Two weeks ago, the New Yorker, now the June issue of Harper's.
Check out the opening of the story titled, "please, thank you":
at first, their people came and went. my children or the few close friends who worried about me dying, they came and stayed some too. im talking about staff people. nurses? not all of them. or they all werent schooled as nurses, years of classes, even if they acted like they are or even do what nurses do. they do something every hour. if i tried to say something, they started asking the same questions. what is your name? what is the date? where were you born? like that. or sometimes, como te llamas? que es la fecha de hoy? like im from mexico and just crossed, not american like them. im from here! ill bet my familys been here longer than yours! i was semper fi, cabron, and then i was an ironworker for ten years, were you? always, always has made me so mad, even if i dont say it out loud to these people here. i was cooperative the first few times, but then i just wanted to be given answers to what i was asking. like, am i going to get better? or worse? i didnt like them ignoring me, or acting as if what i said was not important. even if it wasnt. i knew what they were thinking. i was someone who didnt matter, who didnt count much. in the large, i know its true. i am a name, just another, one they think is foreign even, when there are so many hurting. but then, so what? i accepted it always, in my life, but now too? it makes me mad.
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To read the rest -and you should, you should, - you have to get the magazine as the story is not available online.
What are you waiting for?
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