MEMOIR:

FALL 2004:

A Satisfying Newbury Lunch
When It Felt Like Home

SPRING 2003:

The Big Boys
The Fine Art of Urination and Defecation Al Fresco
The Golden City
Inside Looking Out
Roxbury
The Soup Game

FALL 2002:

All the Hearts
Footsteps

SUMMER 2002:

Being Family

SPRING 2002:

An Alternative to the Common Use of Forks
Memoir Lead
Two Weeks in New Mexico
Untitled
Zeroes

FALL 2001:

The Anti-Valentine's Girls
Play

SPRING 2001:

Amour de Soi
The Day Music Let Me Go
The Force
Lucky Me, I'm Gifted
My Green Canyon
A Painful Passion
Point of Departure
Sail the Sea
Smile and Nod

FILM REVIEWS:

FALL 2004:

Lola Takes Us For the Sprint of Our Lives

FALL 2002:

Arlington Road: A Thriller with Thought
A Big Fat Fairytale Wedding
Border Patrol: The War Against Drugs Continues
Not the Stereotypical Shoot 'em Up Gangster Flick
Punch Drunk Love

SPRING 2002:

The Complexity of Artificial Intelligence
Monster's Ball
Monster's Redemption
Royalty Runs in the Family

FALL 2001:

A Hard Day's Night: A Rock 'n' Roll Joyride That Never Runs Out of Steam
Too Many Potholes in Riding in Cars with Boys

SPRING 2001:

Requiem's Melody Lingers
New-and-Improved Horror

FEATURES & PROFILES:

FALL 2002:

In The End, Everything is Crystal Clear
A Match for Success
They Will Follow Him
A Very Bostonian Hotel
What's an A?

READINGS:

The CO201 program hosts special Coffee House Readings periodically throughout each semester. These stories have each been selected by 201 professors for reading.

SPRING 2002:

Death and Board Games
Luxembourg
Resurrection of a Ghost
The Tool Man

FALL 2001:

Bits of Daylight
Leona's House
This is Spinal Tap: No Need for Painkillers
The Toad and the Giant

SPRING 2001:

The Movies
Solving the Equation: The Trials and Triumphs of International Adoption
Yaglafant

ESSAYS:

FALL 2002:

Her Face is Red
Smoking a Cigarette
Stories and Lies
Sumit Ganguly: He, She & It

PROPOSALS:

Proposals are group projects in which 201 students propose and create an ad for a non-profit organization or cause.

SPRING 2002:

Christian Solidarity International

CONTEST WINNERS:

SPRING 2005:

Colorado Peaks and Iraqi Deserts: A Paramedic's Story
The Consequences of Drunk Driving
America, Open Your Eyes

SPRING 2004:

A Fine Balance: The Life of an Islamic Teenager
A Genetic Link to Identity: Dr. Bruce Jackson and The Roots Project
Rebel With a Cause

COFFEE HOUSE READINGS:

FALL 2004:

The Amah’s Revenge
Circle in the Sand
It’s How I Walk
School Bus

SPRING 2002:

Death and Board Games
Luxembourg
Resurrection of a Ghost
The Tool Man

FALL 2001:

Bits of Daylight
Leona's House
This is Spinal Tap: No Need for Painkillers
The Toad and the Giant

SPRING 2001:

The Movies
Solving the Equation: The Trials and Triumphs of International Adoption
Yaglafant

STORIES AND LIES

BY HILARY HOLBROW

I remember my mother peeling my fingers off the bedpost one by one. Her efforts were futile because as soon as she moved on to the next finger, I would re-latch the first ones back on just as tightly. But she was bigger than me, and more stubborn, and in the end I always ended up next to her. This was my cue to squinch my eyes closed and bury my face in a pillow, whimpering, “I don’t WANT to learn to read.”

Given that unpromising start, I have no idea how I ever did learn to read, much less how I fell in love with it. I once read in an eggplant cookbook that if you taste something 12 times, no matter how much you originally disliked it, you will overcome your aversion. Maybe reading was like that—my mother force-fed me alphabet soup till I not only overcame my dislike, but was hooked, for better or for worse.

In fact, I think it was stories, not reading itself, that I fell in love with. Stories were my constant joy, while reading was and remains a kind of compulsive addiction. Riding the T, I get motion sick while being guaranteed Swahili in six easy lessons. In the bathroom, I decipher the ingredients listed on the back of the toothpaste. I’m always delighted to come across personal and forbidden reading materiel in other people’s bathrooms—wart remover, herbal aphrodisiacs, or home pregnancy tests. Once I would have followed a boy into the men’s room, had an exiting gentlemen not prevented me, so immersed was I in reading his T-shirt. Reading per se really is a compulsion, something that I would rather not do most of the time, but am unable to restrain myself from.

Stories, however, just keep me coming back for more. When I was 10, I read nearly a book a day. This unquenchable thirst for stories remains, although I have cut back since those days. And that thirst was likely the catalyst that kicked in and overcame my aversion to the printed word, because with the powerful tool of reading I could drink forever. Before I read, stories were still everywhere. Cleaning my room, I would construct an elaborate narrative of indentured servitude. On long car trips, I was an escaped prisoner, a traveling minstrel, a pioneer. Even asleep, I dreamed and still dream long involved stories, set vividly, and subtly developed—a creative writing teacher’s dream, except for the fact that they nearly always involve piranha hamsters or something equally far-fetched.

Stories seduce me, luring me away from the real world. Often when I meet people for the first time I can’t help but construct a past life for them. The scar above his left eyebrow is from a tricycle accident when he was three years old. She drinks only Perrier due to a typhoid scare her mother had as an exchange student in Turkey.

Fictionalizing my environment provides me with many hours of amusement, but it has its downsides, too. The real world is often not as interesting as I what I imagine, and I am often tempted to tweak the facts, to make a better story. As much as I value the truth and try to be a truthful person, I have been known to go off on a long story about my life only to realize halfway through it never happened. This inevitably results in tortured guilt, followed by shamefaced admissions. Take the anecdote I began with, for example. I must admit that not every fact is strictly true. But it might have been, and by now, I half-believe it myself.