Amor fati - by terry nguyen - gen yeet

In the suburbs of my memory, death manifests as a series of omens: a knock on the door, a ringing telephone, a hooting owl, a high-pitched scream reverberating through the high school’s hallways. I went to a high school with 2,500 students, and every year was colored by an accident of sorts; in some cases, a death. Our town was ordinary, which means it was prone to narrative forces (rumor, gossip) that attempted to justify it as extraordinary. Rumor has it, for instance, that one of the school’s buildings was haunted — a freshman was crushed to death in the 1933 Long Beach Earthquake — but no one paid that any mind. Most of us took classes in modular classrooms, where the sky was the open roof of our hallways. I was not close to any of the deceased, but even those who existed outside of their social periphery felt implicated in the aftershock of their sudden disappearance. No one knew how to talk about it, of course, but gossip led us to believe that there were always signs of what was

In the suburbs of my memory, death manifests as a series of omens: a knock on the door, a ringing telephone, a hooting owl, a high-pitched scream reverberating through the high school’s hallways. I went to a high school with 2,500 students, and every year was colored by an accident of sorts; in some cases, a death. Our town was ordinary, which means it was prone to narrative forces (rumor, gossip) that attempted to justify it as extraordinary. Rumor has it, for instance, that one of the school’s buildings was haunted — a freshman was crushed to death in the 1933 Long Beach Earthquake — but no