And so, in those times of fear, in glimpses of you on the street, in the desire to skip the holidays are hide out from the events, I always come back to the words from that conversation in my kitchen. “Em, we are so lucky, you have no idea how lucky.”
Other men pulled off fatherhood with such grace and humor, and with multiple kids: the difference, I thought, had to have been me. Our son’s crying was a problem because I wasn’t patient enough. Because I wasn’t man enough. The thought that he might die, that it might be better for us all if he died: I saw it as a personal flaw, and the night shifts were my penance.
I wish I had taken a pinch of the ashes and eaten them. I wish there was a way for me to physically carry my mother, with whom I share no DNA, no blood, around forever. I love her very much and I miss her every day, still.
For my kids, Hillary Clinton’s eloquent words seemed like ones they felt entitled to hear—and that Wednesday morning packed an unexpected wallop. What’s ahead might feel that much more dreadful because there’s nothing in memory to base it upon. I’m trying to remember that feeling of abject fear.
That night, you show your mother how you’ve learned to slurp and swirl the wine in your mouth. Her body stiffens and her face turns mask-like. “Don’t ever do that,” she snaps. Your body goes cold. You’ve reminded her of her father.
Santi, your time may have been short but your impression was big. You will forever be carried in our hearts. It brings me peace to know that your grandfather will take good care of you. Ask him to teach you backgammon.
What can I do? Me, a fifty-year-old women living in the Midwest suburbs? In the spirit of being the change I wish to see in the world, I can start by looking in the mirror and seeing all of me. I can start by not seeing myself as a collection of parts that need to be refined, reduced, reshaped.
CW: This essay discusses assault.
By Liane Kupferberg Carter
John Gravely was our neighborhood house painter. He was never John, or Mr. Gravely. Just John-Gravely. He...
During those nine months, when another body called mine home, my body finally felt like home to me, too, rather than a place I simply visited when I needed something for myself or someone else. I felt the life growing within me as a wondrous gift, the extra weight transformed: life-giving, rounding out the hardness, my body a shield instead of a fist.
You can never live happily if you set out to live life for yourself alone. Choose a cause bigger than you are and work at it in a spirit of excellence. It will become a part of you as you see your goals through to the end. Measure success not by what you’ve done, but what you could do.
. I'm not supposed to want to cry. I’m not supposed to have White people problems. I am supposed to be made of better stock. I am supposed to be thankful things aren't worse. I am supposed to be tough. I am supposed to be strong.
