LAS VEGAS, NV-
When I was twenty-eight I saw Jesus Christ give a speech from the back of a pickup truck.
Immediately I called my husband and told him to get his ass over there so that, like me, he might also bask in the glory of Christ. Plus, I needed a witness. Someone my family trusted.
SANTA MONICA, CA-
I got my hair cut and then my grandfather died.
I knew one had nothing to do with the other, but for some reason, for months after, I was unable to cut my hair. I wore my hair mostly in a ponytail or crumpled atop my head, but there was no hiding the split ends, its drab dullness. Sometimes I just let it fall where it may, flapping and resting wildly on my shoulders.
My grandfather would never have let his hair get into such a state. He was a classy guy. Always impeccably groomed. He could pair stripes and plaid and pull it off with grand ease. Sometimes he wore funny ties, ladies lounging in martini glasses and that kind of thing, but it was never cheesy – just pure sass. Even in the hospital when he had been ill a couple of years ago, hooked up to machines, stripped of his beautiful clothes, his only wardrobe a hospital gown and sheet, I couldn’t help but notice that his nails were perfectly manicured, freshly buffed. He was sleek and elegant, unique but classy. He had been in retail, head of Gimbels, back in the day when Gimbels meant something. So he knew about appearance.
SAN DIEGO, CA -
I’ve been thinking about blood a lot lately.
Blood I’ve spilt, and blood I’ve seen spilt. The red fluid gushing out of a beheaded rattlesnake’s body, sizzling as it splattered onto the hot Mexican soil. The crimson seeping out of the crushed chest of a fourteen year-old boy, opened up like a book as the doctors tried to massage his heart back into life. We cut the snake into strips and fried the meat over an open fire. And as for the boy, there was simply too much of him smeared across the front grill of a wrecked car, and his poor heart had nothing left to pump. (more…)
COLUMBIA, MD -
I grew up in a small village on the Connecticut River in northern New Hampshire. There were more trees and cows than there were people and up until I was a surly teenager, I loved it.
Then puberty hit and I despised my little hamlet. Outside of my family, there wasn’t a single reason to stay and every day brought me closer to college and escape.
Now I’m 10 years past that day and 4 years past the day I left New England completely behind and every fall my heart hurts. It’s like the ache you associate with an old injury, the kind of pain cold weather and rainy days bring.
Leaving New England was like breaking up with a childhood romance.
I often wonder if I’ll ever get over it completely.
ANNAPOLIS, MD -
I learned to curse from the kids down the road. I don’t know where they learned it. Maybe they snuck into the living room late one night and watched Cinemax. Or maybe someone let them listen to that George Carlin bit (Carlin, of course, has become my cursing idol - what an appreciation for language that man has). They knew all the basics and a few interesting combinations. I didn’t know what “fuck” meant but understood it to be foul and taboo, so the combination “buttfuckers” struck me as joyously obscene. We were the kind of kids who integrated new words into our vocabulary by shouting them while jumping on the trampoline, leaping off the bed or bounding from one piece of furniture to another trying not to touch the floor — lava, obviously. If you had first encountered cursing in such a magnificent, joyful, wild atmosphere, you would love it, too. Few things entertain me more than the thought of my eight-year-old self in mid-air shouting “buttfuckers” with glee. (more…)
BOULDER, CO-
It was early in the morning. Lori answered the phone and handed it to me. My father’s voice.
“Uche…there’s been a terrible…”
“Uche…you should know…”
A pause as gruesome guesswork played through my mind. I wanted to hear rather than continue imagining, but did I really want to hear? He drew a constricted breath, and it came in a wave before his voice broke.
“Uche, Chika died tonight. Imose died tonight. Little Anya is just barely hanging on…”
Died. Died. Barely hanging on.
My nieces.
TULSA, OK-
The first memory I have of my father is my earliest image of anything, a thunderous voice demanding I finish some long-forgotten meal. I was still in a high chair then, and the world was binary, black and white, yes or no. Mostly no. If you were uncertain about whether a particular action was permissible, you didn’t have to wait long to find out. The loud voice made the world exceedingly simple.
NEAR 91 DEGREES LONGITUDE-
I don’t remember giving consent. Or protesting. Or having a choice, not with adult forces at work. A secret committee decided that I should represent my elementary school at the Little Miss Lafayette pageant. How I got the news, I’m not sure, but my guess is this:
My mother: “Ronlyn, you’re going to be in a beauty pageant. You were picked out of everyone from the whole school. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Me: I likely scowled. I likely pondered the real threat of dress-up clothes. It’s possible I asked, “Why me?”
SMALLTOWN, TX-
If Mom were a superhero, she would be The Piddler.
When she needs to wash her hands, she’ll look through coupons first. If she needs to pick up the dry cleaning, she’ll stop at the antique store on the way. And when she needs to go to work, she’ll watch a rerun of Ab Fab, then show up half an hour late claiming, “Traffic was just awful today,” which, turns out, is every day.
I’d like to say that old age is responsible for this poking trait, but Mom’s always been a world class stoner without the weed.
VANCOUVER-
Strange week. I went to a shrink a couple days ago, first time in my life. My dad won’t get any help for drinking so I figured *I* could probably use some. Here’s the twist: 35 years ago this shrink was cheating on her husband with my dad. He was younger than me back then. Sorta goofy, huh? I’d never had a conversation with this woman in my life up until she met me in the hallway of her apartment. My dad was younger than me when she finally left her husband to be with him, but by then he’d met my mom. Now my parents split 23 years ago, but he never went with another girl after. He found other things I guess.
PORTLAND, ME-
We have the ritual down pat: My Mom gives me an old t-shirt to wear and she takes her clothes off to her underwear. I mix the hair dye in the bathroom, wearing those plastic gloves that come in the package. I squeeze the dye into a little one-cup Tupperware dish and use a small brush from another hair dying kit to apply the color.
BROOKLYN, NY -
I spent this past summer in Chicago. I subleted a studio apartment near the lake and figured I’d pass the time alternately reading, writing and exploring the city. I was raised in its suburbs, but because I spent most of my teen years in a roadside Denny’s memorizing “Rent” lyrics while simultaneously indulging my eating disorder over peppermint tea and bowls of kosher pickles, I never really got to know Chicago as a city. I decided it was time to change that. Nowadays I know no one there besides my parents, brother and grandmother, but I figured they’d keep me busy with endless – ENDLESS! – conversations on subjects as diverse as guilt, scotch, hair loss, and the merits of well-seasoned tuna fish. All this conversation, plus my aforementioned itinerary. I figured I’d be busy. (more…)
LOS ANGELES, CA-
The greatest gift my mother ever gave me was the gift of knowing I was loved.
In a cruel and often scary world this one fact gives me peace.
Perhaps I am biased, but I think my mama is beautiful, even in a plastic garbage bag.
