Mother

Mother, what is your name?

The real one.

The one given to you by your own Mother?

Did she have one too?

I was scared to ask, but now I want to know.

Need to know.

The person you secretly tucked away so that your daughters could grow up sharing their first name.

Not Mother.

Not Woman.

You, me, us.

I’ve always thought Mothers held this power, one where you could be two people at once.

I want to have that power, but it seems so exhausting.

Is it tiring Mother?

Not hearing your name when being called upon?

I wish to ask, only out of respect to you and the many women who traded their last names for new ones.

I know you know me, Mother, but who are you?

Who are you really?

To me you’re Mother'.

Smart, strong willed, and determined Mother.

But who did you sacrifice to become her?

Mother?

What is your name, Mother?

The real one.

Womanhood

I’ve always had this unshakeable fear of growing up. When I saw the spotting signs of my first period, I cried. I cried because I had biologically become a woman. No longer a child. No longer a girl. My body forced me to keep moving on, and I felt betrayed. There was little room to lie to myself, so I faced my reality by running to my Mother. I searched for comfort during my murderous cry, tears streaming down my red cheeks because someone had taken her from me. 

My Mother’s surprise shifted quickly to concern. Am I not supposed to feel like this? Is it normal to celebrate the blood that ties me to my womanhood? The kindness in my Mother’s eyes shed a little warmth on the situation at hand, but it didn’t deter me from the fact that it happened. That it couldn’t un-happen. 

This change was permanent, and no textbook warned me of its emotional impact, only the physical side ‘effects that may occur.’ And even then,  it’s subjective. Every new moon, I get an unexpected punch to the stomach, my lower back, hips, breasts, or god knows what. It always hints at the kind of hell I’ll encounter through the rest of the week.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve learned to love being a woman. 

But I miss being a girl.

The Quiet Architect

I am a quiet architect //

Only when the clock strikes half past eleven //

I swiftly execute my shy plans in place to rebuild the chaos from

the aftermath that echoed from your lips//

Slowly, retreating to my safe haven you so rarely seek passage to //

You wonder why the walls are built stronger each visit //

Shutting out your vengeful whispers, in hopes one day it’ll be too thick even for one of your ill-tempered hand grenade to knock it down //

Sienna Miller’s Outstanding Achievement in Cinema Award

Click link below to see publication.

SCAD District Writing and Photo Publication

A Letter to Myself

It was the summer of 2016-- day seven of a twelve-day trip. We had been driving for hours on end, soaking in the rays of light that were bringing us warmth even through the car windows. Huddled in the smallest car possible, my mom was attempting to talk to my dad while navigating California’s terrain through google maps. In the back row, Abby, Walker, and I were squished knee-to-knee with our backpacks on our laps, trying to take in the view. Despite the discomfort, a feeling of contentment came over me as I realized how thankful I was to have my childhood friends join our family vacation. After tossing back a bag of chips back, chocolate milk and slipping in a few naps here and there, the sun was soon gone. 

The crickets chirped along to the song of the night at a motel we pulled off to after making our way up Highway 1. The five of us stuffed into a two-bedroom shoe closet-- not the ideal vacation getaway spot, but with a canceled Airbnb and my parent’s eyes half-open at this point, we didn’t have the luxury to find an alternative. So, my parents took one bed, and Abby and I took the other. Walker didn’t seem to mind the roll-away, as he immediately threw himself on top of it. 

Everyone was exhausted and tense. Most of the lights were out, and Abby and Walker were in bed. I set my glasses on the nightstand and started to hear bickering. “They’re just stressed about something. It will pass soon,” I told myself, but the arguing continued, and I suddenly felt frozen. My face started to boil with heat. I knew they were tired, but the heated exchange continued. Abby was dead asleep, but Walker started to stir. Parents fight, I know. But the outside world wasn’t supposed to know that about my family. I continued to listen, cringing at every word and elevation of tone. We had been cramped in a car for hours and now in a tiny motel room, but still, how could they be fighting this intensely about a misplaced phone charger?

I stood up and walked over to the bathroom. I tried to keep them quiet but had no control over them. There was a tap on my shoulder. Walker was by my side, tugging me away from my fuming parents and towards the glass sliding doors. Before I knew it, I could hear their shouting become faint, and we were outside. We sat on the curb away from each other at arm's length. My insides were churning, and I remember saying, “I’m so sorry.” Yet inside, all I remember thinking was, “What the hell are you sorry for?” My hands were shaking, and my body was overwhelmed by my embarrassment. It baffles me how much just sixty seconds can transform a day. The car ride ended in a minute, and I was in a motel. In a minute, I was lying in bed, taking my glasses off, and then rushing to the fluorescent bathroom to close the door to shield the fighting. I was sitting outside in a minute, clutching my legs and knees to my chest. In a minute, Walker held me up and hugged me tight so I would finally stop apologizing for other people’s actions. 

It took one minute, just one minute, and my shaking lessened and my eyes puffed up. A calm rushed over me. He let go and I was breathing again. “Don’t say sorry again,” he said. We were still hugging when he said, “Don’t move.” He slowly stepped back and then pulled me next to him again. He didn’t move his eyes away from where he was already looking. When I finally turned my back around, I saw what he was looking at: in that moment, we were having a face-off with two raccoons. The raccoons started to close in. The door was locked and we were gated in. We looked at each other and made a beeline for the gate. To the best of our abilities, we luckily hopped the gate in one piece.

We laughed it off, because what else do you do after crying on a curb and then being chased off the property by a couple of ruffed-up raccoons? Our laughs faded into an awkward silence. I knew he wanted to calm me down, but I was relieved when the cliché, "It's going to be okay," didn't come out of his mouth in an attempt to reassure me. Instead, we walked to the motel parking lot repeatedly in a circle for who knows how long. I reached into my pocket to call the one person who understood this situation the most-- my sister. The phone rang and no one answered. So I walked with Walker. Around and around we walked. Around and around came all of the times my parents had fought, like a flood into my head. Around and around came the fear that my picture-perfect image had been shattered and exposed. It was probably another twenty minutes before a word was said. “I’m so sorry you had to see that,” I said. My embarrassment had shifted to anger and then to annoyance at this point. “Do they do that a lot,” he asked. “No,” I lied. We kept walking. “I’m sorry,” seemed to be my popular night response. Walker turned to me, “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything worth apologizing for.” 

I stopped walking. He was right. The phrase “I’m sorry” had become my motto. This misused phrase that I carried around with me had become a quick deflection to use in any unfortunate situation. The phrase had a bitter taste in my mouth every time I used it-- bitterness for the people I was apologizing for, bitterness for all the times that I had been put in situations like the one tonight, and bitterness because each time that I uttered that phrase, it was disingenuous. I had always been told that I apologize too much-- sometimes before I even fully understood what I was apologizing for. I apologized for things that happened that were not a result of my actions or in my control. There is an appropriate time and place for one to apologize for their actions, but this was not that moment for me. We stood there and I felt this wave of

relief wash over me. I was still bothered by the timeline of events that had taken place that night, but I gained something I had lost a long time ago: confidence in my ability to claim guilt and responsibility for my actions and confidence in my ability to stop apologizing for the things that are out of my control. I think about this night sometimes and reflect upon what it taught me. That night was just a small piece of the bigger picture. It's easy to take life lessons like that night for granted and sometimes lessons are lost because a moment comes and goes so quickly. Before you know it, you're waking up in your bed in a hotel room with the sun's rays streaming through the glass doors and a little bit of drool slipping from your mouth while you prepare for another day on the road. That night could have easily been a distant memory, but I remember it. I chose to remember that I don’t have to apologize for the actions of others. Parents always fight and real friends always come to your side. But only sometimes are you coasting up Highway 1 with a new understanding of yourself. And I’m not sorry that I learned this. Only sorry it took a familiar witness to see what I have dealt with my entire life.

Across the Tracks