Deborah A. Miranda

Apr 19, 2024 | poets.org | Adrian Matejka |Deborah A. Miranda |Nate Klug |Didn’T Tilt

Find and share the perfect poems. Until around sundown, the survivinglilies in the yard stay wide open,like the window of a car passingon a hot day. No music from the flowers,but they smell like somebody’s fragrantsoap unwrapped on a dish edgedwith daisies. All those smells expressingthemselves haphazardly like a bandtrying to tune up.

Nov 10, 2023 | publishersweekly.com | Ayana Mathis |Deborah A. Miranda |Alice McDermott |Jennifer Barnes

Amerie’s Book ClubThe book: One Hundred Days by Alice Pung Our reviewer says: "In the nuanced latest from Australian writer Pung, a teen mother-to-be reflects on her ill-fated pursuit of freedom in 1980s Melbourne." Read more. The Audacious Book ClubThe book: The Unsettled by Ayana MathisOur reviewer says: "Mathis offers a simmering family saga involving fraught efforts in building Black communities.... Readers won’t want to miss Mathis’s accomplished return." Read more.

Oct 24, 2023 | altaonline.com | Deborah A. Miranda

CALIFORNIA IS A STORY. California is many stories. As Leslie Silko tells us, don’t be fooled by stories! Stories are “all we have,” she says. And it is true. Human beings have no other way of knowing that we exist, or what we have survived, except through the vehicle of story. One of the stories California tells is this: In 1959, my mother met my father. Madgel Eleanor Yeoman encountered Alfred Edward Miranda. She was twenty-five years old, he was thirty-three.

Oct 24, 2023 | flipboard.com | Deborah A. Miranda

4 hours agoThe California Department of Motor Vehicles said Tuesday it has immediately suspended Cruise’s deployment and driverless testing permits, ending the GM self-driving car subsidiary’s robotaxi operations in San Francisco just months after receiving the last necessary permit to commercialize its …

Sep 25, 2023 | altaonline.com | Deborah A. Miranda

I remember the first word I ever put on paper. On a brown paper bag, with a blood-crimson crayon. “D E B Y.” I sat at my grandmother’s kitchen counter in a red cabin with white trim, high in the Tehachapi Mountains of California. I was four years old. Already, I knew I might disappear. I knew my presence here on Earth was so tentative that I was in constant danger.