{"id":8950,"date":"2017-12-16T19:10:11","date_gmt":"2017-12-16T18:10:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950"},"modified":"2017-12-22T18:32:13","modified_gmt":"2017-12-22T17:32:13","slug":"backstroke","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950","title":{"rendered":"Backstroke"},"content":{"rendered":"

It was the year loneliness broke my back. September 2007, and I\u2019d only been in town three weeks. Fall was the season I associated with Boston, so why not build the city into my plan? I\u2019d finished out my job at the \u2018word firm\u2019\u2014that\u2019s what we called it, the editors. My \u2018word tools\u2019 thesaurus project had come to a close. When I sat with my boss, he politely told me there wasn\u2019t any more work. It was done. We were done. He was nice about it. But I couldn\u2019t help feeling there was something else afoot. My father didn\u2019t much seem to mind that I wanted to move after that. I hadn\u2019t thought I was a drifter, but I was beginning to feel like one.
\n            I was at the bus stop one morning when Bart\u2014my just three-weeks neighbor, who lived one floor down\u2014offered me a lift. It was raining, I\u2019d gotten drenched on the way to the bus stop. I thought, \u201cWhy not?\u201d
\n            We\u2019d chatted a few times in the hallway. He was sweet, but not at all my type. He was tall, towering tall, his teeth uneven. His dark cropped hair fell across his brow, the strands almost perfectly in line. Fastidious seemed too fussy a word for him, but pretty near close. Though really, I was only making up reasons not to be interested in him.
\n            \u201cI\u2019m going downtown anyway,\u201d he said. \u201cWhere are you headed, Emma?\u201d
\n            \u201cThe library.\u201d
\n            \u201cThe library? For–?\u201d
\n            \u201cI\u2019m job hunting,\u201d I said.
\n            He careened into the right-hand lane. I found Boston drivers terrifying, so I wasn\u2019t sorry not to have my own car. Besides, I didn\u2019t know how long I would be here.
\n            \u201cYou\u2019re from Portsmouth, right?\u201d he asked. I nodded. Everyone knew it was the poor Northern relative of Boston. \u201cAnd you were in…?\u201d
\n            \u201cEditorial,\u201d I said.
\n            He hung close to the car in front, threw a glance in his rear-view mirror and then pulled swiftly to the left to pass the car that had come to a halt. I put my foot on the floorboard, instinctively, as if to break.
\n            \u201cEditorial, huh?\u201d he said. \u201cI don’t do much reading.\u201d I knew from our stairwell chats he was a computer geek, stayed up until 2 a.m. most nights, four hours after I generally went to bed. \u201cWere you happy at it?\u201d
\n            \u201cHappy?\u201d I smiled.
\n            Editing was what I did because I\u2019d been a voracious reader since the age of fourteen, the summer my mother died and I read The Lord of the Rings<\/em> cover-to-cover, twice. I hadn\u2019t been much for reading until then. It was late August, and I lay sprawled on my belly, head shoved in a book, as I clung to the twin bed in the rental my father had found. He thought we needed to get away after she died. \u201cIt was okay, I guess.\u201d
\n            \u201cSo\u2014did you want to leave the job, or\u2014?\u201d
\n            \u201cThey pretty much let me go.\u201d
\n            He raised an eyebrow, his finger hovering above the turn signal. I watched the raindrops gather on the windshield. It had not let up.
\n            \u201cYeah, I wasn\u2019t thrilled about that part. I mean, we all want to walk away, right?\u201d I paused.
\n            \u201cSo you figured leave town?\u201d Bart slammed on the brakes at a red light, the metal screeching. The dampness, I figured, wasn\u2019t helping.
\n            \u201cAre you metal-to-metal?\u201d I asked.
\n            \u201cWhat?\u201d
\n            \u201cYou know, your brakes. Are they worn thin? Metal-to-metal means you\u2019re going to need a serious brake job\u2014they can\u2019t just turn the rotors.\u201d
\n            Bart looked at me with a mix of worry and confusion. He drove a 1990 Toyota Camry, which meant it wouldn\u2019t be that expensive a job, I said.
\n            \u201cHow do you know so much about cars? I mean, for a girl\u2014woman.\u201d
\n            I\u2019d spent several months answering phones at a mechanic shop after freshman year at college. I\u2019d gotten into Smith College on scholarship, but that summer I stayed on in Northampton to work at the local mechanic shop. After all, what was there to come home to? Tory, nearly a decade older than me, had left years ago.
\n            I laughed. He should have gone to Smith, I told him.
\n            At the corner, he hung a right. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said. \u201cI think that\u2019s pretty cool. Not Smith, I mean. But the cars.\u201d
\n            When he dropped me at the corner of Congress and Water Street, I insisted he just pull over. I told him I\u2019d walk the rest of the way. It was coming down now, sheets of unforgiving rain.
\n            \u201cAre you always this self-effacing?\u201d Bart asked.
\n            All artifice had left his face, if there was any to begin with. Beneath his narrow spectacles, dark lashes framed his eyes. I felt badly then that I\u2019d lied to him. I wasn\u2019t going to the library at all. And why? Why had I lied? I was going to the Y for a swim. But I didn\u2019t want to go into my private life, because for me swimming was a private matter. Most people don\u2019t really get it: why water would fill the space of so much else missing in your life.<\/p>\n

The year my mother died, she\u2019d been sick six months so I stayed home all summer. I knew what was coming. She had bone cancer and by early August, she was breaking bones when she flipped over in bed. The smell in her room had gone from lavender to stale clove, the scent of the candle she had burning most of the time. She played quiet music and, when she wasn\u2019t sleeping, read. My dad was busy doing a summer school stint. Daily I brought her breakfast, because Dad had early morning classes. When I carried in the tray, she would lift her gaze from the book she was deep into. Her cheeks had gone hollow; her tan skin sallow, icy black hair grown thin and lank. I used to make myself smile. \u201cLook at you. All sunshine,\u201d she\u2019d say, as I walked out of the room.
\n            I didn\u2019t do it for her; selfishly, I did it because her face would brighten, for an instant, and that was the look on her face I made myself memorize when I lay in bed at night, trying to sleep.
\n            The day of her funeral, I turned fifteen. It was bad timing, my dad knew, but my aunt from Burlington was in town and we had to hold it that day. That evening, I went to my best friend\u2019s home and stayed for a week. Departure, I\u2019d learned, had its place.<\/p>\n

At the pool, the man took my money and gave me the change. \u201cHey, don\u2019t forget to drop your towel in the bin, swimmer. Will ya?\u201d
\n            I piled my items in the locker but had forgotten to bring my lock. I carried out my towel, my wallet buried in it, and set it on a plastic chair inside of the pool area, like the tidy little package I believed I had made of my life.
\n            \u201cLady, you wanna shower?\u201d called out one of the swim guards. \u201cWe mean it here.\u201d
\n            I stifled a smile; I liked the guy for calling me out. Because, well, too few people had.
\n            I stood beneath the spray of water and through the steam and spray light refracted off the glass portions of the roof, I marveled at the Art Deco-style of the place. It was one of the nicer Y pools I\u2019d been to in a while.
\n            My mother had been a swimmer; she\u2019d swum on a team in college, competed nationally, and was known for an exceptionally fast backstroke. She\u2019d broken records in her college, if not the country, so when she met my father he\u2019d taken to calling her Speedster. The name stuck, and throughout my growing up years, as the last child in our house, I heard a lot of \u201cHey, Speedster, you gotten her up yet?\u201d Or \u201cSpeedster, where\u2019s Emma, seen her?\u201d
\n            One evening, midsummer, I stepped into the backyard to find my father sobbing under the willow, holding his chest. His breath came out in gasps. He looked up at me with an expression so profoundly sad I turned around and ran into the house. I couldn\u2019t fathom what he felt, when I couldn\u2019t manage what I was feeling. I guess you could say I fairly hated him that summer, not just because he was gone a lot teaching, but because he stole my sadness. I couldn\u2019t be that sad at her bedside. Even at fourteen, I knew that.
\n            In the fast lane, I noticed a tall slender woman at the far end, bending down to gather her kick board and flippers. Then she righted herself like a tall tree, flowing upward; I felt my breath catch. She looked every bit like my mother had in photographs I\u2019d seen, when she was young, decades before her illness.
\n            I couldn\u2019t take my eyes off her as I swam. She kept to her side of the lane; we weren\u2019t doing a clockwise rotation the way they did at some pools. But she held to her lane and kept at her freestyle with an even cleanness I found engaging, if impossible to match. She was rhythmic and solid, the swimmer I imagined my mother to be. With her hair pushed back into the cap, all I could see was the tan hollow of her cheek.
\n            As I swam, I thought I could ignore the images that flooded me. I saw my mother in my bedroom, curled up on the sofa with King of the Wind<\/em>, which she read to me unceasingly\u2014even though she knew I hated horses\u2014because she\u2019d grown up reading it herself. And At the Back of the North Wind<\/em>, which I finally made her stop reading because something bad happened in it. She told me it was okay for bad things to happen. It was, after all, made up, right?
\n            \u201cIt\u2019s just a story, Em. And stories don\u2019t have power our lives.\u201d
\n            Even then I knew that was only half true. My mother worked for two summers in the library in Portsmouth before I was born. She was making a point.
\n            \u201cThey don\u2019t have power unless we give them power. Stories. You could turn your back on them, if you wanted to. Or you could decide they\u2019re the only way we can know our world.\u201d
\n            I knew my mother from her stories, I realized, as I watched the woman on the other side of my lane, stroke after stroke, relentlessly crossing the pool. She swam faster, and I tried to swim faster too to keep up with her. I wanted to follow her, to change our lane structure and go counter-clockwise to trail after her. The way I had trailed my mother in the backyard of our Portsmouth home, where the willow hung low and the creek, a quarter of a mile from the house, grew silent in summer. She wandered back there sometimes. One time I followed her, watching furtively as she picked a will-o-the-wisp and stuck the stalk, the tip of it, in her mouth. She carried a book beneath one arm, and as she walked she hummed. It was the Anthem, not the National Anthem, but the \u2018Marseillaise\u2019, which her family sang\u2014her French mother, who\u2019d emigrated to Canada before Maine. She hummed it loudly and with verve. When she reached the creek\u2014it was spring, then, and the water was high\u2014she dropped her book on the bank and stripped off her clothes, every last one of them. She caressed her breast\u2014to my horror\u2014her nipple, briefly\u2014with the tip of the will-o-the-wisp and then dove into the water.
\n            Years later I would ask myself why that scene had horrified me so. Was it because my mother was a sexual being and I\u2019d never discovered it until then? Or was it because my dad, I realized, wasn\u2019t the sole source of her sexual pleasure? But either way, the image left me unsettled. I wanted to forget it.
\n            The summer she was sick, as we sat on her bed together reading, she said to me, \u201cEmma.\u201d
\n            I looked up.
\n            \u201cYou\u2019re fourteen.\u201d
\n            I nodded.
\n            \u201cYou\u2019re going to have the change soon,\u201d she said.
\n            I blinked.
\n            She adjusted herself on the bed, the quilt splayed across her chest and beneath it I could see underneath her nightgown, the single solitary point of a nipple. It stood out, and as she spoke I found I couldn\u2019t stop looking at it. She told me about \u201cthe change,\u201d about getting my period\u2014which I hadn\u2019t, miraculously, gotten by then. And then you can have a child,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019ll have pleasure, Emma.\u201d
\n            I colored, even then.
\n            \u201cIt\u2019s nothing to be embarrassed about,\u201d she said.
\n            I laughed uncomfortably.
\n            She held my gaze in hers. \u201cA body\u2014your body\u2014isn\u2019t something to fear.\u201d I noticed the bone of her shoulders, the thinness of her wrist, and I saw the degree to which her body, what once had given her pleasure, had failed her. It had fought back, stolen from her, what she had.
\n            She turned to the candle burning, the clove scent rising and filling the space between us. \u201cYou\u2019ll love many men, Emma. But will you do one thing for me?\u201d
\n            I looked at her, spellbound and fearful.
\n            \u201cLove yourself,\u201d she said.
\n            My breath caught in my chest. I wanted to ask, did she mean to love myself in my heart? Did she mean to love myself with the touch of the will-o-the-wisp, when even the man you loved failed you? I didn\u2019t know this then, entirely, of course. But I knew she meant something other than what I wanted her to mean.
\n            \u201cDon\u2019t be afraid of all that you are.\u201d
\n            Then she set down her book and closed her eyes. I knew she needed to nap now and I left the room. And when I went to my own, I shut the door, closed my eyes, and wanted to forget everything she\u2019d said to me. I wanted to pretend she hadn\u2019t just told me what every woman needs to know. I wanted to pretend she wasn\u2019t leaving me when everything she said was precisely because she was leaving me. She didn\u2019t want to leave any one of my bones unturned.<\/p>\n

The woman in my lane pulled herself up onto the edge of the pool, swung her legs over and onto the cement in a single, supple move and pushed to standing like a long egret. Her suit, navy with a solid white stripe, stood out against the white-tiled walls at the far distance of the pool. Water dripped from her. I had stopped now at my end of the lane. I knew I was staring; then I felt a flush of something I hadn\u2019t felt in a very long time. I felt a wave of nausea or fear, I wasn\u2019t sure. I pulled myself up onto the edge of the pool, clumsily, in an effort to exit as she had. By the time I reached the showers, she was gone. Then, as I stood in the steady shower stream, I let myself do something I hadn\u2019t done in years. I felt something let go. I turned my back to the rest of the changing area, wrapped my arms around my chest as my father had done below the willow tree, and began to sob.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood swim?\u201d the guy asked at the front desk, when I dropped my damp towel in the bin.
\n            I couldn\u2019t say anything, but outside, when I caught the bus home, I sat in the front seat surrounded by two mothers with toddlers on their laps, an elderly man whose face was concealed by a newspaper, and two teenagers whose earphones were draped over their bodies. Beneath the thin colored wires, their breasts were forming and I wanted to tell them what my mother had said. And for reasons I still don\u2019t understand, that day I began to feel not so alone. My mother had worn her aloneness the summer she died. What she hadn\u2019t taught me then I figured out that day at the pool. In the length of the woman swimmer\u2019s body, in her breadth, and in the shaking of my own ribs as I stood crying in the shower.
\n            Someone once told me that when people we love are dying they teach us how to live. My mother taught herself how to live. It was the swimmer in her that taught me how to love.<\/p>\n

At the apartment complex, I took the steps in two. When I reached my flat, Bart poked his head up from the stairwell and called up to me, \u201cI\u2019m onto you, Emma.\u201d
\n            I looked down at him blankly. My hair was still wet.
\n            \u201cWhy did you say you were going to the library, when you were going to the pool?\u201d
\n            I felt a tightness in my lungs. Was he stalking me, or just calling me out? And then I relaxed. \u201cBecause,\u201d I said to him, \u201cI never really considered myself a swimmer.\u201d <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It was the year loneliness broke my back. September 2007, and I\u2019d only been in town three weeks. Fall was the season I associated with Boston, so why not build the city into my plan? I\u2019d finished out my job at the \u2018word firm\u2019\u2014that\u2019s what we called it, the editors. My \u2018word tools\u2019 thesaurus project […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":234,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[347,346],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nBackstroke - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Backstroke - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"It was the year loneliness broke my back. September 2007, and I\u2019d only been in town three weeks. Fall was the season I associated with Boston, so why not build the city into my plan? I\u2019d finished out my job at the \u2018word firm\u2019\u2014that\u2019s what we called it, the editors. My \u2018word tools\u2019 thesaurus project […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2017-12-16T18:10:11+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2017-12-22T17:32:13+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Alicia J. Rouverol\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Alicia J. Rouverol\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"19 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950\",\"name\":\"Backstroke - The Manchester Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2017-12-16T18:10:11+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2017-12-22T17:32:13+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/398609008043a3f0c4c78145eae61412\"},\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Backstroke\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\",\"name\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"description\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/398609008043a3f0c4c78145eae61412\",\"name\":\"Alicia J. Rouverol\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"caption\":\"Alicia J. Rouverol\"},\"description\":\"Alicia J. Rouverol is co-author of I Was Content and Not Content: The Story of Linda Lord and the Closing of Penobscot Poultry. Her short fiction, nonfiction, poetry and reviews have appeared in The Manchester Review, Route 57, The Wandering Bard, The Puckerbrush Review, Dandelion Review, Island Journal, extimacy, The Independent and The Manchester Anthology. She is currently at work on a collection of stories devoted to migration, mobility and change.\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?author=234\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Backstroke - The Manchester Review","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Backstroke - The Manchester Review","og_description":"It was the year loneliness broke my back. September 2007, and I\u2019d only been in town three weeks. Fall was the season I associated with Boston, so why not build the city into my plan? I\u2019d finished out my job at the \u2018word firm\u2019\u2014that\u2019s what we called it, the editors. My \u2018word tools\u2019 thesaurus project […]","og_url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950","og_site_name":"The Manchester Review","article_published_time":"2017-12-16T18:10:11+00:00","article_modified_time":"2017-12-22T17:32:13+00:00","author":"Alicia J. Rouverol","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Alicia J. Rouverol","Est. reading time":"19 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950","url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950","name":"Backstroke - The Manchester Review","isPartOf":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website"},"datePublished":"2017-12-16T18:10:11+00:00","dateModified":"2017-12-22T17:32:13+00:00","author":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/398609008043a3f0c4c78145eae61412"},"breadcrumb":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=8950#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Backstroke"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website","url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/","name":"The Manchester Review","description":"The Manchester Review","potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":"required name=search_term_string"}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Person","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/398609008043a3f0c4c78145eae61412","name":"Alicia J. Rouverol","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif","caption":"Alicia J. Rouverol"},"description":"Alicia J. Rouverol is co-author of I Was Content and Not Content: The Story of Linda Lord and the Closing of Penobscot Poultry. Her short fiction, nonfiction, poetry and reviews have appeared in The Manchester Review, Route 57, The Wandering Bard, The Puckerbrush Review, Dandelion Review, Island Journal, extimacy, The Independent and The Manchester Anthology. She is currently at work on a collection of stories devoted to migration, mobility and change.","url":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?author=234"}]}},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p2PuXo-2km","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8950"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/234"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8950"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8950\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9004,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8950\/revisions\/9004"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8950"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8950"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8950"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}