Essay
Dorri Olds tells her personal account of battling a bully of a boss who made sexual harassment a daily occurrence. Other women refused to help, but Olds took the best revenge.
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In the house I grew up, Mom had a framed letter from Coretta Scott King dated Nov. 10, 1966. It was a letter of thanks. “I would like to thank you very much for your interest in and support of my recent Freedom Concert in Chicago,” Mrs. Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote. “Much of the success of these concerts depends upon persons such as yourself who devote time and energy in their promotion and support.”
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Here is a listing of the book anthologies that have published interviews and creative nonfiction by Dorri Olds. This list includes personal essays and short stories and includes Chicken Soup for the Soul books.
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ENCLAVE READING SERIES, now in its 12th year, returns to CLUB CUMMING with an absolutely stellar line-up of authors, headlined by the one and only MICHAEL CUNNINGHAM, a true master of the craft. Essayist DORRI OLDS, acclaimed novelist and filmmaker BRIAN ALESSANDRO, and writer/comedian EDDIE SARFATY will all be taking the Club Cumming stage, comprising one powerhouse program of intellect and wit. As usual the lights will be down low, the drinks will be flowing, and admission is free.
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I was the youngest of three girls and was born a ham. I love attention—thrive on it really. So I’ve never been one to shy away from any limelight I can grab. When somebody gives me a compliment I grin ear-to-ear and say, “Thank you!” I figure that’s like positive reinforcement. If their compliment is met with an enthusiastic response, then they will be more likely to compliment me again, right?
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The night our rubber ripped, we’d made love in the woods. Soon after that I began putting on weight. My breasts were filling out like my older sister’s and I thought, ‘I’m a woman now.’ One morning after a hot cup of cocoa, I felt queasy and ran to the bathroom. When I threw up, I figured it was the flu. But it turned out I was pregnant.
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A wire clothes hanger bearing the stark message: Never Again. The woman marching next to me saw this sign and confided that her mother had nearly bled to death after the self-administered abortion of what would have been her fourth child, one she could not take care of. My Life Matters — a heart-wrenching sign carried by a small African-American boy riding on his father’s shoulders. His message is more important than ever in the months and years ahead.
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My Dad, David Mark Olds (1920-2009), was a US Army Captain during WWII. He was at Dachau Concentration Camp the day they freed the prisoners. Dad said that the smell of burned human flesh is something that you cannot forget. He also said that the freed prisoners, half out of their minds from starvation, wandered the camp, some were naked. Some found the strength to beat up German guards.
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I spent years fantasy photoshopping myself. I wanted to be tall and slim like Giselle, but my ankles were too thick. I was knock-kneed and short. My hair was brunette and my skin olive. I tried to wish away the dark fuzz on my forearms. I feared my face was ugly, spending hours studying blond classmates with cute turned up noses and wondering why I was so cursed. My rounded belly was the worst flaw of all.
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I clicked “Add Friend.” He accepted within minutes. Stunned, I wondered if he had forgotten raping me. Defriending my rapist on Facebook.
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