HerStry publishes one Personal Essay every Wednesday. Weekly Personal Essays are a way for writers to tell the stories they want to tell. There are no rules. No themes. Nothing is off limits. For essay submissions check out our guidelines.
Recently, scrolling through my news feed on Facebook, I came across a post by a girl from work. It was a picture of her and her mother side-by-side, same cute smile, same long, blonde hair, same eyes crinkled by their grins. She tagged it "#TWINS.” “Vote for me and my mom!" the caption said, with a link to a local radio station hosting a mother-daughter lookalike contest for Mother's Day.
Read MoreI had never been to a funeral. I never went to a wake, never stood by an open grave as a priest read scripture. All I knew of the ritual of mourning was what I had seen in movies. Sometimes I idly entertained the notion of someone I knew dying, just to imagine what the funeral would be like. How would I act?
Read MoreWhen I was a child, each summer, my mother took my sisters and me on a journey westward from our home in New Jersey to Minnesota, where my grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles lived. Although my sisters and I delighted in the prospects of seeing our relatives once again, what pleased us most was the train ride that lay ahead.
Read MoreThere is a place
with waxing armpits on video in the kitchen
a room where a man plays computer games
and liked brunettes over blondes
Read MoreOn a cold February morning, driving solo through dense fog on a narrow potholed road from Amritsar, Panjab (the land of five rivers) in North India to a recently not-so-quiet hamlet of Dera Baba Nanak, umpteen thoughts clouded my mind.
Read MoreIn the 1980s, I kept a blank cassette inside the tape deck of my radio, so if a song I loved came on, I could run over and simultaneously hit the “record” and “play” buttons, and add that song to the mix tape developing in its boom-box womb. The beginnings of the songs are cut off, and the DJ often started speaking before the fade-out was complete. But my collection of homemade tapes was priceless to me. And I thought I would be able to listen to them forever.
Read MoreWhen I was a teenager, I learned from a Chinese calendar placemat in a restaurant that my birth year made me a rat. I was on a hot date in China Palace with Keith, my then-boyfriend-now-husband, and there it was, plain as day, on the placemat…I even moved the bottle of soy sauce to make sure I was reading it correctly and it was indeed clear: 1984, Rat.
Read MoreOne cold winter morning I’m out in the field, surrounded by grassy-breathed sheep, checking tension on the barbed wire fence. My mobile buzzes in my pocket, frozen fingers fumbling and numb. “There’s this boy,” they announce. I check the calendar: nine months of paper-based gestation.
Read MoreWith divorced parents, I hit the jackpot: two Thanksgivings, two Christmases, two dinners on Saturdays, and at least two cans of spray cheese in my dad’s pantry. Not to mention the caramel drops my grandma had in a bowl on the counter, which I would gulp down in pairs every visitation. I even believed the abnormal amounts of food I consumed were okay. I believed that licking the butter out of the plastic prisms was “dieting”. It’s better for me than eating bread, right?
Read MoreWhen we were expecting our first child, our friends with babies advised us that living around the corner from the grandparents benefits everyone. My instinct was that a little distance would be better for me and our fledgling family, a necessary step in our independence. We began to explore a move from our Manhattan one-bedroom rental, and I was determined to put a bridge—Throgs Neck or Whitestone, take your pick—between us and both sets of parents.
Read MoreThe woman sits crossed legged on the shore of the silent lake on a crisp spring morning. The lavender mist hovers above the water, as she watches a flock of brown and black birds bob along the surface.
Read MoreA few months ago, I was given a seat from an old movie theatre. The theatre was called The Regent, and it was the one my parents bought in 1949 when I was five. When it closed six years later, I never gave a thought to what might happen to any part of it—the projectors, the screen, the seats—but then, over fifty years later, I happened to hear that a small local museum was mounting an exhibit about small-town theatres. I contacted the curator, and told her what I could about our theatre.
Read MoreMy maternal grandmother, Bubbe or Bernice, has moved around the continent regularly, every decade at least. She sheds her belongings like a molting snake with every move, and lately even with each of my visits to her. She bequeaths soup tureens and books, art pieces and ceramic bowls, clip on earrings and Czech shot glasses and vases. It's as if downsizing is a challenge, and she's punching back.
Read MoreI remember my granddaughter’s fourth birthday party. I was there. So was my ex-husband and his girlfriend. I spent most of the time in the kitchen, avoiding them. When the cake was being served, I bolted out the door and into the safety of my car.
Read MoreWhenever I see a drawing of a bird, I think of my sister. Cherie had a fascination with birds and an encyclopedic knowledge of every species. She worked at a wildlife center and fostered the injured birds, but she had a particular fondness for the birds of prey. She took beautiful photographs of hawks, eagles and owls, and sketched them every chance that she had.
Read MoreMy sister Stephanie and I were born 5 years apart. I was born with Hemiplegia Spastic Cerebral Palsy, so our relationship as sisters has always been unique. Stephanie grew up as self-sufficient, and extremely stubborn. She always knew better than anyone one else. She had the makings of a great defense attorney.
Read MoreGrowing up in our family of five, money was short, so my mum used to supplement my dad’s wages by sewing curtains at home. Our former living room became her sewing space, with the dining kitchen at the heart of our home.
Read MoreIt is a Spring day in the mid-1980s. An elderly man gets his wallet and sets off on his customary walk to buy sweeties for his grandchildren.
Read MoreMy mother pushed herself to graduate high school in three years rather than four and was therefore able to start university studies at age 17. She'd been in love with a boy since she was 14, and she wanted to be at the university with him. Her father didn't approve of this boy (he suspected that the boy was of sub-standard ethnic stock, and he also knew that the boy's family was far less wealthy and educated than his own). Mom, with the support of her own mother, didn't obey her father's instructions not to see the boy; Mom said that from the first moment she saw him, she knew that he was the love of her life.
Read MoreLately I’ve been thinking a lot about the intersection of vocation – or what I feel I am called to do, drawn to – and family life. I come from a large extended and loving Midwestern Catholic family. Figuring out what I am to do with my life and how I fit into my family is one part of what I’ve been thinking about. Biology of my female body is another. And here’s why:
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