Come What May

As my son and I approached the theater to see the musical Annie, Miss Hannigan’s song ran through my head: Little girls, little girls. Everywhere I turn I can see them. The crowd outside was swarming with them, a sea of tulle and sparkles punctuated by pops of red—many had come wearing Annie’s signature dress.

Little shoes, little socks… I headed for the doors with my boy, who on this (and every other) day wore his light-up Stormtrooper sneakers.

I do not share Miss Hannigan’s animosity toward female children, but the sight of all of them was overwhelming. For the first time in a while, I was struck by the absence of my little girl, who would have been about the same age as many of the children there. She was lost seven years earlier, before she had a chance to be born.

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Why I Refuse To Believe Moving To the Suburbs Means “Giving Up”


I moved to New York City when I was in my early twenties and swore I would never return to the suburbs. It wasn’t my childhood that ruined the suburbs for me, however; it was depictions of it. Specifically, novels that portray the suburbs as a culturally bereft wasteland where dreams go to die.

The culprits included Rabbit, Run; The Ice Storm, and (the worst offender) Revolutionary Road, in which a couple leave behind their bohemian lives in Manhattan and move to Connecticut, where they implode in the most horrifically awful way you’ve ever seen. No way, I said. Not me. Not ever.

SPOILER ALERT: I moved to the suburbs.

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