“You have a mother’s hands,” My husband said to me when our son was a few weeks old. I was holding a whimpering newborn, cooing and shushing in his ear, while gently stroking his back in a clockwise motion. “Do I?” I smiled, amused that I was now a mother. With mom hands. When do […]Read more "Mother Hands"
Cassia collages scenes from motherhood in which how one frames and is framed by others is a crucial and defining element.Read more "An Exercise in Framing"
This is an essay in response to an essay in response to an essay. Mallory Ortberg of the Toast thoroughly picked apart and criticized Elizabeth Ellen’s “Open Letter to the Internet,” in which Ellen defends a few high profile alt literary men facing rape accusations because she thinks the accusers’ ways of saying “no” were […]Read more "Responding to Ortberg Responding to Ellen: On Child Perpetrators of Sexual Harm"
My mother is deep in her bed with her socks on, sticking out. She never wore socks, so I remember it surprised me. Her heels were always cracked, like mine are now, and though she perpetually tried to soften them, with creams and socks and special razors, in the summer they immediately toughened up, calloused […]Read more "In the Jungle"
Both my father, Dave, and his younger brother, Keith, are storytellers. They live across the country from each other, Keith in Oregon and my dad, Dave, in Illinois. If I could have, I would have gotten them in a room together, given them a beer, and pushed, “Record.” As it is, I asked them to […]Read more "Snapshot: Franklin Park, 1950s, Part II"
Both my father, Dave, and his younger brother, Keith, are storytellers. They live across the country from each other, Keith in Oregon and Dave in Illinois. If I could have, I would have gotten them in a room together, given them a beer, and pushed, “Record.” As it is, I asked them to write to […]Read more "Snapshot: Franklin Park, 1950s"
This interview was originally published on True STORIES. in April 2012. A friend suggested I interview my son, Henry, for this blog. Fantastic idea, I thought, and imagined versions of all the delightful things my son has ever said—interesting word choices and insights that only an un-jaded, fresh mind could have, an aptitude for what’s […]Read more "Four-year-old talks Joseph Kony & other things"
When I was sixteen, I was not the shit. I mean, I was locked up in the office in the drama room, writing my play, and literally spending my math period sketching out a six part graphic novel series that I knew would get me a deal with Dark Horse if I could just get […]Read more "This is why I wear a Transformers T-shirt to my Grownup Person Job"
Dear Maytag, It was the summer of 1996. I was twelve. It was a good year. My summers were unending, my parents had regular poker night at their house on Sundays where they filled the main area with cigarette smoke, and I was just starting to shave my legs. I had dyed purple streaks into my […]Read more "Dear Maytag"
The way I write has changed over the years. So has the venue where the writing has appeared. Also, the moisture content. It has become drier as a result of working in higher education and the mental health field, spending precious, gentle, vibrant language on diplomatic emails and research papers. This has been a steady […]Read more "Measuring the Marigolds"