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Bryan Washington

Brian Washington is an American writer. He is the author of only two books but has an impressive number of awards and achievements.

Brian Washington was born in Kentucky and moved to Texas when he was three years old. He attended James E. Taylor High School. He had long concealed that he was gay to avoid persecution.

Washington holds a BA in English from the University of Houston and an MFA from the University of New Orleans.

His fiction and essays have appeared in the New York Times, The New York Times Magazine, The New Yorker, Time, Vulture, The Paris Review, The Best American Short Stories, and The Cut, among many others.

Washington debuted with the series of interconnected short stories Lot (2019) set in Houston. He vividly portrayed the inner lives of his marginalized fellow citizens, often overlooked in literature as characters sketched to evoke pity and despair. These are tough yet tender accounts of uncertain lives haunted by the certainty of future violence and the shadow of homelessness.

Next year, Bryan Washington presented his debut novel, Memorial. The book has received critical acclaim and was named a New York Times Notable Book. A24 announced it had purchased the rights to adapt the novel for television.

For these two works, Bryan Washington has won the National Book Foundation 5 Under 35 award and received recognition from the New York Public Library as a Young Lions Award recipient. Additionally, he has been honored with the Ernest J. Gaines Award, the International Dylan Thomas Prize, and the Lambda Literary Award.

Furthermore, Washington has been a finalist for prestigious literary awards, including the National Book Critics Circle Fiction Award, the James Tait Black Prize, and the Joyce Carol Oates Prize.

He has also been recognized as a PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize finalist and a National Book Critics Circle John Leonard Prize finalist.

His literary prowess has earned him the coveted O. Henry Award. Finally, Forbes has featured Washington on their 30 Under 30 list.

Bryan Washington contributes as a columnist for the New York Times Magazine.

His third book, Family Meal, will come in 2023. The novel is about two young men, once best friends, whose lives collide again after a loss.

Bryan Washington lives in Houston.

Photo credit: brywashing.com
years of life: 1993 present

Livros

Citações

Rafael Ramosfez uma citaçãoanteontem
And how did I
Get back? How did any of us
Get back when we searched
For beauty?
GARY SOTO
and wouldn’t it be nice / if things fit / the way they were
supposed to / wouldn’t that be something / worth dying for.
PAUL ASTA
Rafael Ramosfez uma citaçãoontem
So Aja wanted to tweak her English (and not just english, but English english, the language of money, the kind we hear in banks) to pull a job as a librarian, or a secretary, or a hostess up north—although really, truly, she’d have mopped vomit at Burger King—because she’d seen on the TV that our public spaces were quiet, and on her island, at that time, quiet was a commodity.
Which is when it happened: she was imagining the sound of nothing when Paul finally made his move.
Rafael Ramosfez uma citaçãohá 14 horas
And so Aja wasn’t present for James’s funeral. A week before they closed the case, long after Paul was in chains.
No family flew down to claim the body. No crying mother at the coroner’s. No wincing aunts decrying our ghetto. No protests, no media, not even a gaggle of friends.
James’s departure was a quiet one, or it certainly would’ve been. Because his desires were untainted. Self-propelled. Without accommodation.
He was, despite everything, still one of us.
So we put our heads together.
We pulled the change from nowhere.
We plugged Big A for the quarters under his bed. We asked Mr. Po for some of his flower money. We drilled Gonzalo and Erica for a little of their comp-pay. We pestered Juana for some alimony, and Rogelio for his overtime, and the three Ramirez daughters for their baby shower stash. We poked Charlie for those international checks, Adriana for her allowance, Neesha for her government check, and Dante for his lunch money. Nigel and Karl for the pennies they stole. LaToya for those side jobs, Benito for his Hazelwood, and Hugo for the paystubs he’d been cashing on the West Side.
We hung streamers from the balcony. Grilled wings from the first floor. Plugged speakers, pitched goalposts, sipped liquor, raised arms.
And from the viejas to the juniors to the Filipinos to the black folks, we danced, danced, danced, to the tune of that story, their story, his story, our story, because we’d been gifted it, we’d birthed it, we’d pulled it from the ashes. Aja was Aja and Paul was Paul and James was James and James was Paul and Aja was James and they were us, and we told it, remixed it, we danced it from the stairwell, and we hung it from the laundry, and we shook it from the second floor, until our words had run out, until our music ran dry, and Five-0 shut it down on account of the noise.

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