I just wrote the shittiest first draft of the story (much of) my life is built around. How can something so near be so hard to pin down in words? But when the cursor blinked at me, a little mockingly, if I’m honest, I just kept pressing on, focusing on the tippity-tap of the keyboard... Continue Reading →
I am the kind of person who really loves a challenge. I am also the kind of person that likes to inform people what kind of person I am. I have to fight that impulse. I’ve found that those sort of declarations pigeonhole me. And I’m not overly fond of pigeons. I am the kind... Continue Reading →
My birthday is coming up, which means I’m simply reeling with possibility. Not about the celebration. I used to care a lot what folks did to mark my birthday. Now I just care about cake of some sort. And my family being there, of course. With cake. (Is it even a birthday if there is... Continue Reading →
I started journaling in seventh grade. Not because I had grand ideas about writers keeping a collection of thoughts on which to write their memoirs or anything. But because my English teacher, Mrs. Deeds, made us. I couldn’t even bother to act put out about it. either. I had about a zillion feelings ping ponging... Continue Reading →
I am attached to the lie about why I didn't get my PhD. It's a pet lie. In my head it looks something like this: And it's more comfortable than the truth, which stings a little and is, well, embarrassing--as truths can sometimes be. The lie goes like this: I'd reached a point in my... Continue Reading →
Summer descended on Atlanta. The air is thick, close, heavy. The sun shines gloriously, deceptively beautiful enough that you believe you need to shimmy into its radiance. Until you do and the heat sucks your breath right from your lungs. The reprieve of the shade soothes, though. And when a breeze deigns to grace Atlanta,... Continue Reading →
A few years ago, in the middle of the most heated, long-simmering, agonizing public situation I’ve ever been party to, a woman lobbed this doozy at me: You aren’t God, you know. My initial response skewed heavy toward the snark (in my own head… or more accurately, much later in the shower—which is where I... Continue Reading →
At 7 years old, my daughter, has already attended seven civil rights marches (if you count the five Pride parades she’s attended—and I do. Oh, I do.). I don’t come from a long line of activists. In fact, my parents always seem (not so secretly) appalled that I let Jane march through the streets holding signs, chanting, and generally being a rabble-rouser. But here’s the thing: Jane was born into activism.
We’ve entered the season of snark with Jane. And, dear God, it is wearing me down.
Our daughter’s start in the world was less than traditional--conceived with donor sperm and born to lesbian parents. Then, when Jane was 4, her Bobby (Jane’s non-biological parent), transitioned from female to male. Que the crash course in gender, acceptance, and celebrating who we are—even if who we are makes us a little different.
