It is often said that “the sins of the father are laid upon the children.” No one doubts this to be true – we see it happen every day, when parents go to prison, abandoning their children who will suffer the stigma by association; when babies are born addicted to cocaine through no fault of … Continue reading Eye and tooth
If you stood before us, would we recognize you? If you whispered in our ears, would we know your voice? If you came to our borders and asked for a visa, would we even let you in?
Today the aesthetic is salted caramel on my tongue and leaves that tease autumn on yellow-tinted edges; damp hair chilling the back of my neck to contradict the warm inner fuzz of a new sweatshirt; a bench painted in psychedelic colors while someone at the heart of the pedestrian mall behind me is playing a saxophone. A homeless man I have seen out here before is sitting on the edge of a cement retaining wall fifteen yards away. I know I will pass him when I get up to leave but I have nothing to give him.
Once we reached Maple Road on the way home from school in the seventh grade, I could close my eyes and feel each bump in the road and know exactly where we were at that moment, tracing the entire journey from the turn off of 44th to Maple, to Spruce, around the corner, two houses down, then the bump and rise of our driveway before Mom shifted into park and shut off the engine. "We're home." I knew. In that, our fifth year of living there, the Lynnwood house started to feel like home rather than the Edmonds duplex I'd spent over half of my life in. Now, as I do my own driving around Iowa City, I try to avoid the eyes-closed-road-bump test. But perhaps there are better metrics for determining when a place is starting to feel like home.
I have a confession to make: I used to think that white supremacy was passé. Yes, I knew that racism was still rampant in our country – I could probably even have held my own in a discussion on the effects of systemic racism on public education and incarceration rates. But I genuinely thought that … Continue reading Confessions of a would-be woke person
I made my first quilt when I was eight. I say I made; I did make quite a bit of it, but it was something of a training-wheels quilt, made with a lot of help from my mom and Sue, the family friend I've more or less adopted as grandma. I still remember the excitement of … Continue reading Quilting advice from Nietzsche
I am learning not to be ashamed of my doubts. That's not yet an easy statement for me to make – after all, for most of my life Doubt was a sinister shadow lurking on the edge of my nightmares. What if I wake up someday and don't believe all this anymore? I wondered. Will I still … Continue reading On tribbles and doubts