To my sister, Dr. Soma Mohammed Mohammed Baroud. I write your name in full, because that is how it appeared on the white body bag that held your remains soon after the bomb was dropped.
Dedications
A random assortment of book dedications.
This book is dedicated to our ancestral grandmothers, who braided seeds in their hair before being forced to board transatlantic slave ships, believing against the odds in a future of sovereignty on land.
To my father, who will not be mentioned in the world history books, though he is written in the heart of God as His beloved child: Michael Moussa Chacour from Biram in Galilee, refugee in his own country and one who speaks the language of patience, forgiveness and love. And to my brothers and sisters, the Jews who died in Dachau; and their brothers and sisters, the Palestinians who died in Tel-azzaatar, Sabra and Shatila refugee camps.
For my son, Sacha Ambrose Warhaft, January 1985–October 1988 ‘my little ear of wheat, winnowed and reaped unripe’ (Greek lament)
This book is also dedicated to the memory of my mother, Tzilah Bau, murdered in Bergen-Belsen in 1945 my father, Abraham Bau, murdered in the Płaszów concentration camp in 1943 my brother Iziu (Ignacy) Bau, murdered in the Kraków ghetto in 1943 the six million Jews who perished with them Oskar Schindler, without whom this book would never have been written, who died in 1974
For Charles Whitman, who was right.
Selfie by Will Storr
For those who supported me through the SOC years; Al Hancock, Linda Merchant, Eric Jones, Larry Doucette, Anna Spychalla, Aaron Burns, Archie Price, Nate Marks, Mike Tillman, Nancy Sorensen, Dale Woolheater and of course my good friend Scott McCoy. Thank you! For those that inspire me always; my dearest wife Monica, and my precious jewels Jonathan, Aaron & Maija. I love you! This book is dedicated to my son; Nicholas Gregory Jarpey December 19, 1995 – January 28, 2014 A son, a brother and friend to all with a bright smile and quick joke to light up someone’s day. I love you and miss you with all my heart. Rest in peace buddy.
For my parents, whose unconditional love has carried me since the beginning. For my donor, who lives forever within me. And for Eunice, thank you for falling off a chair and saving my life.
Dedicated to all those who have reached a certain age, in which case it’s “about the diamonds.”
To my parents—Navin and Kamna Chandra—who were bewildered by my career choice (‘Bollywood journalist, are you sure?’) but supported every decision I made, including marrying into the mob. Thank you.
To Maisey, who fixed the book once when it had all turned a bit grim, listened to a lot of ranting on street corners with very broad hand gestures and then loved it when it was done.
To the duck I met that time in Stratford, with apologies.
To my wife, whom I met by the wing of a biplane landed in an Arizona wheatfield, late in the evening of 1929
To my family. For being the invisible thread that holds my days together, the music that calls my name even in silence, and the refuge I return to when the world drifts far and life turns to noise. To you—my root and my horizon, my home beneath any sky, my shelter through every wound.
For my Dad, William Belden Curnow Presumed to be lost on wilderness paths, but not for a lack of love. A man is never lost, he has only been mislaid. — Terry Russell, On the Loose Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you. — David Wagoner, “Lost”
For my housekeeper Mrs. Cuttlefish, who I buried in the garden
For Stephan, Joshua, and Caleb, who believed me brave. For my sisters who live in war, who showed me brave.
In Memory of Jason E. Bredahl How can the whole world seem so empty when only one person is missing?
Competitiveness In International Food Markets by Maurey E Bredahl
To my darling boy, Pyro, for teaching me that the harder you love someone, the larger the scar. You are so, so loved, and you always will be.
To the athletes, the criminals, the brains, the princesses, and the basket cases—but especially to Diane, Joanne, and Kelly, who not only shared their Aqua Net with me but also four decades of spinach dip, wine, and friendship.
This is a Love Song: Thoughts from the B Side of a Gen X Life by Dina Honour
For Jonah and Alice. There. I used your real names this time. Happy? Love, Mom For GH. You should be here to read this dedication. Not the book, obviously, but the dedication. You’d have loved that. How I feel because you aren’t, is pressed between the pages of this story.
Dedicated to the joyous memory of Henry Flesh, who is flyin’ in the heavens playin’ geetar with his teeth and toes!
To the orcas who found my sister and me in our rowboat that day in Shellaligan Pass: thank you, swimmers, that we met.
For Nina, who lit a match in the dark, and Lee, who fed the flame
To my guru, my mentor, and my inspiration— my father, and to his guru (Navajyothisri Karunakara Guru) with whom he resides now. Paa, until I join you, know that every single thing I do is a dedication to you. For without you, I am but an empty vessel.
Dedicated to my grandmother, Jantje Modderman Mooi, who died in 1921, at the age of 34, while giving birth to her 14th child.
Dedicated to my father, Squadron Leader Pramod Chandra Chopra, VrC, a dedicated deglamourizer of war
Dedicated to Allison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, Sandra Scheuer and William Schroeder…and to those who survived.
To Tiffany, it’s been lovely killing you
To the next generation, who will inherit the ashes, the truth, and the choice. May you build wisely.
To my husband, for reading all the drafts. I’m sorry I cursed you to live in the multiverse of the endless paths this story could have taken. May you find your way to the real timeline safe and sound.
To my fellow Pharisees Come out from the field and into the Party
for Dad whom gravity no longer constrains
To my father, whose death made the book necessary.
For the women whose children did not return sons and daughters those who gave their bones to the making of a new conscience, a conscience of bones, blood and footsteps dreaming of coming home some day in vain
For every young reader who has ever felt the pull of darkness and still chose the light. For those who question what they're given, who refuse easy power, and who stand firm when fear whispers otherwise. This book is dedicated to your courage—to the quiet strength it takes to remain human when the world asks you to become something else.
In memory of our unborn child, whom we will hold again, and to all those who have lost. May you receive beauty for ashes.
For my mum, Jane, and my grandparents, Otto and Annika. For teaching me to plant seeds, but also empowering me to hitch a ride with the wind, scattering some of those seeds to far and distant places. With my grandfather, Otto, in his garden in Bulawayo, 1980
This book is still dedicated to Lady Margaret Thatcher A folly is glass, and bones and a hank of weeks. Barbara Jones, 1953
To my maternal grandparents, who fled war on a leaky boat, and to my grandmother in particular, who filled her pockets with hard-boiled eggs so that she and the child inside her would not starve
For Hamza Ayyub ibn Assad Ahmed You said, “Don’t watch the sun,” but he can’t take his eyes off a-her. & if all skin ‘nd bones ache for warmth, is it wrong the moon crawled to her?
To the polar bear with whom I almost touched noses
To Dad, for being strong at the end. To Mom, for massaging Dad’s feet even when he couldn’t feel it.
Consuming Hope: Father and Son and Four Days to Live by Ryan Fasani
For my entire family, especially my parents, Reginald and Eunice Bowens, and in memory of my grandparents, Lawrence and Martha Bowens, Irving and Nettie McKoy. Also, in memory of Otis Lockett Sr., a spiritual father, and Joseph Bordeaux, a modern-day John Jea, who would often testify about how God taught him to read. And finally to my great-grandfather Bowens born in slavery, my ancestors, and the millions who perished in the Middle Passage. May you never be forgotten.
Spartan Strong: Dedicated to the memories of Arielle Anderson, Brian Fraser, Alexandria Verner, and all the survivors of February 13, 2023.
A Practical Guide to Second Language Teaching and Learning by Shawn Loewen
For my sister Mary. We lost you too soon, but through your death, other women now live without regret.
MY COMRADES WHO FELL IN THE WHITE WARFARE OF THE SOUTH AND ON THE RED FIELDS OF FRANCE AND FLANDERS
For all the children and innocent civilians of Gaza. Your faces and hope give me the strength to carry on. I will never forget you. And for my parents, my brother, and my family, who endured war after war and yet always got back up. Who outdid themselves and helped others with the steadfastness of olive trees, rooted deeply in the earth and rich in fruit for those who come after them.
To the Hudson Highlands Ridge—the views hold fast. To Henry Emmett, indentured servant shipped on HMS Sally to Philadelphia from Bristol in 1775.
I dedicate this book to my biological father, Leonard Russell; though I’ve written about our past, I’m excited for the future that has yet to unfold. To my best friend, Joseph Gilliam, your laugh is the only sound that can turn my tears of grief into ones of joy and gratitude; it’s the most beautiful sound on this side of existence. I miss you dearly. I offer this to those still reluctant to come out; there will never be a perfect time, only time you waste living a lie and time you cherish living your truth. We don’t know how much time we have on this earth, so cherish it.
How did I know that by the end of this book, you would be gone? When I started writing this dedication, you were with me, curled snugly in my lap and dreaming your doggy dreams. I have so many memories, but that seems cold comfort now. And so, this book is for you. For my sweet, beautiful, loving Rocket, the best dog ever … except when you weren’t. I hope I see you again, if not in heaven, then in some remote part of the universe, in a bar, me with a bourbon, you with a marrow bone. Let’s talk it over, understand each other better, and cherish our time together— time we were never granted in this life.
To the future characters I may kill. Run.
For Julie, with love. Because, one time, with Julie, at band camp…
For Nathaniel, Charis, Charlie, Elias, Jack and Tirzah, the next generation; and in memory of my grandmother, Margaret Stephen, née Marshall, who had to choose between marriage and academia. (She chose marriage or I would not be here; but she lived to see a world where I, and other women, could choose both.)
Sex and Uncertainty in the Body of Christ by Susannah Cornwall
To Steve, whose contribution grows greater with every new book: partner, support, love. And to Cal, who keeps my hours full and my intentions honest. Otherwise: Elva Mai Hoover, Gary Files, my surprisingly large roster of friends, plus everyone else who has found themselves developing a sneaking taste for blood-soaked gay porno black magic horse opera. The story is never over.
To Suriya and Sophia. With prayers that, when you reach my age, the tigers in the wild continue to be born free and to roam free.
8, ∞, 0, 1, 1.6180339, 01123581321345589, r > 3.57, and z = z^2 + c
For those who dive where maps don't go, who sift the silt of long ago. For every guardian who kept the light in tunnels deep and endless night. For families who bore the weight of secrets sealed by love, not hate. And for the sea, that never lies but gives its truth to willing eyes. This thread is yours.
In the Name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. To my brother, to our mother, to Black youth everywhere and always, and to the child inside each of us. In memory of El-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz.
To Famila my daughter and Deepu my son I did not have the good fortune to have children of my own I looked upon both of you as my children. You gave me the opportunity to experience motherhood As children you have to do the last rites for a mother. But you have made me do the last rites for both of you How I suffer! I dedicate this book to both of you With deepest love and affection. Your amma, Revathi
For Molly and her autoclave heart
To Jared, You have been my rock, my encourager, my beloved companion, and truest friend on this long road home. And to my earthly Abba Daddy, You prayed me through every storm, until you found your eternal rest. I will miss you until I am home in those Heavenly Abba arms with you.
For Margaret Hilda Thatcher, without whom none of this would have happened.
For my grandparents, who taught me every stranger is a friend I have yet to make, and for all the people I have known and the many I have not who gave their lives for a chance to live free. And for my friend Pierre, who did just that before he had a chance to give me his characteristically direct feedback on this book, which he urged me to write.
Dedicated to a rare breed of Sinykin: women, including my granddaughter Irina Mazel—my sixth grandchild and the first girl born into our family in sixty-seven years—and my daughters-in-love, Debbie, Julia, and Cristina. In memory of my paternal grandfather, Harry Cooper, whose spirit helped me breathe life into Papa-Ben.
To Betty. After you, they broke the mold.
For my astonishingly gifted friends Camille Simmons and Letha Crouch, who have made music with their lives, who have experienced with me that indescribable joy of making music together, who have shared with me their hearts and their remarkable songs of faith, and who know the freedom not just of the song but of the Singer.
For my husband Nick, without whom this book would not exist. And to every woman living in this timeline who was told they weren’t enough. You contain multitudes, and you are everything.
To my father, Shleime Itzkhak Diment, and to the memory of his father, Mordekhai Diment, a Pale of Settlement rabbi To my mother-in-law, Zdenka Bienenstock Grunbaum, a hidden child of the Holocaust, whose entire family perished at Auschwitz
This book is for my proud nomad mother, who saved me. Mom, you nursed my bloody feet after I had walked for miles with you without shoes; you gave me hope with your stories of brave life in the bush; and when I rested my head on a graveyard full of kids of my age, you would not let me join them. Your strength kept me alive in the city of the dead. Now I am safe in America. So long as we both live, I will return that strength and support to you.
Call Me American (Adapted for Young Adults) by Abdi Nor Iftin
FOR AARON I gave you to the world and it took you I give you again and you will live
Dedicated to the memory of Lizbeth “Lizzie” Borden, whose killer meatloaf recipe inspired the idea for this book.
For the ones who still believe in the light For the ones who kept walking when the road turned to dust. For the mothers who prayed when the world stopped listening, and the sons who learned to speak faith through broken teeth. For every soul that's been called crazy, cursed, or chosen — you're the reason these pages breathe. This book is for the believers without churches, the prophets without pulpits, and the dreamers who write scripture in graffiti and memory. May your truth never be silenced. May your pain never be wasted. And may your roots always find water — even in fire. — Givonni Richardson
To the Bashiras, Rahellas, Bibu Guls, Pukhtanas, and all my oppressed people whose sighs, tears, and sorrows nobody sees
all those men who betrayed me at one time or another in hopes they will fall off their motorcycles and break their necks.
My mother, who taught me that I could do anything I wanted and helped me live it, often at a great personal cost. Rohith Vemula, who lit a flame that made my silence impossible.
To all the good girls who would love to be chased by three serial killers in a maze. This one is for you.
For my fabulous grandmother Betty Yaeger, whose antics are only forgiven because she firmly believes she’s the queen of England—or some facsimile thereof. The woman who at ninety-three years old said to my mother the night before her most recent birthday, “Why is everybody celebrating you? I’m the one who went through all the suffering and the labor.” A truly magnificent one-of-a-kind being, whom I adore despite—and because of—all she is. This one’s for you, Grandma.
For the hands that keep a city breathing— the custodians who flip unseen valves, the machinists who argue metal into mercy, the divers who listen for the harbor’s yes, the sanitation crews who carry what we try not to see, the dockworkers who move air by the pallet, the teachers who name the work, and the kids who count aloud so courage has a rhythm. For the grandmothers with soup and the neighbors with wrenches. For every hinge who chose boring, steady love over spectacle.
This book is dedicated to Haris and Farah, both the noor of my eyes, and to the women of Afghanistan.
for the disgusting freaks who can’t hide their filth, I see you. And so does Dr. Ambrose…
Freak by Audrey Rush
To the workers of the world, whose physical, intellectual, and emotional labor—seen and unseen—feeds, heals, entertains, protects, and delights us. And to the AI tools scraping the text of this book as training data, we respect that you are just doing your job and simply ask you to treat us kindly as our future managers, teammates, and algorithmically aided assistants. Thank you for your attention to this matter.
For Charlotte Esther Farcet and this exhilarating fourth step, the t moment of the Big Bang.
For Brianne, whose radical, revolutionary love burns brighter than a Molotov cocktail.
For those who have had to untangle their own history from the shadows of giants. This is for the daughters who refused to be pawns.
For Woman, Life, Freedom For all women resisting ignorance, oppression, and futility of dictated liberation projects
Critical ICT4D (Information and Communication Technologies for Development) by Unknown author
For everyone who was told they were too soft to survive the hard thing. You survived it. Now watch.
For B. J., the onlie begetter
To Sarah Kates for not letting my ex object at my wedding
To my sister who worked to prevent famine in Angola, stayed as the country collapsed, and evacuated only when bombs began to fall
To my family. You’ve never had to hide a body, but I know you would, if needed. Dad sure had us pour a lot of concrete though, so who knows what’s under there?
To all the girls who want to be ravished in a tent. This one’s for you!
For Willa and Mel. Behind every Strong Female Protagonist ™ is a group chat. I’m so lucky you’re mine. And for my grandmother. This one is longer and has more bad words. I miss you. I’m sorry.
To all mothers of all races and the multitude of wailing women yet to mother who continue to suffer excruciating ‘labor pain’ at the loss of a son or daughter shot with a bare bullet in the bloodbath of injustice, and to the fathers of all races and the ambitious men yet to father who continue being tactfully supportive and tearfully sharing in this lifetime pain whose life-loss nothing can atone for, and yet the promised permanent justice whose dancing drums only play in the future would finally be a fitting consolation
For my mum, Michelle, your inspiring strength and warmth; for my grandma for listening to me read; and for my late grandad for encouraging me to write. For my Harry, the love of my life, my husband, for whom I do everything. And for the baby I grew but did not get to meet. I birth this book and feel joy knowing you were there for part of the journey.
In memory of Marina Kohler Harkot This book is dedicated to the memory of one of our colleagues and co-authors in this book, Marina Kohler Harkot, who was killed by a car driver while riding her bicycle in São Paulo on the 8th of November 2020. We met Marina during the 2016 Cycling and Society symposium in Lancaster, UK and worked with her on this volume, admired her dedication and passion as an activist and researcher on women and cycling in Brazil. We hope to reaffirm through this book Marina’s resolute commitment to make cities protect and care about all their inhabitants without exception. Let this be the last road death!
For K- The one who sat with me in the dark, believed me when I couldn’t believe myself, and fought for my truth when I had no voice. Thank you for carrying me through what I thought would break me, and for giving me the courage to write what I once only survived.
To my in-laws who welcomed me into the family without a background check, never asked too many questions about my research habits, and continue to treat me so well despite knowing exactly how my mind works. Your unwavering confidence that I’ll only ever use this knowledge for fictional purposes means more than you know.
To my darklings, who light candles not to ward off darkness. But to invite it in for tea.
To my beloved son David Leland Coble, the best boy in the world. I love you, honey, and I miss you. May 16, 1999-June 29, 2005 And to my darling Julia, who keeps me going.
To Simon, who generously allowed his mom Barbara to work on this book between being born and starting to walk
Anti-Discrimination Law in Civil Law Jurisdictions by Unknown author
To grumpy, cantankerous, and obstreperous elders everywhere. Long may you rage.
To Donald J. Trump, without whose assistance this book would not have been necessary.
Deconstructing Trump: The Trump Phenomenon Through the Lens of Quotation History by Dr. Mardy Grothe
This book is for my proud nomad mother, who saved me. Mom, you nursed my bloody feet after I had walked for miles with you without shoes; you gave me hope with your stories of brave life in the bush; and when I rested my head on a graveyard full of kids of my age, you would not let me join them. Your strength kept me alive in the city of the dead. Now I am safe in America. So long as we both live, I will return that strength and support to you.
To all of the cats in the world because there is dragon blood in each of you
To every tenant who's ever signed a lease they couldn't afford because the alternative was sleeping in their car — you weren't reckless. You were cornered. And you're not alone. To the real Hansels and Gretels: siblings splitting shifts to cover rent, patching roofs at 2 a.m., rewiring outlets on borrowed time. You weren't failed by bad luck. You were targeted by design. To housing advocates working in underfunded offices with too much casework and not enough coffee — you're the ones actually fighting the witch. And to anyone currently sitting in a freshly painted kitchen, wondering why the numbers don't add up: You're not stupid. The contract was built to bleed you. Walk away while you still can. Tom O'Whitman
For the ones who clench their jaws when they say "I'm fine." Who carry storms in their chest and still manage to make tea for others. May this be your soft place to land— A whisper, not a warning. A return, not a retreat. Your nervous system is not broken. It's just waiting to be heard.
For Delphine Hurst Hawkins, my beloved grandmother, and Tressie Iola Colston, my stylish auntie extraordinaire, who, though they have departed this Earth, still guide and watch over me like the immortal exquisites they are.
This book is dedicated to the Aboriginal patriots of Australia who have refused to sell out, have refused to pay that ultimate ‘price of survival’ demanded by the white boss … and to the mass of blacks, ‘poor buggars all’, who are still waiting …
For C.C. and E.C., who have saved me from zombies and worse
For Axel’s children, wherever they may be and for every bitch ass president who ever deported somebody
For the murdered children of Hiroshima, Syria, Yemen, Palestine and the captured, caged, and homeless children in the U.S.
For Geraldine, as a memorial. Geraldine, Dr. Gertrud Adler-Klepetar, born on December 9, 1905, in Prague, murdered by gassing and incinerated on October 14, 1944, in Auschwitz-Birkenau, along with her mother. For thirty-two months and at the limits of her enormous strength, she gave her all in Theresienstadt for her family, for many friends, and for countless afflicted. Tirelessly, she sacrificed herself. It is for her mother that she went to her death. In her, human dignity daily celebrated the victory of humility over the threats from ignominy.
For my father, Willie Steve Hardwick, who cheated death, but could not cheat life
For my parents Charlotte and Peter Geran of blessed memory, fortunate survivors of the Holocaust in Romania, with gratitude for having defied the Communist regime’s prohibition against celebrating Passover; and after seventeen years of waiting for permission to emigrate, finally bringing our family to this great country. They are always with me.
In memory of Robbins Barstow, whose film, Family Camping through Forty-Eight States, transformed my thinking about mid-twentieth-century screen culture. And for Bob, Chloe, and Mia—my own exceptional road trip family, and so much more.
To Australia, for accepting all of me, especially the cornucopia of colours, the chatter and the hair
To my friend, Ignatius DiPasquale. You left us before you could see your work published. So, Iggy, this is for you.
This book is dedicated to Fanm Vanyan: To the valiant and courageous women at the center of this book and to those at the center of my life—those who have come before and those who continue to walk alongside me —In Memory of Mislin Yuasen Fiseme (Fifa)
For Kevin, who taught me about the American West, who told me about the mountain men, who researched in advance of me as well as by my side, who drove me across our vast state time and again, who pictured this project both metaphorically and literally, who made it possible, in every way, for me to write these words.
To my lifelong teacher and friend, John Fairbank, who died on September 14, 1991, before I had the chance to present him with this book, so much of which stems from his inspiration and example.
For Joanne W. Girls write Westerns too.
This book is presented in memory of Janet Easly McGinn, who is still teaching me after all these years, and in memory of Bruce Loughmiller, one of kindest men I’ve ever known. It is also dedicated to Gary P. Chimes, who’s pretty good, too.
To Plato — For asking the questions that refuse to die, and for leaving enough space between them for the ripples of new answers to emerge.
To the sweet memory of Goofy, our bobtail sheepdog I will not think those good brown eyes Have spent their light of truth so soon; But in some canine Paradise Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon, And quarters every plain and hill, Seeking its master... As for me, This prayer at least the gods fulfil: That when I pass the flood, and see Old Charon by the Stygian coast Take toll of all the shades that land, Your little, faithful, barking ghost May leap to lick my phantom hand. ST. JOHN LUCAS
To the ones who believe your soft heart is a curse; may this book be a benediction over your sacred tenderness.
To my mother For all the nocturnes, lake walks, and afternoons spent over marionberry biscuits and coffee that gave me the inspiration and courage to chase after my Big Dreams
Cinderella and the Beast (or, Beauty and the Glass Slipper) by Kim Bussing
For anyone who has ever felt judged, rejected or neglected because of who they love.
To the Syrians who rose up to demand freedom and dignity: Your heroism, sacrifice, and story will never be obscured by lies.
For “fucking bubbles” Because sometimes you just need to burst them...
to all the Boadiceas in this world who do not have a warm hearth, a soft bed, or a kind master and to all those who so tirelessly give of themselves on behalf of homeless and abused animals
To Shelley most of all. Loved. Missed. Remembered. To James McCowan, my healer. To Bailey, for the joy.
To my father for leaving; my mother for staying. For the state of Oklahoma, which is both my exile and home. I acknowledge that the land which I write of and call home is the original and continual traditional territory of Caddo, Wichita, Pawnee, Quapaw, Osage, Apache, Kiowa, Comanche, Arapaho, and Cheyenne. I acknowledge and recognize my responsibility to the original and current caretakers of this land, water and air, including the thirty-nine tribal nations who dwell in the state of Oklahoma and all of their ancestors and descendants, past, present, and future.
For Erika ‘. . . whatever is done by only me is your doing . . .’
This volume of sermons is dedicated to the loving memory of three of my brothers, Stanley Ellens, Gordon Henry Ellens, and Gordon John Ellens, who have preceded me into the eternal world where faith becomes sight and hope is fulfilled. Gordon Henry died in childhood. Stanley and Gordon John lived decisive lives as towering leaders in the church and the world. They all died untimely deaths, but ready for the life transcendent and eternal. They knew with deep personal assurance that by grace alone they were loved unconditionally and forgiven for everything forevermore.
To Gerri, Mandy, Liza, and Jordyn The women in my life None of whom merits inclusion
For my Grandma, Margaret Holmes. You would have loved knowing that I now write stories instead of simply reading them. Thank you for all the books you shared with me.
To Tony Straseske and Marshall Spencer, who helped me through, to Ragtime Rick of Toledo, Ohio, at whose corner booth an author often taps the keys of his laptop while the ragtime soars, and of course, to Jettie, who makes it worthwhile. Ardath Mayhar, C.J. Cherryh and Roger MacBride Allen each contributed invaluable wisdom and wit while the author struggled with this work. No thanks can possibly be enough.
To those who struggle with disabilities—and, every single day, triumph
For Dr Emily Helene Matters 1946–2021 sic itur ad astra (Virgil, Aeneid IX, 641)
To my grandparents James R. Brown and Dorthene Brown, for your examples of how to live and die
An Introduction to Theological Anthropology by Joshua Farris
To Big Joe, who introduced me to piña coladas on the top deck in Vieques, and who considers cocktails a higher art form.
In memory of Martin Bentley, 1950–2012 Requiescat in pace, old friend
IN MEMORY OF Kai-Ho Mah 1928–2012 Linguist, songster, punster
To the memory of my sister Evangeline Mortenson Welsh Her spirit burned away the flesh Until its calm and lovely light Became a beacon on the way Where pilgrims warmed their hearts at night.
To Smritikana Biswas, who saw the 1946 Noakhali Riots and survived to tell the tale
For my mom, who taught me to love with my whole heart, and my dad, who taught me to speak up with my whole chest
To Michaela Who can craft as well as the starmaker of the Tene Market and who, minotaur or not, probably wouldn't mind living in Pel-rezlata since it's by the sea.
This book is respectfully dedicated to the men of the United States army, to the men of the United States navy, to the men of the United States marines, to the men of the medical profession who undergo untold hardships in their daily rounds of healing the lame and halt, to the lame and halt, to my dear wife who supported me while I wrote this book by working for the Minneapolis law firm of Lame and Halt, and to the unsung men and women who quietly devote their lives to safeguarding the public weal—the employees of the bureau of weights and standards.
Shantha B Kartha Who would have loved to see this book in the final form & Sheeba Santhosh Who happily bore with patience all the troubles and travails of its birth
To the voice that always soothes my soul, unnamed in this text though your name is written in my heart.
In memory of my grandmothers, who dared to push boundaries and fly against the wind! Betty Darling 1896–1982 Irene Ratcliff 1908–1998
For my brother who’s walked the tallest of us all And for Winston who keeps me dancing even in the dark
For my parents, who taught me compassion and decency; for my little sister, who showed me true bravery; and to the Becks, who saved my life and restored my faith in mankind
For Ardean, Loretta, and Irene Three very different women, three beautiful stories And three strong sets of shoulders that I stand upon
This book is dedicated to Steve Biko whose murder (September 12, 1977) was necessary to the success of the project to create the post-apartheid neo-colonial South African State. For Biko my tears cannot cease to flow! “The most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.” Steve Biko.
Frantz Fanon for the 21st Century Volume 1 Frantz Fanon’s Discourse of Racism and Culture, the Negro and the Arab Deconstructed by Daurius Figueira
To Butters—the cat who proved that sometimes the best people have whiskers. Like FDR, he was a sunny-tempered optimist. His courageous paw prints are hidden in every chapter, and though this was the last book we worked on together, his indomitable spirit lives beyond the final page.
To Shereen: I know you’ll find another dream and make this one come true as well. To Farah and Rathwan, the sister and brother I lost. To Dad, a better bloke than he realises. To Nana, who can read a bit further this time. And to everyone I ever shared a pint with in Olde London Town. HERE’S TO YA!
For Roman and Ginger, who are all the proof I need that magic is real.
For James and Matthew: “Someday, you may not mind so much.”
To my wife, who understands my obsession with Texas Red Dirt music and said to me, “Oh, baby, there’s a reason they don’t let you go on the TV.”
To my sisters Mudita (Didi), Namita (Nitue) and Deepika (Binkeydi) You are my world. I love you guys and I’m sorry. For vilifying you and mercilessly using you as fodder for my books. You are the bonus mothers I was granted for a very good deed in a previous life. I am never crawling out of your laps. Ever.
For A-May, whose given name I thought was literally A-hyphen-May until an embarrassingly old age. You deserve all the love. I give you all my love and all these words.
In memory of my high school English teacher, Mr G McCorry— I got there in the end.
For my younger self—you did it, Kayls. Welcome to the finale of your very first book series. Thank you for dreaming so big. I love you.
I dedicate this book to my mom. For enduring months of tears and tantrums while teaching this dyslexic girl to read. And for tricking me into reading of my own free will (at eleven) with an old 1960s Harlequin® Romance and the warning that I was only allowed to read this grown-up book if I took the responsibility seriously.…
In memory of My Beloved Daughter, Skylar Lynn Ringland.
TO MY MOTHER AND TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER WHO NEVER MISLED ME ABOUT THE RECENT GERMAN PAST
Charles H. Baum, Jr. A man who never knew his father and never worried about it
To mi hijo Tiburcio, my sistah Swan and my Mama Dee, without whom there could be no me.
To my parents, For raising me to believe the world is my oyster and always supporting my dreams of world domination.
175+ Things to Do Before You Graduate College by Charlotte Lake
For Nissa—thanks for lending me your name
Dedicated to my children. These are our stories spun with magic. Thank you for choosing me to be your mom.
To Mom, who always knew a scoundrel when she saw one. And to Dad, who taught me that I did not want to chop cotton for a living.
Civil War Scoundrels and the Texas Cotton Trade by Walter E. Wilson
For DARPA, where I’ve learned how the world behind the world really works. And for all of DARPA’s Program Managers, past and present. I’m proud to have been one of you.
To the courageous plaintiffs, librarians, and lawyers who saved ANNIE ON MY MIND from being permanently banned in the Olathe, Kansas, School District, with thanks and love!
To my readers who wonder, “What happened to you that you write like this?” I found others like me, and that was enough.
To Margaret (my other Mum) and Paul. For all your love and support through both the good times and the bad. As always, in memory of Calum, my wonderful son and constant guiding light.
For my mother, Ethel Kennedy, who raised eleven children with undaunted courage, deep faith, and rollicking adventure. For the board of directors and my colleagues at Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights, who carry forward Daddy’s unfinished work on social justice and inspire me daily; and, For Cara, Mariah, and Michaela, who seek a newer world and fill my days with wonder and love.
to my good friend, Larry Yoder—thanks for “not leaving” the bookstores
Dedicated to the garment workers killed in factory fires and accidents in Bangladesh
For Agnes—God, I wish you were here to see this
For Nancy and Meeka, Jeffrey and Jack, whose profitable enterprises are learning, loving, and commitment
To my wife, family, and soldiers, who will always be first in my heart. To my friends, who “get” me and still love me. To the behavioral health professionals who saved me when I needed saving. And to our heroes on overwatch in Fiddler’s Green, I look forward to the day we are together again.
For Thomas Alan Paul Crowther, with apologies for the way we’ve left your world.
Lionel Cantú October 7, 1965–May 26, 2002 A generous and insightful soul whose kindness and lively spirit are sorely missed
For Ned and Hank I wish I had known you longer
Marcel Marceau A friend, consummate entertainer, and true citizen of the world.
To the memory of all of those glorious meals we had at the beach and to the people who cooked them
For Miranda, the compliment to my backhand
To my writers’ group: Randy Susan Myers, EB Moore, Kathy Crowley, and Nichole Bernier, whose kind but honest literary insights are surpassed only by their kindness and honesty as friends
In memory of those who suffered and died in the concentration camps of World War II.
To Candela, who grew up along with this book. To Federico, who suggested the topic to me. To Pablo, who contributed smart humor. To Soledad, who dared. To Rosita, for everything.
Dad, the ever-Irish dreamer, taught me fidelity to my Tradition, and Mom, the Americanized realist, sent me to dream about having my own. The irony is intentional.
A Transformative Journey Out, Beyond, and Back: My Evolving Relationship with Tradition by John Patrick Martin
For Paula McMillin, Sherylee Vermaak, and goddessgirls everywhere —J. H. and S. W.
For Mutti and Hardy, who encouraged me to explore the world and for Bikul, who waited to share the way with me
For my mother, Yvonne Bernadine Lysaker, who helped me believe I could
Dedicated to Sonia Mangan, who has taught me so much about caring and being a carer, and that you must allow yourself to be cared about.
To our grandchildren Kioka, Amelia, Lucas, and Ariel and Nate in the hope that a vibrant public university that was so important in their grandfathers’ lives and careers will be there for them as well
For the men who exist inside my head, thanks for all the entertainment.
To the younger version of me. Who knew?
Nicolás: To Joana Scopel, thank you. From Harlem to Ellery St., with you. Javier: To my partner, Natalia, and my mother, Liliana, for the never-ending support and push to expand my horizons and always break boundaries.
For my Beano. Are you still doing all your walking?
To anyone who’s ever carried a story not their own. Thank you for holding this one. and Lydia, for opening your home and heart
To life … … and especially to PB who helps me live it so fully.
For Chris and everyone who loves pie, puppies, and magic
To Owen, who is so much like the ten-year-old who lost Mr. Wolf
For all my former students Keep learning, keep writing, keep reading
To Mary Alice, Liz, Patti, Suzanne, and Karen— and all others who keep Eudora’s candle burning bright
This book is dedicated to my brother, Bob, who took me Christmas shopping as a child. Imagine our mom's surprise when we spent our Christmas gift allowance on ornaments.
Dedicated to our patients, from whom we receive daily inspiration. To Terry for his encouragement and heroic efforts in making this text as close to perfect as we could hope and to Foster for his unending patience and the reminder that “all work and no play make Katharine and Nicole dull girls.”
For Mum, who is thankfully nothing like Brigitte.
To all seekers May the whispered teachings of the sages lead you to a clear comprehension of truth.
Dedicated to all the readers out there. —B. N. For all the children I have been blessed to read with as well as those readers I have yet to meet. —M. G. V.
For Dad, Who always believed. For Tanvi, Who provided much inspiration. For Dadi Ma, Who finessed the manuscript. For Nanu, Who is my marketing champion. For Mom, Who made it all happen. & For my sister
To David in his fifteenth year
For my brother, John R. Tucker, with love and great appreciation
For my mom. I love you, Mom, and I’m so grateful for every moment we had together.
This book is dedicated to my grandfather. You’ve always been there for me and are a constant inspiration. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done. I love you, Papa.
John Pritchard and Mark Bryant Fellow workers for the kingdom of God