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June

I wasn’t in class on Tuesday, and I should have posted this last week, but I wanted to say it anyway. In “June,” McCracken did what we have been trying to do in our stories – write about something without it feeling familiar. It would have been so easy for her to say: here’s this girl who is being molested by her sister’s boyfriend, how sad. Instead, her narrator continued to feel a sort of admiration for June. She pines for June’s friendship after they stop spending time together, even to the end, when she wonders if June is who she sees when she visits her parent as an adult, “sitting on the porch in the black night, sipping at the air through a cigarette” (160). She evokes emotions that aren’t the ones we initially think of as applying to that situation.¬†How does she do it? She chooses what to let her narrator think about and doesn’t let her narrator fall into patterns that feel familiar.

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