemic;
and Arun,
who did not.

To my mom and dad, John and Elinor Couric, for raising me with patience and humor
and my daughters, Ellie and Carrie Monahan, for teaching me the importance of both

To my children, Claudius and Maximilian, in hopes that they don't have to fight some of these white supremacists in robes

In memory of Adam Schlesinger, who never cared what "normal protocol" was, hence organizing his own photo shoot for a Crazy Ex-Girlfriend episode in which he posed as a fictional composer named Elliott Ellison, the photo of which would only be shown for less than five seconds.

For my daughters
and yours

This book is for Angélica.
She knows why.

For Philippe de Montebello,
Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art from 1977-2008

And for all the extraordinary people who have devoted their lives
to our beloved museum

You are my heroes.

In memory of Carlile Vowell (1904-1995)

Grandfather, principal, history teacher, Muskogee County commissioner, wisacre, and Democrat. What I wouldn't give to hear him cuss that a book about three Republicans has been dedicated in his name.

FOR FRANCA,
AND FOR MY FAMILIES, ALL OF THEM,
YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

For all the Californios, the Californias, for my home and my people, every river and freeway, canyon and mountain, every dirt road and hidden trail, every classic 1964 Impala and 1976 Chevy Cheyenne truck. For all my childhood friends and the soul mates I just met, no matter where you are. For my family of hundreds from Rubidoux to San Bernardino, Riverside to Sacramento, Los Angeles to Albany, Ontario to Echo Park, Anaheim to Los Feliz, Corona to Calexico. For everyone I love in this state, and this nation, and for everyone who loved me back.

Truly this book is in memory of my brother, Jeff. When confronted with hatred or violence, he used to say: "I don't get that station, man." His inner radio was all about oranges, dogs, and trucks. We always made up life on our own. I miss him every day.

This story is dedicated to those Japanese women from all walks of life who with grace, warmth, and kindness helped Japan rise to new greatness after the disaster of World War II.

To the ones who don't run with the popular crowd,
the ones who get caught reading under their desks,
the ones who feel like they never get invited, included, or represented.
Get your leathers. We have dragons to ride.

FOR MY PARENTS
I love you so much it is actually ridiculous. Thank you for your unwavering support in every single one of my creative and personal endeavors and beyond. Next time, I promise I'll write a book you can read.

For Friends,
Their Uncommon Grace

I gratefully dedicate this book
to my students and to my teachers.
I hope I will always have difficulty telling you apart.

To the kids
Trust your instincts.
Believe your eyes.

For Lucas, who puts up with my darkness every day

Per la mia familia—Em, Pops, and Rinny

And to the treasure of a Tuscan village where we planted seeds and grew roots

For those who dream of stars

For all
who have lived
in the house of War

For everyone in search of new beginnings

FOR MY FAMILY AND FELLOW BLOBS

After many
Toward more

To every black activist, marcher, and protester whose name didn't go down in history.

For Julien
my little monster
and for Ben
without whom

for the friends who brought me back

For R,
In memories you'll live forever, just like a jellyfish.

For Renay Mandel Corren
1937-2021

She broke me.
Then she bought it.

Thanks, Mom.

For Devin.
And for all who find themselves
suspended between the fall and the leap.

For my Philly and Norristown jawns
And for twins everywhere, especially Judith and Katherine

For my daughter, Karenna
and for your daughters,
and their daughters—

Hold the torch higher and brighter
with each step forward
through time.

For all the women who comprise the 'one in three'

To Jonathan, with the hope that one day he will understand how important he has become in my life.

For my sisters—adoptive, half, and chosen

To all the girls who have faced injustice
and been silenced.
Together we will be heard.

To the millions of women who are struggling to be caregivers, mothers, coworkers, and spouses all at once—
and who left the workforce this past year in record numbers (at four times the rate of men)—
because women can do anything,
but they can't do everything

For my wife, Katherina,

Although I conquer all the earth,
yet for me there is only one city.
In that city there is for me only one house;
And in that house, one room only;
and in that room, a bed.
And one woman sleeps there,
The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom.

(Sanskrit)

For Tamara De Treaux
1959-1990

Tammy phone home

This book is dedicated to Roger Ailes,
who made it all happen.

To the tens of thousands of honest, innocent, and unsuspecting investors worldwide who share with me and understand only too well the horror of being financially and emotionally decimated. I look forward to the day when we all will be able to put this behind us; find peace, resolution, and restitution and once again enjoy our families, friends, and lives. Although he has stolen our money, we will not allow him to rob us of our self-worth, happiness, or futures.

For Omar,
who, at the time of writing this,
remains incarcerated in a Zionist prison

In loving memory of
Dr. Refaat al-Areer,
and all those who dared to raise the ceiling

For Youmna and Paul
In the hope that more cheerful stories are being told
by the time you read this.

We dedicate this book to the people of Rojava,
and to all who have sacrificed their lives for the revolution

For the People of Iran

This book is dedicated to my father, Junior Turner, who passed away June 5, 2002, while I was on my first trip to Afghanistan. Dad, I never got a chance to tell you about Afghanistan and the school. You left me too soon. I know you would love Sam, my husband—he is just like you, but Afghan style.
I know you would be worried, but also very happy that I am following my dream. I miss you.

for my
whiskered
& un-
whiskered
friends

For Tony, compass

For Dominic and Virginia Miranda,
who gave me, among other things, life.

For my Reader

To ______,
who, without their love, I would never
have been able to be so honest.

for Dante, Talia, Tyler & Trinity

for the many infancies—
surviving within us,
surviving despite us—

so love's eternities may
at last
blossom & hold

With all choreic beings.

For my parents,
who had me in Virginia
and made it home.

For
Knox Burger

Ten days older than I am.
He has been a very good
father to me.

For all my readers.

As strong, resilient, and magical as you are,
may you still receive the love, protection, and
softness you so very much deserve.

To those who remain hopeful. And for
my parents, two stars who lit the way.

For Mama C,
who would have pretended
to be embarrassed to have a
book dedicated to her

To the memory of my editor, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. Though there was never such a mismatched pair in appearance, we were perfect partners.

para
Elvira Moraga Lawrence y
Amalia García Anzaldúa
y para todas nuestras madres
por la obediencia y
la insurrección
que ellas nos enseñaron.

for
Elvira Moraga Lawrence and
Amalia García Anzaldúa
and for all our mothers
for the obedience and rebellion
they taught us.

for all the children
looking at the moon

and all the stories
that came before

FOR LAURIE CARLOS,
a remarkable artist and a longtime honest friend
&
HARRIET SHANGE WATKINS,
my new granddaughter, whose life will be that of a wondrous colored girl

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my brother Lawrence Emmanuel Holloway. He had joked with me that I owe him for half of the poems in this book. I miss and think of him often.

For my Mom, my lighthouse.
Thank you for holding me steady.
You give me the courage to write.
I love you, in this life and the next.

In a perfect world, I come home, and there we are:
You, me, and Hallie, sitting in the sunroom, forever.

To my parents
who will raise a fuss if I don't
dedicate at least one more book to them

For all the wanderers who are still
searching for a place in this world

This book is dedicated to the many families who have been willing to open their lives to the authors and other behavioral scientists during the painful time of divorce.
These families are responsible for the knowledge base, which we have translated into recommendations to help divorcing and recently divorced parents raise happy and healthy children.

For the two who just missed each other

Dr. Donald John McDonald
(10/23/27-09/09/08)

&

Marguerite Scott McDonald
(11/13/08- )

This book is dedicated to
Faith Danielle Hedgepeth, Tanyesha Stewart,
Elizabeth "Lizzy" Seeberg,
Deah S. Barakat, Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, and
Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha,
and to every student survivor of violence, to every victim whose life was cut short by violence, and to all whose stories have not been told, or whose voices have not been heard.
We Believe You.

To all the animals I've known by name
and to all those who have no names

To Charlie Berns, who keeps refusing to die.

To loving every version of yourself,
even the ones you want to leave behind.

Dedicated to those whose stories
have yet to be told

For Henry, always.
For my dad, who loves history.
And for anyone who feels they aren't heard.

For all the women who've figured out that good enough isn't actually enough. And for those of you who are still looking for more. It's out there. You'll find it. And if not, don't worry.
There's always Ford Grant.

For dB. You were full of more light than you knew.
And for tía Lillian, who always marched
to the beat of her own drum.

For anyone whose emotions feel to big,
and for Mom and Dad, who always make room for mine.

To all of our students
in the hope that they will continue to explore the past
in order to shape the future

TO ORIN

...Hope,
is not reason or logic,
but tough as the fingerpads
that draw the gut bow.

For Marilyn B. Young, who taught us that culture matters in America's war without end.

To Everyone

For Marta, who looks in the same direction

For my mother and father
who made peaceful concerns and scholarship
important parts of my life

For my Viennese grandparents

Ernst Toch (1887-1964)
Alice Zwack Toch (1892-1972)
Henri Weschler (1893-1963)
Angela Engel Weschler (1894-1961)

All forced into complicated exile
at about the same age
I am now

This book is lovingly dedicated to my wife, Elaine, and our three children, Reneé, Michelle, and Ryan, for their strong sup-port, faith, patience and understanding.
For those who choose to participate in the political arena, hard work is usually accompanied by feelings of satisfaction and ful-fillment, and sometimes even fame.

But a person's participation in politics can be hard on his or her family, which must bear extra burdens and hardships.

For Elaine, there are children to raise, without the amount of help that most husbands can give. There are far too many telephone calls saying I can't talk long, I'm in a meeting, just want to let you know I'll be late for supper. And there are far too many nights and weekends and vacations when her husband just "can't get away from his job."

And the children are young for such a short time, it's easy to feel that they have been shortchanged.

But whenever I begin to doubt whether it's all worth it, I think about the many people who have made far, far greater sacrifices to the cause of freedom. With freedom comes responsibility. In the long run, it's the children (and their children, and theirs) for whom the sacrifices are made.

May they live in a world at least as free as the one previous generations left to us.

For anyone who is softer inside than they let on

For my husband.
In good times and bad times, I choose you.

For Guy, the cure to my ailments.

To my parents, who let me be

For my single mother,
who taught me first how to survive the ruins.

for Pree and for poets with no guarantees

For those outside the walls who finally found a home

You move me, Amelia.
You mark me the deepest.

To the islands,
the coral reefs,
the blue-footed boobies,
the mountains made of guano,
the Calcutta mongoose,
the budding marijuana,
and the volcanoes
with which I have written this book.

For my family,
who shaped my character and
made room for many others in my life.

Also, for Austin. I started writing for you.
When you told me to keep going, I found me.

For Gaza

This book is written for every Yazidi.

This book is dedicated to the two most important groups of people in my life. First and foremost, to my loving wife, Jennifer, and daughters, Taylor and Alexandria. Never was there a person so blessed as me to have the tremendous love and support I receive from you. No matter what may happen to me, you have given me everything anyone could ever ask for, and so much more.

And second, to all those who remain in the shadows. Whether you had a UAP encounter or are aware of facts that you feel should be known by all, know that you have a voice. When governments lie to their people, all of democracy is at risk. Keep the faith, we hear you.

To the Isle of Skye.
I'll visit you one day.

This one is dedicated to my dad.
Thank you for being OK with me having so many weird jobs.

For my beautiful daughter, Bailey Jordan, who snuggles up close to me and whispers all the really good lines

To Jessie Redmon Fauset,
upon whose shoulders I,
and thousands of other writers,
proudly stand

For my wife, Sabrina,
who is my basil, my cilantro, and my marjoram,
all wrapped into one

And for my parents, Manny and Judi,
whose faith is unending,
and who made me re-wear my socks

To Nikku,
for whom all this might have mattered,
and
to Maya, and Jay, and Anji,
for whom perhaps it someday will.

For the dead, and everyone they left behind

This book is written for every survivor.
May these pages help you heal. May they help
you find hope. May they help to show you
that you will make it through.

For Lily,
the girl who helped show me the way

Amanda,
You look at life
Through the eyes of a child,
And I don't know where you got them,
And it's making me very uncomfortable.
Please, stop.

To the radicals of the past who made my present possible, and to the radicals of the present who are fighting for our future.

For firefighters and lovers everywhere,
but especially the ones in Tasley.

To the One Heart
inspiring all hearts
and to these women,
who have allowed themselves
to dissolve,
completely,
in That Fathomless Love

To my mother, who won't read this book in life, but will somewhere, I hope.

For the One
Who Hears
the Silence of the Stars

In memory of Nana and Poppy,
wholly immoderate in courage, affection, and fun

For my grandparents,
Edith and Orval Dungan and Jacob and Elizabeth Hansen,
who transferred their values of generosity to generations present and future.
Their ability to respond to the needs of others when they had so little will forever serve as an inspiration.

for the Vietnamese and Americans
who knew this war

I wrote this book
for my son
David Lord Paterson,
but after he read it
he asked me to put Lisa's name
on this page as well,
and so I do.
For David Paterson and Lisa Hill,
banzai

This book is dedicated to all the children in my family with all my love—
Pamela, Christopher, Erik, Justin, Yinka, Asiatu, Diara, Jennifer, Scott, and Robin.
It is also dedicated to any future children in the next generation.
I hope the wisdom in this book will shed further light on love, expectations, and the solutions to any romantic difficulties, so that they may always find peace and happiness in their relationships.

To those who dare to love again.

In loving memory of my Dad:
my first history teacher

To Cherie, Camille, Norman, and Roseanne—may we always continue laughing and dancing, together.
To the hundreds of thousands of children in the U.S. who are either abused, in foster care, or homeless.
The journey is long and often dark but you must believe in your light-you have so much to offer.

To Lynn, whose minute-to-minute battle against schizophrenia demonstrates a heroic mental and physical fortitude that makes me realize how weak I am.
To Dr. E. Fuller Torrey who took the time to teach me and thousands of others what we need to know to rage successfully against the machine.
And to my wife, Rose, who stuck by my side for thirty-five years in spite of everything I did to make walking out the saner choice.

This book is dedicated to Zuri, my heartbeat, who has taught me so much of what I know about love its patience, its power, its glory. In these pages may you find treasures worth more than gold, the secrets of living genuinely, joyfully, generously. And may they help you learn long before your mother did the ultimate secret of happiness: to grow wise before you grow old.

To Monica, Olivia, and August, and all the species with which we have lived.

For my sister and brothers,
in memory of a Brooklyn room with four beds:
"Whenever the moon and stars are set..."

For my students,
past, present, and future.

You ask all the right questions.

I dedicate this to every queer person who has been told they are unnatural.
Not only are you natural, you are flawless and beautiful, exactly as you are.

For Gloria Steinem
In Memory of Muriel Rukeyser

For all
Onion staffers
and Onion readers—
past, present,
and future

FOR MY PARENTS, WHO TAUGHT ME
ABOUT INJUSTICE

I dedicate this work to the Traditional Guardians of the land upon which it was written. Seven generations of my family have benefited and been nurtured by the animals, plants, and practices of the Coastal Miwok nations. Their connection to the sea, rivers, forests, and grasslands is a constant reminder and teaching. I offer my respect to elders past, present, and emerging.

I also dedicate these writings to Jasmine Scalesciani Hawken, whose love, kindness, and untiring support uplifted and inspired me throughout.

For Jeremy, who kept me alive the whole time

For Jabe—beyond owing

To my brother, who was there at the beginning,
and the sisters I have found along the way

For all Syrians

DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the trans community. As I worked on this biography of the transgender pioneer Candy Darling, I saw that community increasingly demonized in ways both cruel and traumatizing.

So, dear trans community: May this account of one life make a difference. May you be understood. May you be appreciated. May you be loved.

For my family—in whose arms I found
safe passage across rough seas.

To the disarming Natalie Portman,
for making the idea of this book possible.

And to JAM, for making the emotional truth of it a reality.

To my mother, who first introduced me to the Hudson; to my wife, Jane, who encouraged my explorations; and my children, Stephanie, Peter, and Alexander, who went along, sometimes.

To the leakers, gossips, and busybodies
who populate the halls of Congress

To those who have been lost in the city,
or found on the river

Vi taqʷšəblu Hilbert believed in the healing power of music. She believed in our ancestors' Coast Salish spirit songs. My great grandmother wanted to share that medicine with the world, in the hopes it might teach us something. She wanted us to be better. She passed that hope down to me.

This book is for her, and for anyone who is ready to listen.

To Cecelia:
You asked me to hang out,
but instead I worked on this novel,
and then you were gone.

To draco and flimsy, and also to vin.
Wherever you are, I hope this meets your approval just a little;
I hope you think this is just a little cool.

To the burning ones, the seekers, the tigers

For everyone who has lost a country

My heart brimming with love, I dedicate this to you, Minnie Bruce:
my partner on life's path,
my lover and friend,
my comrade.

For Leslie Feinberg
(1949-2014)

To the generations of mothers and grandmothers who fed us with love.

Dedicated to Bo, Henrietta, and Elsie, and all who suffer at the hands of factory farming.

Better days are coming.

This volume is dedicated to my grandmother Sumayyah Khoury, who taught me solidarity by example when her family, among many families in Nazareth, hid and housed the people of Saffuriyeh when their village was destroyed by Israeli forces in 1948. Thank you for teaching us how to live together.

To Mazyouna, who no longer sees.
To Nanna, who saw beyond me.
And to Shatha, who sees me.

For justice, accountability,
and the people of Gaza

To my parents, who had the courage to emigrate

for Truman,
who sharpened his pencils
and wasn't afraid

To my wonderful husband, Carlos, who has nursed me through some very tough times. Thank you for always being harmless to me.

For Anne—my center

FOR CARMEN BALCELLS
bathed in tears

To Edith Wharton

In memory of my grandfather, a lifelong gardener.
And for my parents in honour of their years of weekends in the garden, raking leaves, pulling out weeds and creating beauty.

For those who lived this and the ghosts

To chance, luck, fate, destiny, karma,
the goddess Fortuna, or whatever it is that gave me
my wonderful partner, family, friends, and colleagues

To 12-year-old, 17-year-old, 21-year-old, and 30-year-old me. You were ever the disaster you thought you were. It's all going to work out.

To my husband, Arnold G. Schlanger
—for every possible reason

To Mata Hari

These Weights and Measures
for Vashti, Kellie and Lisa
three twentieth-century foxes.

To Her

Hand in hand we come
Christopher Robin and I
To lay this book in your lap.
Say you're surprised?
Say you like it?
Say it's just what you wanted?
Because it's yours—
Because we love you.

Dedicated to
OUR THREE SELVES

for Elie (1974-2005),
for Audrey (Boulder, 1975),
and for Cho,
infant boy born and died
in the tunnel at No Gun Ri,
July 1950

This book is dedicated to all of the animal rescuers around the globe who give tirelessly to the rescue of abused, neglected, and abandoned animals. Your work is that of heroes, saints and angels.

For Margaret Noreen Carter.
And all the girls who fear they're forever lost.

For my children: Discover your selves, and have the courage to be who you are, not who others want you to be.

For Zoe, Valerie, Ms. Gerling,
and everyone who believes
this world can be a better place.
And especially for those who don't

IN MEMORIAM
BIG BARNEY BAKER
WHO HEARD MUCH, TOLD LITTLE

For my son, Cubby,
the very embodiment of being different

For Mom,
who nurtured and protected my creativity,
and mental patients everywhere.

To the reader: may my story meet you
somewhere in the middle of yours.

To you

I thank all who have been my legs when I could not walk and my eyes when I could not see, but most of all I thank Sylvia, for teaching me how to be a person on this planet

To all those with any form of mental illness, whether diagnosed or not, and anyone whose differences cause them to be misunderstood, with the hope that we are moving toward a time of greater understanding and compassion for all

For Grace Paley
and in Memory of Emma Goldman

For the animals, especially
the human animal I
married, Scott

This is dedicated to every human who has felt heartache, uncertainty, or confusion in relationships with others or, most importantly, with yourself. You are not alone, and we are all in this together.

For Ed and Billy, Robbie and Richie, my chosen family, who have shown me the true meaning of love and acceptance. And to all the brave queens who have inspired us with their resilience and fearlessness in being their authentic selves, this book is dedicated to you.

In Memoriam:
Hugo Chávez, the first leader of a movement
that defeated the extreme centre

For the optimists

To the late Robert M. Ball (1914-2008), whose enduring legacy continues to improve the lives of many millions of people every day. Social Security was his calling. For seven decades, he tirelessly devoted his extraordinary intellectual, political, organizational, and personal gifts to advancing Social Security, which he understood to be an instrument of social justice, human dignity, and civility.

To all of the voting rights warriots who have fought and continue to fight to protect Democracy

To the children of the universe
Who by the essence
of their being, Love,
Bring Light into a darkened world.

To my country.
To everyone who's different.
To all the people who said "yes."

TO MY MOTHER AND MY FATHER, who coped so valiantly with a child as rebellious as me! But there are no regrets. If anything had happened differently, I would not be who I am today, able to impact others and set an example for what is possible when we choose to believe in ourselves.
I also dedicate this book to my four children, Mikey, Destiny, Damien, and Angelina. None of what I accomplished would have been possible without each of you. You are my strength and inspiration for it all... love you.

FOR NANCY AND LIZ,
without whose love and care
neither this book, nor I, would be what we are

and for everyone working
toward generous ways
of talking and thinking about gender

To all who have ever doubted their place
in the garden of liberation.

To Pat, Kate, Laurie, and Wally;
to my sisters and brothers of the People's Law Office;
to the survivors of Chicago police torture and their families

To the memory of my parents, Elly and Flint Sr.

And to the spirit of Fred Hampton and his family

From the Macrocosm to the Microcosm.

For my community.
For my family.
For Bibi Sajeda.

To the abortion patients who navigate an obstacle course to obtain the health care they need, and to the providers and allies whose work is essential in overcoming these barriers.

For my brother, Peter, and sister, Rachel, and our parents, Victor and Mimi Goldberg, who loved books, records, and their children

I dedicate this book to my brilliant, joyful son, Laszlo Stein; my lovely, creative wife, Cassandra Barry; my wise, generous father, Charlie Stein; my insightful, warm mother, Rosalind Leszczuk;
and my honest, loyal sister, Lisa Stein-Browning.

I do this because displaying familial love might make you think I'm a decent human being while you're reading my horrifying thoughts. I also dedicate this book to political prisoners, sufferers of chronic diseases, and all the dogs in the world. This book is for you, even though you didn't ask for it or any book, since you're far more interested in freedom, a cure, and going for a walk, respectively.

for Flaco—
and anyone with a cage to break out of...

This book is for you.

for the quaint but incomprehensible

For every person who felt as if they weren't good enough. You were. And will always be.

For the peregrines

To my parents, Roslyn Solomon and Philip Mendel Kurlansky, who taught me to love books and music

and

to Talia Feiga, who opened worlds while she slept in the crook of my arm.

To
Ainsworth Phillips
and to all who confront both racism and homophobia
every day of their lives

To women who are striving to end power disparities both in their intimate relationships and in the world at large.
D.E.H.R.
D.R.P.

To Gay Crusaders of the Future

To Gerard, without whom this book would not have been written and with whom it very nearly wasn't.

For Jean, who walks and talks with angels

for Ravyn
who asked for it
Ardyn
who fought it

and Tyger
who stars in it

For A.E.C, L.C.B, and L.L.B.
gentle tamers—past, present, and future.

For Kathleen A. Forde,
the one I was waiting for all along

The Brothers dedicate this book lovingly
to all of the women at the WOW Cafe in New York City,
where we got our degrees in Lesbotology.

This book is for Anna Bulkin/remember the future

To Nickie,
whose contempt for real literature
inspired this work.

And to Mark,
the Angel who hovered.

TO
A PHILOSOPHER IN PESHAWAR
WHO SAID THAT HE WANTED
SOMETHING TO READ

for all young people in
their search for themselves

Dedication
This book is dedicated to these women who opened their lives to us.

For all the LGBT kids...

This book is for J. C. Collins,
Who persuaded me to give dykes
One more chance—
Starting with her.

DEDICATION
This book is for Freya,
First in love and battle.

This book is for Rob—
whose melting point
Is just high enough.

To Jim Watson, who first suggested this horrid idea

FOR KELLEY, MY HOME

If this novel warrants any sort of appreciation in the reader's mind it does so largely as a result of Jeanne A. Frank's constructive and sympathetic editing.

For my father, a traveler who
has finally come home

For Julie Ann,
who wanted a nice little love story

This book is for Audre Lorde

to the memory of Primo Levi

His books were important to me.
I miss his presence in the world.

To those who have served, and those who will continue to serve, in silence

For my mother
who is definitely a woman of courage

Dedicated
to
Lesbian and Gay Educators,
Past, Present, and Future

To the creation of a world
in which women can safely choose
to love sex

For everyone who was there and everyone who will be

For the Trees

To people everywhere practicing cultural survival
by keeping food traditions alive.

For all my siblings in diasporic feels

To Jacob, my annoyingly multi-talented brother, who always tells me when I've written a big pile of rubbish

For Claudia Ballard's lucky right ankle

To the people of Egypt—past, present and future.