When I was in grade school, I was friends with a group of the shyest girls at school. My best friend was the soft-spoken daughter of two zoology professors, and when she got headgear, the bullies descended on her with a fury. Looking back, I’m amazed that my reaction as an 8-year-old was to attack the bullies relentlessly, » Read more
The first person I ever fell in love with was a straight girl. And when I say girl, I mean quite literally. We were 8 years old. She was my best friend.
Emma was painfully shy. Extremely intelligent, funny, and sweet but virtually silent in the classroom. I suppose it didn’t help that she had to wear headgear. » Read more
“We should go OUT,” Legalista says, emphatically.
I smile. “Yes, of course,” I reply. I am certain she is just being polite. After all, why would someone like her want to be friends with someone like me? She’s tall, beautiful, a lawyer, has her shit together. » Read more
I lost my belief in so many beautiful traditions long ago.
I raised myself on movies of the week and Hallmark moments. As my parents rarely commented on life’s “bigger issues” or even had many conversations beyond “I like what you’ve done with the meatloaf” with each other in front of us, » Read more
When I was in the first grade, my teacher had a poster on the wall of our classroom she had made titled “King of the Mountain.” She wrote our names on little pieces of paper and placed them on this poster to illustrate our position in relationship to each other academically within the class. My thought is that this was supposed to act as some form of motivation for us to strive to reach the peak ourselves and that competition would motivate us to achieve more. » Read more
Just about everyone else in my family is Catholic (except for a few crazy uncles we were never allowed to associate with except for at large family gatherings). Many women in my family love angels. My mother is especially fond of them. She remarked on many occasions that it was a bizarre coincidence that I was born a week after my great grandmother died. » Read more
1988: My grandmother woke us in the middle of the night. I saw her standing there in the hallway in her velvet bathrobe looking quite the grande dame and knew instantly. My brother and I leapt from our beds and jumped up and down like little howler monkeys. Our parents were home!
They’d only been gone for two days on a trip to Portland, » Read more
I’m the hyper, nauseatingly precocious kid in all the snaps, wearing an evening gown at the breakfast table, correcting my mother’s grammar in a Grover t-shirt. A good Catholic girl who still idolizes her father because he works 70 hours a week and never says anything to her.
Those are the years before I understand loneliness as more than an abstraction, » Read more