The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Stars Hollow, Revisited
They always find their way back to one another again.
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daughters
146 posts
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.
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.
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.
The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Naked Ladies
"I’ve spent most of my life in refusal of my mother’s body."
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.…
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 and wood.
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.
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…
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.
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 when she was my age. When she was twenty-seven.”