Maybe you didn’t get to choose your mystery-meat lunches, but you can choose the legacy that migration leaves for the next generation.
Maybe you like the sea-glass version of yourself that has been polished by years of cultural collisions. And maybe you prefer the more jagged edges of a bottle newly deposited on shore. Maybe, like me, your truth is somewhere in between - some edges polished and translucent, others raw and bright. Either way, I hope you will recognize yourself in these stories and find community within these virtual walls.
I Stand with Ukraine.
Our customers were so eager to claim their nationality, but me - I’m ashamed of mine. They’re fighting to hold onto their native land, but mine rejected us generation after generation.
The Dress.
Back then if you would have made me an honest bet- 10 years married or 1 year divorced- the smart money would have been on the latter.
Bifurcated.
But when there are weekly events that could be yearly hallmarks - what is there to say?
What am I so afraid of?
These worries seem reasonable, and largely remediable. But they aren’t proportional to the furry. Hence I wonder, what am I AFRAID of?
Where is the magic?
What if light switches inspired wonder? If I reach back far enough I can almost recall a version of myself who marveled at it all.
What will they remember?
Six weeks pass, and we review together. I’m holding my breath, hoping that something - anything - stuck.
Learning to Thrive.
In any case, these are the messages I inherited. This is the current I’m steering against. Some days I succeed in redirecting my ship, and other days I don’t.
The (almost) Insider.
We were told over and over again that we’re not Russian, so even in the US, Jewish and non-Jewish folk from Russia feel separate. This makes finding “people like me” especially elusive.
The Outsider.
At first I thought this was a cultural thing. Of course I have strong associations with being an outsider… I’m literally from outside these borders.
Disappear.
This time I was also deep in the well, so I couldn’t reach down and pull her up. So this time I just hold her, and we cry together.
Fortress Security, Granny Sexuality.
I’m not sure I’ve ever truly felt sexy. From the moment I hit puberty my body felt like something to fix.
A Letter to Myself.
I know you’re scanning, second guessing, self-assessing. I know you’re scared.
Stepping Stones.
Theoretically the last decade should have shown me that M isn’t going anywhere, that disagreement doesn’t equate to dissolution, but it’s not that simple. Those entrenched pathways are still there, beckoning us to familiar painful patterns.
Just Like Mama.
Most days I feel like I’m barely keeping the predictability beast at bay. It beckons to constant tidying, researching, and micro-managing. Adding in J’s predictability beast has proved challenging.
The Self-Care Narrative.
I had the whole day off, a radically precious gift, and it still wasn’t enough. How am I STILL so short tempered? Why am I always frustrated? What is wrong with me?!?
Their stories, Our parables.
Her stories became the parables of my youth, preaching vigilance, distrusting comfort and complacency. I knew in my bones that life was perilous, so you hold tight to your family.