J.L. Powers
The daughter of a geologist and a journalist, J.L. Powers spent much of her childhood camping and searching for fossils in the American West, and considers herself a true “desert rat.” She grew up on the U.S.-Mexico Border in El Paso, Texas.
She’s taught African history and freshman composition, research and argument, creative writing, and literature at the University of Texas at El Paso, Stanford University, and Skyline College. Jessica is semi-proficient in three languages–Spanish, Portuguese, and Zulu–and now sometimes answers in Zulu when spoken to in Spanish. Though she now lives in California, where she just finished a Master’s Degree in African History at Stanford University, she will always consider El Paso, Texas “home.”
She is the author of one picture book (Colors of the Wind: The Story of Blind Artist and Champion Runner George Mendoza); 3 novels for young adults (Amina; This Thing Called the Future; and The Confessional); editor of two collections of essays (That Mad Game: Growing Up in a Warzone; and Labor Pains and Birth Stories: Essays on Pregnancy, Childbirth, and Becoming a Parent); and author of one non-fiction hiking guide (A Bark in the Park: The 52 Best Places to Hike with Your Dog in the El Paso/Las Cruces region).
“What do you think he saw?" Damn--I regret the awed way I phrased that and the hushed voice I used. As if I think acid is a "religious" experience, a visionary thing."Himself," Josh says. "You always see your true self on acid. You just usually see more than you want to see. So it all seems disorted." See what I mean? He's not your normal stoner. The guy should become a poet, a psychologist, a scientist. We pull up near Greg's house and stare at it like it's a damn fortress. "You don't think he needs to go to the hospital?" I ask. "Nope," Josh says. "For a while, I thought maybe, yeah. But he's good now, he's off it, he's not hallucinating anymore." "You're sure?" "Yeah." "'Cuz you can die on LSD-" "That's such anti-drug propaganda bullshit, Dan," Josh interrupts. "Nobody's ever died from an LSD overdose. Ever. As long as you keep people from doing stupid things while they're tripping, it's all good man, man. Why do you think I babysat him?" He reaches into the backseat and punches my shoulder. "LSD isn't your dad's smack. So stop worrying." I scrunch down in the seat. How'd he know about that? "Right. What's the plan?" "I'd ask him if ther was a key hidden under a rock," Josh says, "but he's not gonna be much help. Watch." He pokes Greg in the leg, prods him on the shoulder, grabs his cheeks and smushes them together, the way parents do to a baby, and says, " Ootchi googi Greggy, did ums have a good trippy? Did ums find out itty-bitty singies about oos-self zat oos didn't likeums?" Yup... Greg was in his own little world...”