The Good Things About America by Derrick BrownThe Good Things About America by Derrick Brown

The Good Things About America

EditorDerrick Brown

Paperback | April 1, 2009

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"We are not who we were..."The Good Things About America is a book that, above all else, celebrates the enduring awesomeness of the United States of America. This is not meant to sound glib, ironic, or superior. Rather, what we imply is that despite every blind, deaf, and dumb thing America has done in its long and strange history - every misstep, unpunished crime, and lingering bias - there is still something honest,beautiful and hopeful about who we are as a country and as a people. This book serves as a historical documentthat uses poetry and prose to explore some of the visions for change,the modern glory, albeit broken or majestic, of this unbeatable rising landscape.
Title:The Good Things About AmericaFormat:PaperbackDimensions:245 pages, 8.5 × 5.5 × 0.75 inPublished:April 1, 2009Publisher:Write Bloody PublishingLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:098214881X

ISBN - 13:9780982148815

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Read from the Book

Crab Apple Piratesby Andrea GibsonWe were chubby-faced school kids,Snickers bar windpiped, crab apple pirates,backward-baseball-capped, knee-scraped snow angels,Dukes-of-Hazard dreamers, bumper-car-bodiedsalamander catchers,Michael Jordan believers.I couldn't fly, but my hang time was three minutes and ten seconds.Smart kids were stupid. Books were trees cut down...I thought history was over.I cried during the national anthem.Once I found a butterfly's wing on the sidewalk.I wanted to keep it but I didn't.I knew there were things I should never find beautiful.Like death.And girls...I started writing songs,recorded them on my ghetto blasterand mailed the tapes to the local radio station.They never played them because they never had good taste.My mother did. She was a secretary.Her fingernails were red and she loved my father,who after the war became a mailmanso when I was a baby she would carry me to the post officeand weigh me on the postal scales.Once, years later, I got lost in the mail.The next day I came home from college and corrected myfather's grammar.When I was ten my mother had another daughter.I heard babies sometimes die in their sleepso at night when my parents went to bedI'd put on my Karate Kid kimonoand I'd sneak into her room to guard her heartbeat.The heartbeat thieves didn't find her for fifteen years.At eleven I discovered beer.At thirteen, shame.At fourteen I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior.At nineteen I nailed my palm to Amanda Bucker's vagina,actually drooler on her breasts,and said yes so loud God couldn't disagree.But my family did.So I lost them for a while, and in that whilemy uncle Barry lost his fingers to the paper mill.My uncle Peter lost his liver to Vietnam.My mother lost her legs to God's will.In her will I inherit everything:the seventeen photographs we didn't lose in the fire.All of them with charcoaled edges.My mother holds them to her chest and tells me she can still smell the smoke.I tell her I will guard them well.My father's freckled shoulders.My sister's brown, brown eyes.My mother's patient hands buckling my tiny blue suspenders.That one December when we built a bonfire in the middleof the frozen lakeand I skated around the flameswith my snowsuit's frozen zipper sticking to my tongue.My mother called me name.Told me to smile for the camera.I still remember the flash.And that enormous fire.With the ice beneath it.That didn'