Dear Elite, Now that the languid summer season is upon us here in the lowcountry, with heat indexes approaching 110 and swim team’s season officially in the books, springtime’s urgent pomp and circumstance seem a distant memory. Back then we were schlepping the kids to and from school daily; contractors were all over the house;…

Dear Elite, There was a time in my life when I thought I was going to be an interpreter. At 24, led by a clueless belief in my Spanish language proficiency that was buoyed by my adult ESL students’ compliments, I found myself in the language lab at the College of Charleston, trying out for…

Dear Elite, Of all the subelite shit that Christians cling to (western society’s foundational values, conservative social norms, a divine power greater than elitism, etc.), the historical accuracy of the Bible has got to be the absolute dumbest, and never is this particular form of idiocy more on display than Easter season. I mean the…

April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. T.S. Elliott’s The Wasteland Dear Elite, Signs of spring are everywhere. The longer, warmer days; the birds singing; the flowers blooming; like sirens along the rocky shore they call to us, drawing us…

Dear Elite, The worst part about chronic pain is the lingering doubt that it’s actually all in your head, that you’re causing it, that your suffering is not some unfair punishment sent down from Randomness above; it’s something you’re doing to yourself; it’s all your fault. Yes, the absence of anyone to blame, the inculpability…