daughters
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Stars Hollow, Revisited
They always find their way back to one another again.
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Catalogue Broads
Still, stories are subject to a gravity of their own, leaking out of the crevasses of a person’s crafted exterior like coffee from the hairline crack of a ceramic mug.
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Broken Bird: Reflections on The Upside of Anger
We were both fighting with our mothers to be seen and accepted; it mattered to us as daughters that we had that kind of support.
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Being Like Him: Fathers, Daughters, and Sons in Boyhood
That scene at Antone’s plays out one of my biggest fears: that when women aren’t in the room, straight men shift their conversations.
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Hearing Mandarin, Speaking English
In middle school, “Yo Mama” jokes infuriated me. My mother was so Chinese she couldn’t eat a hamburger without pinching her nose. She was so Chinese she wore bamboo slippers. In a stunning essay for the Michigan Daily, Carlina Duan writes…
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OG Dad #21: The Head Bang, the Hole In The Wall, and the Happy Fart
My daughter likes to bang her head off the floor. It makes a point—an especially guilt-tinged one, given that we had to get rid of our carpets due to a mold infestation, so now there’s no cushion between baby cranium…
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This Man Is Not My Father
I’m sitting across from the man who looks exactly like my father would look if my father had lived to be fifty-seven. If my father hadn’t died sixteen years ago when I was thirteen. But he did.
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Lisa’s Book Round-Up
I recently discovered a fascinating cookbook: Rufus Estes’ Good Things To Eat. Written in 1911, this cookbook is the first ever written by an African-American chef. Born a slave, Estes triumphed over unimaginable odds to become one of Chicago’s finest…
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Artifacts
Question: How many years after realizing they weren’t in love did your parents stay together?
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Speech Therapy
They told my father three hours. Ideally, she would have needed to get to the hospital within three hours for the best chance of recovery from the stroke.
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Twenty-Seven
For two days, I fight the story welling up in me, denying the itch of the burn, the angry redness biting at my skin. And then I wake up the third day and say to myself, “My mom was raped…
