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Relentless Files — Week 65 (#52essays2017 Week 12)

*An essay a week in 2017*

I was late to This is Us for no other reason than that I just was. I’m not one to follow what other folks are watching, but that has more to do with me and my circumstance — because I didn’t have cable for a while and then I only had the local channels and then I only had Netflix, and then I didn’t have wifi and so, you get the point… I never got into Game of Thrones or Orange is the New Black or any of the other shows that have taken their turn dominating my FB timeline. It’s why I was late to Grey’s Anatomy (clutches heart) and Jane the Virgin (Gina Rodriguez, I love you, girl) and why I was late to This is Us. I caught up over the last few weeks, and oh my gah, I am so glad I did.

If you’ve never seen this show, please do yourself a favor and start today. Cry with me, fam!

The episode “Memphis” stayed with me in a particular put-a-thorn-in-my-heart-and-twist way. In it, William and Randall take a road trip to Memphis where William was raised. (William is dying of cancer. Randall, his biological son, found him only a few months ago, and they’ve been bonding ever since. Of course there’s a lot more to it but we can keep it simple here.) They return to the house where William grew up with his mother. He doesn’t need a map or GPS to get there though it’s been decades since he’s been there.

this is us

Two things in particular stayed with me from this scene:  

  1. When they get to the house, William can’t stop looking at the door. He says there’s used to be two doors when he lived there with his mother, but now one of them is bricked up. “Strange thing to be looking at. All these years and it’s a door that’s messing me up.” His son Randall tells him the story of when he cut his afro, trying to fit into corporate America when he made partner at his firm. When he returned home, his daughter Tess who was then three, started bawling, not because she didn’t remember him but “because she was focusing on the door that was bricked over.”  
  2. They ask the current occupants if they can enter the house. William goes straight for the fireplace where he had jimmied a brick out and placed what he called “my treasure” — a few toys and three quarters. He says: “I put these here once, and after all these years later, they’re still here. Isn’t that something? Isn’t that strange how the world sticks and moves like that?”

It got me thinking about the things that stick and those that move. The doors we focus on. The things we hold onto. The memories that remain, thick and clinging.

I am thinking about our beach trips to Rockaway when I was a kid. My mother dancing to old school ballads in the sala, the smell of King Pine curling around her, a mop in her hand, her head is thrown back, she is singing Rocio Jurado’s Algo se me fue contigo madre…

My neighborhood in Bushwick, all rubble and poverty and love…

My brother, before the heroin, before the heartbreak…when he was whole.

My Millie, the way she loved me, her lessons on life–”con puños, Vanessa, con puños!”

My sister when I worshipped her, before she too broke my heart.

The people on my block. My first love. The girl that was both my friend and my nemesis.


I’ve been thinking about mothers. Truth is I’m always thinking about mothers and being unmothered and mothering. It’s one of my most potent obsessions. Recently, in my Writing Our Lives class, during a lesson on how to write the self as a character, I asked my students: what is something you do or write that you wish you could just stop doing? I shared (because I always share, because I don’t believe I can expect my writers to trust me with their stories if I don’t trust them with mine): “I wish I could stop writing about my mother. It’s exhausting. She is both my altar and my abyss…”

Have you noticed how many fairy tales are based on the unmothered syndrome? Cinderella, Snow White, Beauty in Beauty and the Beast, they all have lost their mothers. Cinderella and Snow White gained evil stepmothers in the process. In Hansel and Gretel, the mother is not dead but absent. In The Snow Queen, mother is gone because she’s left in search of adventure.

I posted about this on my timeline, and a friend responded: “Mothers get in the way.” I winced.


Apophenia: the minds desire to make connections between unrelated events


Then I come upon Granta’s First Sentence series where Granta asks authors to revisit the inspiration behind their stories. Here, Kelly Magee writes about her novel “The Neighborhood”:

In the 1950s, Harry Harlow set out to prove the experts wrong. Everyone from the American Medical Association to the government to practitioners of the relatively new field of psychology was of the same mind: love was a menace, and ‘mother love’ was a particularly dangerous brand of it. Babies who were picked up got sick more frequently, so the advice to new parents was to withhold as much touch as possible. Harlow – by all accounts a cold and demanding man himself – embarked on a series of increasingly disturbing experiments to prove that love was real; that babies needed more than nutrition to thrive, that mothers delivered more than just calories, that physical touch was as crucial to primate development as food. The methods Harlow used to prove the existence of love resulted in the torture and death of baby monkeys, and Harlow has gone down in history as being instrumental in both attachment theories and the development of the animal rights movement. He took hundreds of infant rhesus macaques from their mothers and caged them with two surrogate options: a ‘wire mother’ who offered milk, and a ‘terrycloth mother’ who offered only her soft texture. No surprise to whom the babies clung. No surprise that, even when Harlow pushed his theory further by having the cloth mothers shoot out spikes or blast cold air or shove the babies away with spring-loaded arms – he called these the ‘evil mothers’ – the babies still returned to them, held on to their softness for dear life….

I tried to write a wire mother story, but she would not speak. It wasn’t the cold, robotic mothers of Harlow’s experiment that I could identify with, but the flesh-and-blood ones whose humanity had been stripped from them. So instead I wrote a wire children story and gave the question of love back to the mothers. Mothers who had committed atrocious acts toward their own children. Mothers who had made terrible mistakes. I couldn’t separate myself from them; becoming a parent was one of the hardest things I’d ever done, and I’d certainly made my share of mistakes. Given a different set of circumstances, I didn’t know what worse mistakes I might’ve made. But the point of the story was not the characters’ crimes. Rather, it was the question of love. Love after trauma, love in an inhospitable environment, love for unlovable creatures. Harlow proved that primates need touch, softness, nurture. I gave my story’s mothers their own collection of scientists, tasked them with the impossible and set out to see if I, too, could prove that love was real.


Last week, my mother texted to ask if she could hang out with my daughter. She was going out with her niece, my aunt’s daughter, who is Vasia’s age, and wanted my daughter to come along. I obliged though I was freaked out by the request. When my daughter got home, I laid in her bed and listened closely as she shared what my mother had said:

Mom can’t eat bananas or even smell them since her son (my brother)  died because they were his favorite.

Mom told Vasia about my birth. How I was born chubby, healthy, 11 lbs of baby rolls, & how I went down to a mere 3 lbs in a matter of weeks. “She almost died,” she said. I imagine her saying this, the accent still heavy on her tongue though she’s been in this country for 45 years. She says she prayed that if I wasn’t going to make it, for god to take me now so I wouldn’t suffer.

I tried not to but I couldn’t help myself–I asked: “Did she ask about me?” My daughter, who was getting her stuff ready for school the next day turned to me and nodded. “Yes, mom,” she said. Her face was soft, searching. She knows…


My therapist asked me last week what keeps me hopeful. I saw a clear picture of my daughter’s smile in my head. I thought of my love, my work, my students. I thought about the red cardinal I heard that morning, chirping his little heart out. It’s mating season and he’s calling in his mate. I searched the sky and found him on a nearby branch, puffing out his chest and singing. He survived this recent snow storm that brought ice in its wake. He’s still chirping. I thought of my Loba pack, with all their gutsy and rebellious, their raw pain and tears. I thought of our shadows. I thought of this world and our country and the current administration and the heinous things the president is doing. I thought of the good good work that’s coming out of resistance. Not always neat or pristine, but rooted in love &, dare I say, hope. And I came back to my daughter’s smile, how she smiles with her whole face, how she shows two rows of teeth, how her eyes smile just as bright… 

I remembered that while yes it’s true, there is some seriously scary shit going on, there is also love. I remembered that love is also a form of resistance. And it’s a powerful one. 


How delicious, the power these evil mothers had. The boldness of the ogress to demand a child as payment; the fierceness of the witch with her poison apple. They had appetite and desire and ambition; they put themselves first. And yes, they were punished in the end, but their murderous presences called tale after tale after tale into being. They were where the story began. The easy scapegoats, born into villainy, too loaded with their own character to be redeemed. ~Kelly Magee on Granta


A few years ago, a woman contacted me after reading my essay “Unmothered on this Mother’s Day”. She questioned why I had to write this on Mother’s Day. She said it was disrespectful and dishonoring to mothers. No matter how or what I explained, she came back to that: how dare I?! In the end, she taunted: “Well, I have a great relationship with my mother.” It was cruel. I blocked her.


My daughter held a gem for a few days from her hang out with my mother. We had just had a mommy-daughter breakfast on Sunday and were on our way home when she said: “Tata told me something else.” Every muscle in my body tensed. My daughter stared at me, the worry line in her forehead grew deep. “Forget it, mom. I’ll tell you later.” I had to insist.

“Tata said she’ll never be happy again now since Tio Tio died.” A blue jay cried its distinctive cry. 

My mother said no one suffers a loss like a mother. She followed that with: I know other people feel it but not like me, “he was my son.” I imagine her saying this. I imagine her face looking at my daughter’s face. My daughter has my mother’s cheeks. Her eyes, like mine, like ours.

My daughter was heading off to hang out with her cousins and then to a craft store to stock up on slime making supplies, including the largest jug of glue I’ve ever seen. She lingered for a while, making sure I was okay. I played stoic. She hugged me before she left. That worry line was cavernous. “You sure you ok, mom?” 

I shrugged. “Yes, go. I have to write.”

When she left, I curled up on the couch and slept. Later I cleaned and made dinner. I didn’t try to write at all. It wasn’t until the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep, still hours away from daylight, that I started trying, and only because I couldn’t silence the obsessive talk in my head and my bladder pulled me out of bed. I stayed up writing and reading until my alarm went off indicating I had to get ready to go teach.


I’ve been searching for literature by women who write about torn relationships with their mothers; the many ways they weren’t held and loved; how they’ve come to terms and haven’t; and how they make their pain into art. I decided to create a list of reading just for us unmothered women, because if I need it, I can’t be the only one. This is my love letter to unmothered women, to us. I see you. You are loved.

I began with the work of Jaquira Díaz. Her work has been like a balm over these years of digging into that unmothered wound. Check out her essay, “My Mother and Mercy” in The Sun. It will shred you then give you life.

This is typical of my mother. I haven’t seen her in seven years either, though she does call on rare occasions to ask me for money. She lives alone in a tiny efficiency in Miami Beach a few blocks from Mercy. Because my brother, Levy, works in Miami Beach, he sometimes (reluctantly) takes care of our mother — as much as you can take care of someone like her.

For many years my mother and Mercy, both addicts, kept each other company. Mercy took pills mostly: Xanax, Ativan, oxycodone. My mother prefers crack, cocaine, meth. Both women have been prescribed powerful antipsychotic medications for paranoid schizophrenia. They saw each other every day, bailing one another out, sometimes living on the streets together, loving and hating each other the way addicts do.

Most recently I added “Mother Could be You” by Chloe Cela. This essay is my introduction to this writer’s work, and I am looking forward to reading more.

A year ago I was pretty, people noticed me in the train. I had this way of not looking. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You present yourself, your perfumed body, soft at the right places, a straight back and tall, strong bones. Living the busy life, giving everything but. And that but is what the weak-hearted want. They’ll crawl for it; they’ll kiss your heels. I know this so well. It’s a model of love, handed over from generation to generation. Mothers who say: go play in the street honey because Mother is busy. Mother has her lover waiting. Mother wants to take a nap in the sun. You really want to play with the other kids, but you wait on the porch for Mother to open the door.


Years ago, my mother told me that Rocio Jurado wrote “Algo se me fue contigo, madre” for her mother after she died. I searched for the song on YouTube and played it in the background as I finished this essay. I selected the original version of the song because that’s how my mother used to sing it when I was a child. This was before I knew what happened between my mother and hers. How my grandmother failed her daughter. How my mother has been trying to restore herself since…the wars that have raged between these two women for more than forty years.   

I choked up as I listened to the song. When I went back to the window where the video was playing, I choked up even harder as I saw image after image perpetuating the mother myth, again and again.

Myth says that mother does not fail. Mother is self-sacrificing. Mother always shows up, cradles and coddles and nurses and kisses boo boos and sings songs and is consistent and tender and steadfast. Your biggest advocate. Mother is perfect.

I am proposing a panel for AWP 2017 in Tampa: Deconstructing the Mother Myth in Literature. How writers have and continue to deconstruct the myth in their stories and poems. Why they feel the need to. The urgency of it. How they deal with the backlash.

We unmothered women need to know that there are more of us out there. This existence is so lonely. So isolating. I know this is one of my purposes in this life… and yet, sometimes I wonder, I ask myself: Am I focusing on the door that’s bricked over?



Relentless Files — Week 64 (#52essays2017 Week 11)


*An essay a week in 2017*

Date: March 22nd

Time: some time between 9:30 and 10am

Location: NYC, downtown express A train, between the 207th & 125th Street stops

My hands are shaking as I type this. I tried to write it in my journal but my hand was trembling too hard to hold the pen. I’m on the A train, heading to Queens to teach. I’m in the corner seat. There are three seats in this section. White man comes in on Dyckman/200th Street and sits two seats away from me, leaving one between us. He looks at the bag I have on the seat. It’s the paper bag that my oatmeal was in. The oatmeal I am preparing in my lap, adding the nuts and dried fruit and agave. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look from the bag to me and back to the bag. I ignore him. It’s too early and the train isn’t yet crowded—my bag isn’t keeping anyone from sitting. I finish preparing my oatmeal. When I’m done, I move the bag. He looks over as I do so. He goes back to reading on his phone. White words against a black background.

I eat my oatmeal as the train gets increasingly crowded. I am grateful for my seat in the corner.

A young brown man enters the train on 175th. He wears torn jeans, a jean jacket to match, a hoody underneath. He has the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his cap, big earphones on over the hoody. (Later I will notice that his cap reads: “Trump Central Wollman Rink” and I will giggle to myself at the irony of this.) He looks around for a seat.

Young man comes to squeeze in between the white man and me, pinned against the wall. I move over to make room. Young man turns to me, says, excuse me. I nod. He goes back to his phone. He is leaning over, resting his elbows on his legs. I see the white man. He’s red now. That’s when he starts talking hatred. He says things like Rikers and criminals and punks and handcuffs and fuck you up.

All this young man has done is have the audacity to sit in an empty seat.

The young brown man is all in his phone. He has headphones on. The good kind that keep his music in and the noise out.

The white man keeps grumbling.

The train stops at 145th. Young man across from me gets off the train. Young man next to me moves to that seat. White man glares at him. Young man notices. Says: “Excuse me sir, is there a problem?”

White man says “No, you have a problem?” Barely looks up.

Young man says: “Because I paid the same fare you did.”

White man swallows his lips, flares his nostrils. His ears are getting red again. “You have a problem?”

Young man says: “Because if you have a problem…”

White man says: “Go ahead. I have three uniforms under this. You’ll go right to Rikers.”

Young man says: “I don’t give a fuck if you NYPD. I’ll fuck you up.”

I lean over so young man can see my face. I put up my hand. “Don’t do that. It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.”

White man says: “Oh, I’m worth it. He’s not.”

I turn my attention to the white man. I go in. Call him what he is: a racist. Tell him I heard what he was mumbling. “Your badges and uniforms don’t give you the right to treat people like that.”

He says: “Yeah, everyone’s racist, right?”

I say, “No, you are. You.” My tone is even and sharp. I do not yell. I stare right at him.

He does not look at me. Says: “Run a zoo for 30 years like I do and you’ll understand.” The zoo he speaks of is Rikers. The inmates are the animals.

I say: “Understand what? Your racism?”

He mocks me, says: “Yeah yeah, the system failed everyone, right?”

“No, but it failed you. That’s why you’re racist.”

He curses at me. Says something about “fuckin'” this and “fuckin'” that.

“Don’t curse at me.” I say. “I have not cursed at you. Your badge doesn’t give you the right to be disrespectful.” He frowns but still does not look at me. I continue: “You’re talking to the wrong one.”

“I don’t care,” he says. He’s still staring at his phone.

“I know you don’t care. Racists don’t care. Have you heard of the school to prison pipeline? I’m a teacher. I see you. Educate yourself.”

He sucks his teeth but says nothing. He does not look at me. The entire train car is quiet from from 125th to 59th street.

For the rest of the ride I imagine smacking him repeatedly with Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow.

If only it were that easy to cure someone of their ignorance.

We approach 59th street.

Brown man gets up. He approaches and puts out his hand. He clasps the hand I extend with both hands, as if hugging them, me. He bows his head. Says: “Thank you.” I say, “Respect. You take care of yourself.” He thanks me again and smiles. He does not look at that racist white man again. White man does not look at him.

White woman as she exits train looks at me and says: “Good job.” I wonder: Where were you?

Brown woman gets on with her toddler. White man gets up to give her the seat, as if to say, “Look, I’m not racist.” Brown woman across from me looks at me and shakes her head. I wonder: And where were you?

White man gets off at 42nd. I look up. He does not look at me. Beyond his head I see an ad that reads: “Stories about your city from the people who’ve seen it all.” I think how appropriate and fucked up at the same time.

This too is a story of this city…

White man exits the train.

I make eye contact with a handsome, bald black man who witnessed the whole thing. He says: “You have to ignore people like that.”

I noticed him watching as I schooled the white man. He wears an expensive suit, his tie is perfectly knotted. He has well oiled hands and two big gold rings that glint when he moves. His face is concerned.

I shake my head, tell him somebody had to say something. Tell him that happens too often. Tell him about the racism that spewed out of the white man’s mouth. Say: “I had to show that young man that he’s not alone. That somebody cares. Our young people walk around so wounded in the world. If we don’t take care of them, who will?” He smiles, says bless you, something about “I love y’all strong women.” And I wonder why it’s so often on us. Why didn’t he say something sooner? Where were you?

He says: “Don’t let that ruin your day.” I say no, “I’m a writer, imma wrote an essay about his ass. Imma use this in my work because that’s how you effect change…but we gotta stand up for our kids,” I say. I am almost pleading. “They need us.” He nods. Puts the earphones back in his ears.

I wonder what he’s seen that’s made him choose silence… I imagine none of it is good. So many of us have learned silence as a method of self-preservation.

Later, when the train has emptied and the train is snaking underground in Brooklyn, the black man will ask me what I teach, where, what age. I tell him my youngest student was six, my oldest 86. His eyes open wide, brow arches, says, “That’s social work.” He thanks me. Says: “Stay strong, sis. We need people like you.” I smile. “Our young people need people like you too.” He nods. Says: “I’ll try to remember that.” He gets off the train on Euclid.


I go teach. I spend the day remembering the many encounters of racism I’ve had in this city I love and hate at once.

I was on the 7 train one Saturday morning on my way to a teaching gig with my daughter who was then maybe 9 or 10. It was one of those horrible “pardon us while we handle some necessary construction” days on that line where you have to travel well into Queens before taking another train back to get to one of the many stops the train skipped due to said construction. The train was crowded. Folks were frustrated. A woman stepped on and started pushing her way in. She pushed me too though I wasn’t even by the door. I looked at her and she started yelling, in a thick European accent: “you people” aren’t taught manners and “you people” come to this country to do this and do that and “you people” need to go back to “your country.” She pushed me again with her shoulder.

With one hand I put my daughter behind me while I stared at this woman. I said: “You, an immigrant, are telling me about who I am? That’s funny. If you put your hands on me again, we are going to have a problem.”

“Then get out of the way,” she yelled.

“I’m not in your way.” I responded, this time my lips were tight and I was clenching the pole so hard, my hand was cramping.

She kept yapping her mouth, saying that we need to go get jobs and we’re all criminals and deadbeats…but she didn’t touch me again.

Baby girl stared on with wide eyes. Later she said: “How could that woman say that to us? She’s not from here either.” I tried to explain but what could I do to fully explain a system that teaches people that it’s us brown and black folk that are the problem?

I wonder if that woman with her white skin and blonde hair had ever been told to go back to her country.

This happened to me a few times when I lived in the Pelham Parkway area in the Bronx. One time, at the fruit and vegetable market, an elderly Eastern European woman pushed my toddler out of her way with a hateful glare. My daughter was just three years old. She was picking an apple out of a pile like I’d asked her to. I pulled baby girl towards me and told this woman, “How dare you touch my child.”

“You people need to control all your kids,” she said, her accent also heavy.

“You’re lucky you’re an old, lady,” I said.

Later, when I caught her glaring at us on line, I laughed in her face. Why? Because it kept me from doing what I really wanted to do—cry and beat her to a pulp.


You remember these moments with tears in your eyes and rage in your jaw. The slideshow in your mind makes you grind your teeth. You put gum in your mouth to ease the tension.

You realize you have to do something with this rage and pain over the racism you encountered on the train, and the memories that came cascading in. You channel it into your high school fiction class, reworking your entire lesson plan on your commute from Queens to East Harlem. You have your eleven students read the flash piece “My Brother at the Canadian Border” by Sholeh Wolpé. You engage a conversation about race. You share what happened to you on the train. What you witnessed. What you said. How you went in on that white man.

You ask: “By a show of hands, who has ever witnessed or been a victim of racism?” You wince when eleven hands go up. You ask if anyone wants to share their story. No one volunteers. They squirm uncomfortably in their seats. You understand. You think of the black man on the train.

You nod. Say: “I understand. Can someone tell me why they don’t want to share their story?”

“Shame,” says a student. You remember him from last semester. The day after the election, someone called him a n*gger for the first time in his life. He had just walked out of his building in East Harlem. He told you he went back upstairs and curled himself into his bed. He stayed there for a long time. “I was late to school,” he told you.

“It makes you feel a certain type of way,” says another student.

You ask if they want to write a story about racism as a class. They come up with three characters and the setting: James, a black and Puerto Rican 16 year old; Emily, a white 16 year old friend of James; a 60 year old white man named Sam; the setting is the M102 which travels from the East Village to Harlem 147th, via Lexington and Madison Avenues. They begin…

James and Emily are on their way to school downtown. They are discussing Trump’s Muslim ban and immigration policies. Sam interrupts them: “What are you saying about Trump?” Emily whispers to James: “He kind of looks like Trump.” James asks: “What do you think about the travel ban?” Sam says: “Black people should leave instead…” He looks at Emily and says: “What are you doing hanging out with that black boy?”

After two rounds, where everyone adds a sentence to the building story, you stop them. They are angry and excited. One student says: “But it doesn’t have to be like that…” She is a writer. The one who says you gave her permission to call herself a writer. She wants the story to play out differently. She wants people not to remain silent on the bus. She wants the people to defend the black young man who is being attacked. You ask: “Is that believable?” She sulks. You remember the incident you experienced that morning. You remember the silence of the people on the train.

The final assignment: Finish the story in your journals. Even the kid who says he hates writing has his pen flying across the page…

You remember: This is how you channel the hurt and shift it to something that feeds and teaches, because if you don’t have that, what do you have?…


I’d been in Wellesley for all of a few weeks when it first happened. It was the fall of 1989, my first year in boarding school. I was walking with another ABC (A Better Chance) student back to our dorm on the outskirts of the Wellesley College campus. We were the “scholarship kids”—her a St. Lucian girl from Flatbush, me a Boricua Hondureña from Bushwick. We were walking along Washington Avenue, the main street that runs through the town, past the Town Hall that looks like a castle, and the duck pond. I don’t remember what we were talking about or if we were even talking, but I remember hearing the rumble of the truck as it approached, and I remember that face he stuck out of the passenger side window, that bloated and red and hate-filled face. The truck slowed. “Go home, n*ggers,” he said. Then he threw a lit cigarette at us, two teenage girls, her 16, me 13. We jumped away to avoid getting burned and stared at the truck as it sped off. She started crying, a quiet blubbering cry that shook her shoulders. I stayed quiet the rest of the walk home.

We never did talk about that incident, she and I. And I never mentioned it to anyone or wrote about it until a few years ago.

This was the beginning of my racial consciousness.


I told my daughter about the racist situation I encountered on the train that morning. Her eyes opened wide and her mouth opened slightly. She asked, “What did you say to him?”

Me: “To who?”

Her: “The white man who said all that racist stuff.”

Me: “How do you know I said something to him?”

Her: “Uh, hello…you’re my mom. I know you.”

Me: (laughs) I proceeded to give her a play by play.

Her: “I love that about you. You always stand up for yourself and you stand up for other people, too.”


A few months back I witnessed a situation between two cab drivers. A white cab driver had been following a cab driven by a South Asian man. When they reached the red light, I pulled up next to them as the white cab driver got out of his car and banged on South Asian man’s cab. He said something menacing. I don’t know what because my window was rolled up. I rolled down the window as the white man yelled, “Go back to your fuckin country!” The South Asian man drove off when the light turned green. The tires on his cab screeched. He never got out of his car nor did he roll down his window. He just stared straight ahead. His face did not betray emotion. The white man got back in his car, but not before waving his middle finger.

I am still haunted by this. Why? Because I didn’t say anything. It’s not that I’ve never witnessed such heinous acts of prejudice and hostility. It’s that it seems to be happening with more frequency.

We are complicit if we remain silent. All of us.


My daughter had a performance last weekend with her cheerleading dance team at George Washington High School in Washington Heights. After the show, her coach, Ms. Sapp, stopped at a local Dominican restaurant to use the bathroom and buy some food. 

She asks one of the Dominican waitresses if they have oxtail. The woman ignores her repeated requests while at the same time attending to other customers who come in after Ms. Sapp. Another waitress walks over and asks: “What do you need?” Ms. Sapp, a black woman who loves her kids, our kids, my kid, with a fierceness and hard hand that I admire and can relate to, asks, “Do you have oxtail?” The waitress answers, “Yes, but it’s expensive.” I imagine Ms. Sapp’s face. She smirks that sarcastic, “I see you” kind of smirk. She has experienced this before. She has been on the receiving end of this kind of racism from Latinos who look just like her but deny their blackness.“I didn’t ask you if it was expensive.” She can’t be bothered. She has a group of cheerleader dancers waiting for her. It is them who need her attention. She walks out. She tells her girls (that’s what she calls them: “my girls”) what happened. She lets them take it in. My daughter shakes her head. Says: “That’s so racist.” Ms Sapp nods, “Yes, yes it is.”


I am working on this essay at the Barnes & Noble on Union Square, at the Starbucks on the third floor. A black man with a thick, salt and pepper beard and a plaid shirt, sits at the table next to me. He is reading on his iPad. His camera sits on the table next to him. A white man approaches. Says: “Nice camera.” Black man looks up and nods. White man says: “They don’t make them like that anymore.” Black man nods again. The white man starts to ask questions, make comments. The black man’s responses are curt, mono-syllabic. White man says: “I was just trying to make conversation.” Black man nods. White man walks away. Black man turns to me. I smirk. He says: “Do I look friendly?” We both laugh. Black man says: “Not to be prejudiced, but they come up to us and they expect us to talk to them. Like we have to…” I nod, say, “Amen.” Black man walks to garbage to throw out his cup. He leaves his iPad and headphones and camera and bag. I think: “Homie is crazy. He’s leaving all his shit.” I watch to make sure no one steals his stuff. He comes back after five minutes, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. He starts to pack his stuff. Puts his camera in his bag. I say: “It is a nice camera though.” We laugh. He says: “You have a nice day.” I say: “You do the same.”

Relentless Files — Week 63 (#52essays2017 Week 10)

I cried today. That your-entire-body-shaking kind of cry. Our dog Napoleon got hurt today and seeing so him so helpless got me thinking about when he came to us after my brother died, and how he was such a big part of my grief. All that hiking I did and sitting with myself and grieving, and how Napoleon was always there. I brought him with me when I hiked in the woods of Inwood Hill Park, and he learned that whistle that still brings him running to me. When I cried, he’d curl himself by me, making sure I felt the warmth of his body next to me. When I sat and wrote, he did the sat at my feet, sometimes pawing at me until I picked him up and let him lie across my lap.

Today he lost a nail. It could have been so much worse. But hearing him yelping and crying, and looking at me like, “mommy, it hurts, make it stop”, just undid me.

Did I realize that my dog being hurt would trigger grief? No. Not at all. Not until I thought about how he came to us just after my brother passed, and what an integral part that beautiful dog was and continues to be in my journey. I had dogs in my childhood; a little chihuahua named Fluffy that was also an enormous part of who I was and what I held. They aren’t just companions and pets. I’m seeing that today, in such a profound way.



I don’t remember exactly when I got Fluffy, maybe when I was eight or nine, but I remember how much I loved him. I was the one who walked him. I was the one who fed him. Mom only let me give him boiled hot dogs but he got so sick of that, that when I noticed he wasn’t eating, I’d sneak him some of the meat mom fed us–some chunks of beef or pollo guisado. I fed him a chicken bone once and was so scared when he started hacking and bleeding from his gums. Thank God that was all the damage it did. I didn’t know any better then.

Fluffy was scared of everything and everyone. He was one of those rare breed of chihuahua that actually has a lot of hair. And he looked like he was always crying; he always had a ring of burgundy wetness under his eyes.

He was at the door whenever I got home. I could hear him yapping and scratching at the door as soon as I entered the building and walked the long hallway to our apartment, 1L, on Palmetto Street. He’d jump on me and lick me in welcome. This didn’t stop when I left to boarding school at 13.

One of the hardest parts of leaving home was leaving him. Who would take care of him? Who would walk him? Who would cuddle with him and give him love? Who would feed him? Who wouldn’t eat so he could?

He was always a skinny dog but he was skinnier when I returned that first time in November, but there he was at that door waiting for me when I arrived. That night, I snuck him onto the bed when mom was asleep. He cried when I left, but I was a young girl and had my own life to make so I did…but I never forgot about Fluffy.

My junior year, I went to Philly to do a three week business program at UPenn’s Wharton School of Business. When I returned, Fluffy was gone. My sister said she put him in the hallway to mop the house. “He probably ran away,” she said. “Pero Fluffy was scared of everything and everybody,” I responded. “How’s that possible?” Fluffy was a trembling coward. If I took him to the corner and let him go, he went running back to the house. Trust me, I tested this theory plenty of times.

“Or maybe somebody stole him,” my sister said. Steal Fluffy? As much as I loved that dog, he wasn’t the kind of dog people steal. He wasn’t cute like that, though he was the cutest dog in the world to me. He wasn’t an expensive breed. He was what latinos call a bira lata, a mutt, a scraggly little thing that only I loved. “Who would take Fluffy?” I asked.

“Ay, who cares? He’s gone and that’s it,” my sister said. My brother and I talked about it over the years and agreed that she probably hurt or did something to him. She’s always denied it. I don’t believe her. But as you know if you’ve read any of my work, I don’t trust my sister. 

The thing is, Fluffy was my companion. I spent much of my youth feeling alone and distraught. It was Fluffy’s fur I cried into to hamper my sobs. It was Fluffy who curled himself into my lap when I was sad. He came out to the backyard with me to escape what was going on in that tiny railroad style apartment. He walked with me to El Faro, the supermarket on the corner, to get milk and ham for mom. I sometimes snuck him a slice of that ham when we were walking back up the block back home. He was my friend…sometimes the only friend I had. This was over thirty years ago and I can still see his face in my mind’s eye. That’s what lasting relationships do to you…even those with animals.


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My daughter and I found Napoleon one summer afternoon as we were heading to the supermarket by our apartment in uptown Manhattan. He darted past and almost got hit by a car, before I scooped him up. He had a collar on but no contact information. This was the summer of 2012. The last thing I wanted or needed was a dog, but he was so cute and he was shaking and scared and how could I just leave him? So we brought him home and fed him, or at least I tried to. He wouldn’t eat any of the dog food we gave him. Then, that night, I caught him staring and licking his lips as my daughter and I hate the turkey meatloaf I’d prepared, so I mashed up a little bit in a bowl with some rice, and he gobbled it up quickly. The next day, it rained all day, so we kept him home with us, feeding him whatever food we ate, holding him on our laps while we watched movies. My daughter, who was then nine then, took to him right away. She pulled him up on her bed to sleep, and grew frustrated when he hopped off and followed me out of the room. Over the next few days, we put up signs around the neighborhood, but the rain swept them away. Truth is, I silently prayed that no one would claim him. He made my daughter smile, and she loved walking him and cooing at him. That weekend I had a dinner party at my crib, and my sister-friend commented, “I think he was brought to you, V.” I wouldn’t realize how right she was until much later.

I named him Napoleon because whenever we walked him, he’d walk right up to the big dogs and try to challenge them. He growled, he huffed, he pushed out his little chest. He swore he was a monster, and it was the most hilarious thing to witness. “Napoleon, that’s your name,” I said. He wagged his tail and jumped up. He approved.

I got the call a week and a half later. Someone said he was her dog. His name was Tweety. When I called to him with that name, his ears perked and he wagged his tail. Baby girl cried when we took him to his owner.

That was the summer before my brother passed.

Flash forward to the fall of 2013, four months into the greatest grief of my life and over a year after we’d found and bonded with this dog who always ran to us when we saw him in the street. I got a message from the owner that she was getting rid of him. He kept impregnating the female dog they had, and he was always fighting with his son, who they’d kept. He was a nuisance to them. He kept peeing everywhere and he would growl and bite visitors. I could have him if I wanted him, but if not, he was going to the pound. I told them to give me a few days to think about it.

I had so much going on. I was working and being a single mom. I was trying to write through my grief. I was in such a terribly dark place. I didn’t know it yet. Hadn’t yet called it that but I was in the abyss of depression. My mother had yet again walked out of my life, and I felt like I was suffocating. But I also knew that I needed to bring some light into my daughter’s life. My daughter who was watching her mom unravel. My daughter who was dealing with serious separation anxiety. Who cried when she had to go with her dad for weekend visits. Who told me repeatedly, in the saddest, most whiniest voice I’ve ever heard come out of her, “I don’t wanna go, mommy. I wanna be with you.” I’d learn later that she was scared for me. That she felt helpless and worried about her mama.

Baby girl would tell me a year later that she was scared that I was going to hurt myself…

But this was before that. This was when I was trying to decide if I could handle taking care of something else. If I could take on yet another responsibility.

Then, one day, we ran into Napoleon on the street with his owner. He ran to us, wagging his tail and jumping up and down with such joy. I saw the smile on my daughter’s entire face and I knew.

I called the next day and said, “Yes, we’ll take him.”

It took a week before we got him. He was in a home where they’d never taken him to a vet for shots or a check up or anything, so I had to guarantee that they did that first. Once I got the proof of paperwork, he was ours.

I didn’t tell my daughter. I only told her I had a surprise for her. We waited outside our building. I saw him from afar, walking down the block, and the minute he heard my whistle, he started pulling his owner towards us. She let him go and he ran right to me. He was shaking. It was like he knew his life was about to change but the anxiety over not knowing what that made him tremble.

I turned to my daughter and said, “He’s ours now.” She shrieked, picked him up and squeezed him. He in turn snapped at her and caught her on the lip. That was how he started their brother-sister relationship. Our Napoleon, showing what a loving asshole he can be. Ha!



This morning, I was up making myself coffee and about to prepare our breakfast when my daughter came in from their morning walk with Napoleon in her arms. Her eyes were wide with worry. “Mommy, Napoleon hurt himself.” I took him in my arms and he started crying and yelping. Blood was dripping from his paw. I tried to run cold water over the paw, but he screamed and snapped at me. Then I saw it: his nail was hanging at an odd angle. It was pulled out from the root.

Vasia kept saying, “I’m sorry, mommy. I’m sorry.”

I was distressed. I thought about what this was going to cost me. Another expense. Another worry. Napoleon kept crying and limping. He left droplets of blood in his wake. When he put his paw down, he yelped and hobbled his weight off of it. There was no avoiding it–I had to take him to the vet.

My daughter has said it repeatedly over the three plus years since we’ve had him: Mom, we have to take Napoleon to the vet. I knew she was right, but it just felt overwhelming. The idea of another bill, something else to pay, something else to do, sent me reeling.

Today, there was no avoiding that.

I sent my teary-eyed daughter to school with the promise that I would text her when we got to the vet and would send her periodic updates. I reminded her that she did nothing wrong. Napoleon was in the dog park playing with two big dogs (his name is Napoleon for a reason) when it happened. It was an accident. These things happen.

The good news is the nail came off easily, though he cried so loud when the vet pulled it off with one swift pull. That’s when I first cried. 

What I realized was just how much I love that dog and what a big part he is of our family. I haven’t taken care of him like I should have over these years of loving him. He needs to see the vet more and may need some dental work, but today I realized (with my partner’s coaxing) that I was doing the best I could. Now I can do better. We need him as much as he needs us.

In a few weeks, once his paw has healed, we’re returning to the vet to get him the shots he needs, and we’ll follow up with the dental work too. Popo came to us a little beat up after years of not getting the attention he needed, but he’s ours now and we’re gonna keep loving him up for many years to come.


It’s been three and a half years since that fateful day in October of 2013. Baby girl now walks him every morning and evening. He sleeps with her every night, and has traveled with us to Connecticut and Maryland and Jersey and to beaches and parks. He still hikes with me, and though he’s getting old and tires quicker, he’s still my little trooper. He’ll lag behind when he needs some rest but he still comes running when he hears my singsong whistle. Get too close to me or my daughter, and he’ll shred your ankles.

I was sitting in my living room when it happened: grief sledgehammered my chest, caught my breath and made me heave. I was looking at the picture my partner took of us at the vet. I looked over at the picture I have sitting on the table of my brother and my daughter when she was six months old. I thought about how his death shattered me and how Napoleon help me put myself back together, never the same but somehow more beautiful…Napoleon has helped me become the woman my brother always said I was, I thought, and the tears came. They came in torrents. I started shaking and heaving. My partner tried to help but there was no stopping those tears. No one can stop grief when it comes for you.

Sometimes you need these reminders to remember why you love who and what you love, and why and how they love you back. Napoleon can be a pain in the ass. He’s done things that have made me shake with rage, like that time he ate an entire jar of Albolene, the grease that boxers put on their hands to avoid the skin cracking that the chalk and gloves cause. That little mutt was shooting that nastiness out of his ass for days. It was everywhere. Yuck!

Why did I keep him? Because what he’s done for me makes up for all of it and more. He was part of my healing. He’s still part of my healing. And did I tell you how he makes my little girl smile? Yeah, I don’t need another reason. That, he, is everything. ❤

Relentless Files — Week 62 (#52essays2017 Week 9)

*An essay a week in 2017*

After reading, discussing and picking apart Lidia Yuknavitch’s “Woven” & Christine Hyung-Oak Lee’s “Saving Chickens, Saving Myself”, I had my Writing Our Lives students finish class with the prompt: “What stories have you told yourself?” There was nervous laughter, some glares (at me, of course), one student hid her face while others avoided my eyes altogether. I welcome you to write on the stories you’ve told yourself to survive and those you still tell yourself that no longer serve you. I am writing on how I told myself for so long: “I don’t need anybody. I can do this alone.” Where did that come from? Why did I have to convince myself of this? How did I break my own heart as a result?

This is kind of how we get through our lives: we tell ourselves stories so that what’s happening becomes something we can live with. Necessary fictions. ~Lidia Yuknavitch in “Woven”

The first time I told myself that I didn’t need anybody was up in that plum tree in my backyard in Bushwick, Brooklyn. I was five or six, watching mom in her garden. I was envying the seeds and the vegetables and herbs that got a tenderness from her that was so rarely directed at me. I was sulking. I was trying to cope. I may have folded my arms over my chest and huffed a bit. I may have even pouted. Then I said, quietly so only I could hear: “So what. I don’t need her. I don’t need anybody.” I spent the next thirty years trying to convince myself that was true.

I learned solitude in that first floor apartment on Palmetto Street. I was always a brooding child. I’d climb up that tree or climb over the dilapidated wall into the junkyard next door. And if mom was keeping me inside that day, I’d build a fort in the bottom bunk by pushing the blankets into the nooks of the bunk bed.

I learned solitude again in boarding school in Massachusetts when I realized I’d never fit in and stopped trying. I found solace in literature.

I’d walk those Wellesley roads, stare at the houses with their brick and two stories, picket fences and manicured lawns; houses I’d only seen in movies and on TV until I lived there. I imagined the lives of the people that lived inside. I imagined two kids and a dog and maybe a cat and a mom and dad and their furniture and how damn happy they were.

I’d walk through the woods of the Wellesley College campus, sit by Lake Waban and watch the college girls giggle and suntan and ignore me.

So when that drug dealer from uptown Manhattan pursued me the summer before my senior year, I didn’t push him away. He was 24. I was 16. He made me feel wanted and seen, and he could do things to my body that I’d never felt. I learned an entirely different kind of solitude in the six years I was with him.

After him there were a slew of emotionally unavailable men. There was me telling myself that I didn’t need anybody. There was me attracting people, both men and women, friends and romantic interests, that I could not rely on. That didn’t show up. That had their own stories they were telling themselves that did not include me.

One of those friends was my ride or die homegirl. I haven’t written much publicly about this friendship. She was the one I went to countless happy hour events and nightclubs with. We went on vacations to Miami. I held her hair when she threw up. Carried her up the stairs when she was too drunk to make it to my fifth floor apartment. She took care of me too, in many ways. All in ways that are needed by a girl who says she doesn’t need anyone. We hurt one another more than once. We no longer speak or even check in on each other. I saw her this past summer at a reunion of sorts. I told her I missed her. She told my partner I was a ho. I realized I missed who we were and now wonder how we were ever friends. Then I remember how she punished me by denying me her love. She was so much like my mother.

One time, years ago, we were talking about relationships and sharing our lives. I confessed that I didn’t want to die alone. I wanted someone to share my life with. She rolled her eyes and said she could spend her life alone and be good. I was weak for wanting to be with someone. I believed that for a long time. She reminded me of why I’d told myself all those years before: “I don’t need nobody. I can do it alone.”

Humans are social animals. It is human to want companionship. It is human to want to share our lives.

Stuart Grassian, a board-certified psychiatrist and a former faculty member at Harvard Medical School, has interviewed hundreds of prisoners in solitary confinement. In one study, he found that roughly a third of solitary inmates were “actively psychotic and/or acutely suicidal.” Grassian has since concluded that solitary can cause a specific psychiatric syndrome, characterized by hallucinations; panic attacks; overt paranoia; diminished impulse control; hypersensitivity to external stimuli; and difficulties with thinking, concentration and memory. Some inmates lose the ability to maintain a state of alertness, while others develop crippling obsessions.

“One inmate I interviewed developed some obsession with his inability to feel like his bladder was fully empty,” Grassian told FRONTLINE. “Literally, that man spent hours, hours, 24 hours a day it was on his mind, hours standing in front of the toilet trying to pee … He couldn’t do anything else except focus on that feeling.” Source: “What Does Solitary Confinement Do To Your Mind?” on PBS

People in solitary confinement go crazy. Why? Because we need human contact and interaction. We need love. We need tenderness. We need to see and be seen. I know that now. I sometimes wish I’d learned this sooner, but we all have our journey.

Who made me realize this? My brother. My daughter. My students. My partner Katia has reminded. She still reminds me.



As much as I wanted to believe that I could be alone and be okay with it, I searched out love in all the wrong places. Three years ago, already in my late thirties and deep in my grief over losing my brother, I wrote these words in my journal: “I’ve fallen for mirror images of my mother since I was 12–abusive and emotionally unavailable.” I threw the journal across the room.

There was no way to avoid looking in the mirror and seeing myself and the many ways I’d broken my own heart. How I’d attracted these people into my life. I had to hold myself accountable. Doing this does not excuse anyone’s behavior or release them of their own accountability. It just means that I can see what I did to break my own heart. It’s how I take back my own power.

I think of what a spiritual advisor told me once: “You have no power.” I have trouble with this. To accept that means that I have no way of living this life with more purpose and consciousness. To be more aware of myself and what I put out there and attract.

What I know is that I am now in a relationship where I am loved and supported in ways I never have. She shows up. She shows me she loves me. She is present and steadfast. No, we are not perfect, but we choose each other every day. We are conscious with the ways we love each other. We work to confront our shit. We hold one another accountable. We try. We are committed to us, to this family we are building. She holds me when I cry about my mother. She reminds me that I am not her. We laugh when I gasp at the realization that I sit like her and hold myself like her, my mother, this woman who constantly pushes me away, who doesn’t know how to love me.


I asked myself: What is the story behind this story?

That I am not worthy of being loved. That I am not lovable. After all , if your mother can’t love you the way you need or want, who can? What does that say about you? It says that you are not lovable. You are not worthy of being loved. You are not worthy of praise or tenderness. So you tell yourself that you don’t need anybody. That you can do it alone. Because this is easier than accepting that you aren’t worthy…  

This story continues to manifest itself in my life in so many ways. I am thinking specifically about something that’s been coming up lately: I cringe when someone praises my work, my writing and teaching and the work I do. I have trouble believing it. Logically, I know what I do is important. I believe in the power of story to change the world. I teach this work with all my heart. And, yet, when someone acknowledges me and my work, I feel myself wince. I tense up. I half smile. I blush. I have to fight the urge to run.


There is a memory that lives in me. I am little, my head comes to just above my mother’s waist. My mother who is just five feet tall. We are heading to the supermarket on the corner, El Faro, the market that smelled of sour milk and decaying meat. I reach for my mother’s hand. She swats me away. Glares at me. Says: “Porque tu siempre tienes que estar encima de mi.” I don’t remember reaching for my mother’s hand after that though I never stopped staring at those hands, chubby and solid, they look perpetually swollen, just like mine.



My brother was one of the few people I could rely on when I was growing up. When he left when I was 12 (which is a story for another time), I had no reason to stay in my mother’s house. I chose to leave the right way–I went to boarding school. It was while I was away that my brother started spiraling out of control. He was arrested for stealing cars. For selling drugs. He didn’t come to my high school graduation because he’d taken a trip to Venezuela, where he swallowed two balloons of heroin. He was caught and arrested in Miami. He was sentenced in the fall of my first year at Columbia University.

He didn’t come to my college graduation because he was too hungover to pull himself out of bed.

I didn’t see my brother for most of my pregnancy. He didn’t come to my baby shower and he didn’t meet my daughter until she was three months old.

My uncle had a dinner for the family in the apartment he shared with his then wife and children. When I arrived, my mother came down to help me. You carry so much when you’re a new mom–the carriage, the diaper bag, your purse, the plastic cover for the carriage in case it rains, the bag with the bottles and formula, the breast pump. So much shit.

Mom met me in the lobby. I started unloading when she said, “Your brother is upstairs.” I felt my chest seize. I clenched my jaw. All I could say was, “No.” I started to repack my things. “Don’t do that,” she said. She put her hand on my shoulder. Her voice was soft. Pleading. I started crying.

My brother was great when he wasn’t on drugs. He was reliable and loving and encouraging. He showed up once to a panel I was on in a library in midtown east by Grand Central. He came to an open mic series I held a few years ago. When I called him to share what was going on in my life and the joy I was feeling, he always told me, “I’m proud of you, sis.” When I called him crying about some fool who had broken my heart, he told me I was worth so much more.

But when Carlos was on drugs, he was a monster. He was manipulative. He stole money. He stole furniture. A radio. A TV. He once stole an entire box of Ensure from my mother’s house and sold it for drugs.

He called my friends and asked them for money. He told them I’d hurt myself and he needed to take a cab to get to me. He sold them the metrocards I bought him, saying he had to buy milk for his son. He disappeared for weeks and months on end.

It’s difficult to admit but during his fifteen years of heroin addiction, my brother affirmed what I’d told myself since I was six up in that tree: that I didn’t want or need anyone. That I could do it all on my own.


This week I made neck bone soup. I always make soup when I’m feeling off. When I need comforting. I taught myself how to make soup a few years ago. This is a ritual I learned from my mother.

My mother is an amazing cook. Whenever people came over, my mother made these elaborate meals: soups and rices and beans and meats, that dripped with her homemade sofrito and all the love she put into them.

My mother doesn’t apologize. What she does is make me my favorite sopa de frijoles. I can’t count the times my aunt has called me to say, “Your mother sent you soup. Come get it.”

When I am feeling tender and am deep in memory, I make soup. This week I made a beef neck bone broth.  


The ritual starts the day before and always includes cleaning out the fridge and cupboards as I search to see what I have and what I have to purchase.

Beef neck bone. Beef shin bone-in. Kielbasa sausage. Cilantro. Recao. Scallions. A potato. Yucca. Carrots. Calabaza. A pepper. An onion. Vegetable broth. Fresh garlic. Herbs like parsley and oregano.

At some point, during the process, I will think: We should really clean this fridge more often. and: Oh, that’s where that is. and: I was looking for that. and: We really have to stop buying shit we don’t eat.

I tell myself: I’m going to clean out the fridge more often. I never do.

I make a note of what I need and head to the market.


I love to cook for folks. I’ve had dinner parties where I bake chicken that’s sat in seasoning for two days. I make a huge caldero of arroz con fideos. I make salads and stir fry shrimp. I cut up cheese, make a plate with three different types of cheeses, fruit and crackers. We sit. We eat. We drink. We laugh. We share stories.

I learned this from my mother.


I start the soup early like a true doña. I take out the meat and clean it. I season it with herbs and spices: parsley, oregano, rosemary, thyme, comino. I mix. I add the broth and put the meat on the stove on a high flame. I make a note of how much of my family’s comino I have left. I add a bit to everything.

My aunt buys the comino seeds from the Africanas on 125th like my mom would buy it from the Africanas on Myrtle Avenue in Bushwick. She roasts the seeds with peppercorn. Then she grinds the mix in the little old school grinder that sits on the shelf over her stove. It’s wood with a handle on top which she turns to grind the seeds she puts in the contraption. What comes out is the ambrosia of the gods. A seasoning I have yet to replicate.

Mental note: get more comino from titi.

I lay out the herbs. I cut up the cilantro and recao. I add them. Next is the celery, scallions, onions and pepper. I crush several garlic cloves and add them as well.

I add the potatoes when the broth starts to boil. I’ve cut it up by now. Half into small pieces so they’ll dissolve and thicken the broth. The other half in chunks.

I cut up the sausage. Add it to the broth that is now simmering on the stove. The house smells like love.

I peel the carrots. Cut them in large pieces so they don’t completely dissolve when I put them in the soup.

I peel the yucca. It took me years but I can finally peel it in a single sleeve. When I’m done, it wraps itself into a tube, the same shape it was when it was coiled tightly around the white tuber I now cut up in chunks and put in the soup.

The calabaza is last. It cooks quickly and dissolves easily.



The story behind the story (because there’s always a story behind these kinds of stories) came to a head this week.

The National Endowment for the Humanities (NEA) Creative Writing Fellowship application was due this week on March 8th. This year applications were open to prose writers. I walked around with a print out of the information for weeks. I even printed out the how-to-apply guide because this fellowship is notoriously difficult. It also may be the last year that these are available since Trump has put NEA funding on the chopping block. In other words, the grant has been a buzz in the literary community since the information on the deadline was released in December. It’s for $25K, no strings attached. For a woman like me who comes from poverty, that’s real money. That’s I-can-teach-less-and-write-more money. That’s I-can-finish-this-book money. And still, I waited until the last minute to apply. In fact, I’d already decided I wasn’t going to, then I had a dream.

I am a lucid dreamer. I’ve had dreams where I know I’m dreaming. I’ve had dreams where I have a dream inside of a dream. I’ve woken up sweating from nightmares, scared to close my eyes again because I know I’ll inevitably go right back into the dream that I ran from. The dream I had on Monday night was not one of those dreams.

My friend, R, who took his life last summer came to me in the dream. We were in a car, which makes sense because we spent so much time in his car during our friendship. In fact, he’s the one who taught me how to drive. I have a hot foot because of him. We’d get on Route 280 to get to his house in Orange, NJ and he’d say: “You do 90 on this road. Everybody does 90.”  

We met when I was a girl of 17, a first year at Columbia University. He was my then boyfriend’s brother. We got close fast. Went to clubs together and hung out together, played handball and rollerbladed all over NYC together. R was the one person crazy enough to join me on my missions from uptown Manhattan to Brooklyn on rollerblades. We saw one another through so many phases in our lives. Break-ups and heartbreaks. We cried together and laughed together and shared so much together. I even introduced him to his wife. Then he betrayed me. I found out that the man I was then involved with was also sleeping with someone I considered a friend. Of course she wasn’t but when you tell yourself you don’t need anyone, that you can do it all alone, you will attract people that are not loyal. People who do things like this: sleep with someone you love. The thing is that R knew. Everyone in the crew knew but me. I was devastated. I bounced because that’s what I did back then–I ran. Our relationship was never the same.

I realized when he took his life that I hadn’t forgiven him. I didn’t cry though I felt his death deeply. See, R talked about taking his life so many times over the years. None of us thought he’d do it, but we weren’t entirely surprised when he did.

I’ve thought so much about him over the past few months. I’ve thought about who we were and how much we shared. I thought about how sad he was. I thought about how hurt and angry I was then and how I took it out on him. I finally apologized to him not too long ago. I told him I was sorry for hurting him the way I did. I was shaking when I said it but I had to: “I’m sorry. I was in a lot of pain then.” He pulled me into his arms and hugged me tight. His hugs were almost painful. Like he wanted to meld your bodies. He whispered, “I know. I love you. I wouldn’t be who I am without you.”

A few years ago doctors discovered that his depression was due to a chemical imbalance in his brain. There was nothing he could do but take meds. R refused to. He was so stubborn. And beautiful. So beautiful. He was one of the most generous people I’ve ever known. So why couldn’t I forgive him? I know now that it’s because I hadn’t (and still haven’t) forgiven myself…the young woman I was who was still telling herself: I don’t need anybody. I can do it alone.

In the dream, someone had left me a huge apartment on the top floor of a building downtown in NYC. I remember the floor to ceiling windows and the view of the city with all its lights. There was even a skylight where I could see so many stars. Stars you usually can’t see in NYC. Then I was in a car with R. I remember his sad eyes. The way he stared at me. He kept pushing a quarter into my hands. I kept giving it back but he refused. He didn’t say anything but I knew somehow that he was asking me to forgive him…to forgive myself. I woke up sobbing. The corners of my mouth pulled down into that frown I remember so clearly from when my brother died. There’s something so specific about a frown caused by grief.

It was in the shower the next morning that it came to me: that quarter, 25 cents, was a sign. The NEA is a fellowship for $25K. Oh shit!

Earlier that day, I’d posted on my FB: “I confess that I’m terrible at deadlines. Terrible. I sabotage myself with these things. I say Imma work on something then I don’t because of this and that and the other, and when the deadline passes, I tell myself that I wouldn’t have gotten said grant, residency, etc. anyway so why bother. I know this it that opportunistic mothafucka imposter syndrome. The thing is I don’t know what to do about it.”

I got a lot of supportive messages in response. Folks who offered solidarity and said “me too,” and others who pushed me lovingly to submit that NEA ap. The thing is that when I posted it, I had already resigned myself to not apply. I had convinced myself that it was too late and too difficult, that I couldn’t do and wouldn’t do it, that I wasn’t worthy. One response in particular made me sob. It was from my sister-friend Philly Walls who knows my heart so well.

I invite you to be gentler with yourself, to use gentler language for the things you want to improve upon in your art practice. Is it sabotage to make room for the love you have in your life? Is it sabotage to prioritize and do the hardest part of the equation, the writing itself? Is it sabotage to write 52 essays a year and inspire 500 writers to do the same? Is it sabotage to apply and be accepted to one of the most prestigious writing workshops in the country, with the support of so many people in the caring community you have built and help sustain? Is it sabotage to create and build the Writing Our Lives workshop that has brought many beautiful souls into the NYC and VONA community of writers? Is it sabotage to teach young people who hardly ever see themselves reflected as worthy? Is it sabotage to mother your beautiful daughter, a true gift of a young woman? What other words can you use to acknowledge that you missed a deadline, one that will surely roll around again, one in a constant bounty of deadlines? I’m asking for all of us, sis. How can we be kinder to ourselves while doing this work. How can we stop the negative loops in our heads? And please, whatever you do, stop saying mean things to my friend, the incomparable La Loba. I don’t appreciate it.



Alone by Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.


All of this is say that I got to work on that NEA ap. I submitted it at around 2:30am on March 8th, the day it was due. I pushed and got it in, thanks to my partner who dealt with all my crazy and my daughter who hid in her room because she knows how irritable I get when I’m anxious; who before she went to bed, hugged me and whispered in my ear: “You got this, mom.” Thanks to R and Philly Walls and my homie friends Karissa Chen and Christine Hyung-Oak Lee and Minal Hajratwala and Porochista Khakpour and so many more.

And a special thank you to Lidia Yuknavitch. That same day I wrote: “I have to say this because there’s a difference for me: I am not unmothered because my mother died. She is very much alive. She just can’t mother me because of her own trauma. And, no, I am not motherless. I have a mother. She lives in Brooklyn. I haven’t seen her in months. There is a difference between not being able to talk to or reach out to or be held by your mother because she’s gone. I can’t do that because I don’t feel safe with her. I can’t do that because she’s callous. The truth is if anyone treated me the way my mother does, there’d be hell to pay. I don’t allow people like that in my life. Not anymore. And, yes, that includes my mother. I’m not saying one is more difficult than the other. I am saying that they are different. And they both fuckin suck.”

Lidia responded: “which is why YOU are the one to put this to the page…” I later confessed to her that I was angry when I saw this. It felt heavy. It felt like so much. Too much. I got all up in my feelings. I raged: Why me? Why do I have to carry this? What the fuck, why?

I work hard on not resisting my emotions. I know they’re all there to teach you something. But it’s still hard not to wince at myself when I rage. My anger is hot and consuming and it frightens me. Still, I let myself feel it and once it subsided I was able to see that it’s up to me because it’s me who actually can do it and is already doing it and it’s time to let those stories of being unmothered out into the world. I confessed this to Lidia: “Your comment that it’s up to me to write these stories of the unmothered really hit me hard. It made me tear up. I admit that I got angry because, shit, that’s just so much. I was all up in my feelings. Then I remembered how right you are, and I kicked myself in the ass, and I sat down and started pushing. And I thought of you just after I submitted everything, and said, ‘Yes. I have to do this. I have to do it for all of us unmothered women.’ Yes, it’s a lot. And that’s why I have to do it. Thank you. I needed the reminder. Love and appreciate you so.

She responded: “not sorry. for making you angry (or making you tear up). i can take it — your anger — it’s part of your beauty. i won’t flinch. i love you. you got this… and yup. that’s exactly why. for the sea of women who are amongst us; for the wave that is coming.”

There’s something about someone telling you your anger is part of what makes you beautiful. I’m still working on that. That digging is for a later essay…


So what did I learn: 1. That I broke my own heart in many ways by convincing myself that I could do it alone. 2. That this was a survival mechanism, what my therapist would call a “creative adjustment”, that I came up with to help me survive what I endured in my formative years. 3. That behind this story is another story that I’ve been telling myself: that I am not worthy and am not lovable. 4. That it’s time to confront this and work on healing it, and part of healing is realizing that I can (and should) be grateful for the creative adjustment I came up with because it did in fact help me survive, but it’s now time to let it go because it’s done what it was supposed to do and now it’s causing me harm. 5. That Venus retrograde is no joke and she’s real when she pushes you to confront unresolved wounds. 6. That in spite of it all, when it comes down to it, it is up to me to get these stories out for all the unmothered women, to show them that they’re not alone and that they’re seen. It is up to me to hold up that mirror to myself and all of us. And, yes, it’s a lot, and still, I have to do it. Poco a poco. Día a día. Word.


This week was also International Women’s Day. I chose to dedicate the day to my mother, who is somewhere in Brooklyn working at a school, mothering children who aren’t her own and need her. I honor her even through the distance. Trauma takes such a toll on us, our own trauma and the intergenerational shit we carry that isn’t even ours. I know my mother is a wounded woman. I know a lot of my pain stems from her, but so does my relentlessness and my badassness and my unfuckwithableness. Thanks Mom. Signed, your youngest…



Relentless Files — Week 61 (#52essays2017 Week 8)

*An essay a week in 2017*

Yesterday I saw a video of a whale caught in a fishing net. A boat approaches. They think the humpback is dead. He begins to move. A last ditch effort to save its own life. The people on the boat radio for help. They know the whale won’t make it until help arrives. They must be the help. They begin to cut away at the net with what they have on the boat–a small knife. They cut and cut. The whale begins to move. He is still tangled. They keep cutting. Suddenly the whale gets free. For the next hour it dives and jumps out of the water. It slaps its enormous tail on the water. It hurls its body above the water and splashes back down into the depths. This is its freedom dance.


On Wednesday, in my high school fiction class, we started reading Gabby Rivera’s Juliet Takes a Breath. I got the students, three boys and five girls, to talk about people who have inspired them, like the protagonist Juliet is inspired by Harlowe. I ask: “Have you ever had someone make that big an impression on you? They go around sharing.


One boy says he has no big inspirations. I know him to be a huge comic book fan. He’s a burly fourteen year old with kind eyes and a big heart who is often biting with his jokes. He’s awkward. He’s been bullied. His humor can sometimes sting. I’ve had to remind myself that he is just learning how to be a brown man in this world. The world has already tried to crush him.

I ask: “Well, who introduced you to comic books.”

He smiles with no teeth. Says: “No one did.” Then he shakes his head. “No, my dad did but not through comic books. He introduced me to super heroes. He gave me a whole bunch when I was like five or six. He wanted to see which ones I liked.” I smile. Lean in closer. “And a few years later, I learned that comic books tell the stories of those super heroes.”

“And you were hooked,” I finish for him.

“Yes.” He smiles again. This time he shows teeth.

I move on to a senior I’ve known since she was a ninth grader. Before she went natural and now dons a head of tight brownish blonde curls. She looks at me and smiles with her whole face. “You,” she says and starts to turn the pages of her homemade journal. She folds white papers in half, staples them, seals the cover with clear packing tape. I imagine she has stacks of these at home. “I quote you all the time,” she says. “Last week, you told me…let me see.” She flips through the pages. I see lines of poetry. The beginnings of stories. Anecdotes. Musings about her day. Quotes from the many books she reads, some that I’ve suggested. She’s always reading. She stops on a page. Scans it with her index finger. “Last week I told you something shifted in me. I told you I think I’m more than a poet. You said, and I quote: ‘I’ve been waiting for you to see that. You’re a storyteller.’” She looks at me. Her eyes are welling. I blink hard. I can’t hide the heat in my face. I am all the colors.

“You’re the first person to tell me I’m a writer. To make me believe that I can make a life out of words.” I give her a high five.

I will hug her later. Tell her that I love her. Tell her that I believe in her. She is going to Smith in the fall on full scholarship. She is going to major in creative writing. I tell her: “You are light years ahead of where I was at your age. Just keep doing the work. Keep writing and pushing yourself. You got this.”


Later that evening, I cried at a comic shop after hugging and congratulating my sister friend homie Gabby Rivera on her first comic book outing, America #1, published by Marvel. There was a line out of the door for her signing, yo!

On Tuesday evening I went to a screening at the UN of the documentary AfroLatinos: The Untaught Story written by my Comadre Iyawó Alicia Anabel Santos, produced by Renzo Devia. The room was packed!


It hit me in the back of the comic shop on Fulton how very proud I am of these two glorious women who mean so very much to me and are amongst the best humans I’ve known. To say that I am proud does not suffice. I was moved to big fat tears, and just as I was about to apologize, I remembered what Lidia Yuknavitch said during workshop at Tin House: “Never apologize for your tears. My Lithuanian grandmother used to say that crying was the only language she trusted because it was the language of the body.”

I think of the inscription Gabby wrote in my copy of her novel: “We are the revolution.” Indeed.


I have a hard time accepting compliments. I have a hard time hearing that I have inspired and motivated and been an integral part of someone’s journey. I have seen these two talented women grow and evolve. We have gone through changes together. There were moments where it was too much to be in each other’s lives, so we weren’t. And then we came back. We’ve shared joy and tears. We’ve shared writing and stories. We’ve sat in classes together. We’ve workshopped each other’s work. They’ve both participated in my Writing Our Lives Workshops.

I tremble as I write this. I want to explain that I’m not taking credit for their accomplishments. I am acknowledging that we have been part of each other’s journeys. I want to say that I don’t know if I’d be where I am had I not met and loved them. I want you to know how much they feed and inspire me; that they are integral parts of my life and my evolution.

I remember when Iyawó told me she Renzo had invited her to tour Latin America and the Caribbean to work on the documentary. I remember when she started preparing for the months on the road and when she left. I talked to her from so many places across the globe. Me here in NYC, being a single mom, working and writing and trying to build a life for myself. Her in Haiti and DR and Brazil and Colombia and Honduras and…

I remember when Gabby told me about this book she was writing. I remember when she shared that Juliet came to her in my first Writing Our Lives class, in the petri dish class. I’ve often thought that that class was a failure. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was still figuring it all out. You learn so much in the journey…


In her essay collection Create Dangerously, Edwidge Danticat writes: “All artists, writers among them, have several stories — one might call them creation myths — that haunt and obsess them.”


Imposter syndrome has been sinking its claws deep into me this week. It’s nothing new. The feelings of unworthiness have walked with me for most of my life. If I look at the root of it, at where it comes from, I know it comes from my mother. Here’s the thing: a part of me feels guilt over this, over this writing I’ve done about my mother, over calling myself unmothered, over not being able to tell people that I have a great relationship with my mom, that she is my foundation and my church, that all things go back to the altar of la madre.

We texted a few days ago. It ended like it usually does: I am left reeling and questioning and wondering: if so many people love me, why can’t you? Why can’t you love me, mom? Why?

I am tired of feeling that. This shit is exhausting…and yet, here I am. Writing it. Again.


In her forecast for this week’s Venus retrograde, Chani Nicholas writes for Sagittarius:

Get to know what you are capable of. Don’t back down from it. Refuse to diminish it. Own it without arrogance, but with an unwavering acknowledgement of its magnificence.

Consider all that you have learned about your creative, erotic energy over the past 8 years. Which love affairs were your greatest teachers then? What did you learn from them? How have you healed? How do you approach this aspect of your life differently now? What were you learning about your creative energy then? What projects were your biggest teachers? How did you approach them then? How do you approach your creative work now?

The last two weeks of Venus’s retrograde ask you to sink deep below the surface of things. They get to the root of why you feel worthy and unworthy. Desirable and undesirable. Connected and disconnected. They scour the base of your energetic reservoirs, your creative wells, your oceans of imagination for clues as to what may have entered your streams of consciousness, telling you that you aren’t what you are. They ask you to heal the old wounds. Flush out the poisons from childhood. Cleanse the systems that were put in place by familial patterns so that you can better honor the gifts that you have received from the gods.


Over the past two days, I’ve found found myself searching for unmothered womyn like me. I’ve searched their names, their stories, their poems. I’ve been looking to feel less alone in the world. I need to see words like mine. Words that dare to speak our truths about our mothers. Words that chip away at the mother myth with a sledgehammer.

I reached out to folks on FB: Emily Dickinson’s poem Chrysallis inspired the title of my memoir. My sister friend Elisabet told me the other day that Dickinson was very much unmothered like us. I did not know this. There’s something about knowing I’m not alone in this that has gifted me much solace. All this is to say that I want to know more about Dickinson’s relationship with her mother. And if there’s any other unmothered woman writer that you think I should know and read, please do share. Yes this is me searching for roots. I am willing to be vulnerable and share that. There is no shame in our wounds.

In my research, I discovered that I am indeed not alone. There is nothing like learning that you are not alone in your ghosts and obsessions…

In a letter to her mentor, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Dickinson wrote: “Could you tell me what home is. I never had a mother. I suppose a mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.” Source: Classic Lit 

Virginia Woolf’s mother died when she was thirteen years old. She writes in her autobiographical fragments Moments of Being: “Until I was in [my] forties”—until she’d written To the Lighthouse—“the presence of my mother obsessed me. I could hear her voice, see her, imagine what she would do or say as I went about my day’s doings. She was one of the invisible presences who after all play so important a part in every life.”…

And once it was written, Woolf noticed, “I ceased to be obsessed by my mother. I no longer hear her voice; I do not see her.” Why? The question haunted Woolf. “Why, because I described her and my feeling for her in that book, should my vision of her and my feeling for her become so much dimmer and weaker? Perhaps one of these days I shall hit on the reason.” Source: The Day Virginia Woolf Brought Her Mom Back to Life

Woolf would later call her mother’s death “the greatest disaster that could happen.”

A friend sent me an article that dares to posit that Sylvia Plath’s most famous poem,  “Daddy,” was about her mother.

Her hatred of Aurelia Plath is an ongoing obsession, which she examines from every angle. Her journals describe a moment with a psychiatrist she is seeing in London:

Ever since Wednesday I have been feeling like a ‘new person.’ Like a shot of brandy went home, a sniff of cocaine, hit me where I live and I am alive and so-there. Better than shock treatment: ‘I give you permission to hate your mother.’

‘I hate her, doctor.’ So I feel terrific. In a smarmy matriarchy of togetherness it is hard to get a sanction to hate one’s mother. … 

But although it makes me feel good as hell to express my hostility for my mother, frees me from the Panic Bird on my heart and my typewriter (why?) I can’t go though life calling RB up from Paris, London, the wilds of Maine long-distance: “Doctor, can I still hate my mother?’ ‘Of course you can: hate her hate her hate her.’ ”

“Daddy” is remarkable for its startling rage, its mad fury. One critic described it as “assault and battery.” But if one delves into Plath’s violent or murderous fantasies over time, they seem to be centered around her mother, rather than her father. For instance she wrote a short story, “Tongues of Stone,” in 1955 about a girl who wants to strangle her mother, and throughout her life, she reports dreams or visions like one of her mother with her eyes cut out, and another of biting her mother’s arm. In her journals she writes succinctly: “An almost exact description of my feelings and reasons for suicide: a transferred murderous impulse from my mother onto myself.”

She writes again and again in her journals about banging up against her mother as a constant impediment to her work, her happiness. “Nothing I do … can change her way of being with me which I experience as a total absence of love.”


They call us unmothered. There are those who are unmothered because their mothers died. Then there are those like me, whose mothers are alive and still don’t mother us.

Merriam-Webster’s defined unmothered as: deprived of a mother: motherless <adolescent gosling that, unmothered, attached itself to him — Della Lutes> takes you straight to the various definitions of “mother” as if unmothered couldn’t possibly exist. As if nature would not allow that. God wouldn’t. The universe wouldn’t. And yet, I exist—an unmothered woman. ~excerpt from “They Call Her Saint”, A Dim Capacity for Wings, a memoir by Vanessa Mártir


I remember finding the term unmothered and how shocked I was by it. More than anything I was shocked by the realization that I wasn’t alone in my suffering and there were other people out there like me, who walked unanchored in this life. I wanted to read more work by and for us. I’ve searched high and low for it. I’ve reached out to mentors and friends for suggestions and recommendations. What has this made me realize? That I want to, have to, will one day compile an anthology of work by and for us unmothered women. An anthology of poetry and fiction and essays. I will create this for womyn like me to see that they’re not alone. That we see them. That there is refuge. There is something about seeing yourself in literature that is so profound and comforting. This is also true for the unmothered who have been living with the mother myth for so long, who have been told “solo hay una madre,” who have seen people gasp and clutch their pearls when they dare to speak of their mothers honestly, to show that she is not what the myth said, she wasn’t loving, she wasn’t kind, she broke you in so many ways… And here we are picking up the pieces. Let me show you how this shard glints in the moonlight. Let me hold up that mirror, sis. Let me show you what solidarity looks like…


In his essay “Finding Abigail” Chris Abani writes: “Ghosts leave their vestigial traces all over your work. Once they have decided to haunt you, that is. These ectoplasmic moments litter your work for years. They are both the veil and the revelation, the thing that leads you to the cusp of the transformational.”


To be clear, there is no pride in me saying I am unmothered. This is a wound I walk with. I just decided that there is no shame in it either. This is my truth. This is me coming to terms with my existence. This is me seeing you. This is me telling you that for far too long we have carried this, telling ourselves that there must be something wrong with us because how could a mother not want to mother and be tender to her child? Mother is earth. Mother is the world. And to say that mother is wrong or incapable is to say that the world is wrong and incapable, and how could that be? It can’t…right? Wrong. There is nothing wrong with you now as there was nothing wrong with you then, when you saw your mother sneer at you, hatred pulling at the corners of her eyes. This was her pain. This was her trauma. That is not yours. You, I, we are worthy of love. We are lovable. It has been a journey to see that and own it. And some days I still struggle to see it and be it. But today you saw me. You said, yes. You said, me too. This healing ain’t easy but you must name your ghosts before you can tackle them. Mother is not the enemy. She just is what the world made her. What are you going to do with that unmothered wound? Me? Imma make art and I’m gonna love and Imma mother in resistance to how I was mothered. This is what I have and it is everything.



Kintsugi (“golden joinery”) or kintsukuroi (“golden repair”) is the centuries-old Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Beautiful seams of gold glint in the cracks of ceramic ware, giving a unique appearance to the piece. This repair method celebrates the artifact’s unique history by emphasizing the fractures and breaks instead of hiding or disguising them. Kintsugi often makes the repaired piece even more beautiful than the original, revitalizing the artifact with new life. Kintsugi art dates back to the late 15th century, making it more than 500 years old. It is related to the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi, which calls for finding beauty in the flawed or imperfect. The repair method was also born from the Japanese feeling of mottainai, which expresses regret when something is wasted. Source: My Modern Met


I started therapy a year ago. My first words to him were: “I am an unmothered woman.” I am still in therapy, still digging into that wound. What I’ve come to is this: there are people who have mothered me in ways my mother couldn’t and still can’t. I am grateful for those surrogate mothers every single day. I had my Millie and I had my brother and so many others who reminded me that I am loved and lovable. They taught me that I can be different. That I can use these scars to make something beautiful out of this life I was given, that I have made. And, no, I didn’t do it alone. And, yes, I can stop the cycle. And there is also the bittersweet realization that I wouldn’t be who I am nor would I be able to do what I do, see you and be with you and be the mother and writer and teacher and student that I am, had I been mothered. See, it’s true in many ways que solo hay una madre, and that’s why I am still wounded by this truth of being unmothered. So the decision is: be broken by it or let it be my fuel. I didn’t know that I made the decision when I left at 13 and didn’t look back. I didn’t have the language then but shit, that girl somehow knew she had to save her own life. I’ve been doing it ever since. Even when I fucked up. Even when I repeated the “love me, please love me” cycle I learned from my mother. I was then and now still trying to save my own life. I was trying to see the glint of the moon in these shards. Today I want to say thank you to that 13 year old Vanessa. You are my hero, nena. You be the illest.



I have family on my FB friends list who don’t get why I write what I write or why I do the work I do. I see you. You’ve had a different experience with my mother or you don’t want to look at your own wounds or you’d rather I stay silent because you’re more interested in protecting the family name and keeping these secrets that don’t protect any us. I get it in many ways. I still won’t be silent. Don’t ask me to be. I’ve thought this through. I know I may hurt some people in my journey to heal and free myself of these ghosts. Yes, I think it’s worth all of it. Why? Because the cycle stops here. It has to. Silence already killed my brother. There can be no more casualties.


A little a while ago, as if to remind me again, a post came across my FB. The article starts: “How did Marcia Butler, the distinguished oboist, save herself from a detached, withholding mother and a sexually abusive father?… But Marcia was also hooked on trying to understand her mother. ‘I cobbled together weekly rituals through which I might pretend to be close to her and imaginatively pierce her thick veneer,’ she writes.”

So many of us are broken by our wounds. Some of us have somehow found a way to overcome and be fed by them. This is one story. I am writing mine.

[Woolf] was shocked by her [mother’s] death, but then again Woolf believed it was her “shock-receiving capacity” that “makes me a writer.” She thought the productive thing to do with a shock was to “make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together.” The Day Virginia Woolf Brought Her Mom Back to Life

Relentless Files — Week 60 (#52essays2017 Week 7)

*An essay a week in 2017*


My partner got me a DNA testing kit for Christmas. It’s been sitting on my bedside table for two months. 

I can’t count how many times I’ve lied in bed looking at that DNA test kit box. I read the directions weeks ago. I placed the box amongst the stack of books (always books) I keep next to my bed. I wondered if I’d done that on purpose. This week I realized that I subconsciously did.

I went online to register the test and was prompted to do a family tree. It was basically a visual of how little I know about my family history. I don’t know my mother’s father’s last name. I don’t my father’s parents names. I don’t know what year my father was born.

I’m triggered as fuck.


My mother and I haven’t spoken in months. I can’t remember when was the last time I saw her. I know it was sometime last fall. I know I was nervous to see her.

Our communications have been via text message. A random and sporadic, “Have a good day. God bless you.”

Today I learned that a friend’s mom is having heart surgery that she may not survive, but the surgery is the only thing that can possibly save her. I thought of my mother. I texted her. She responded with surprise. Sent me a side eye emoticon when I told her I missed her. I thought it was hilarious. Told me she was lonely. Invited me over to eat my favorite bean soup. I was already lying on my couch. I knew that I wasn’t going anywhere today. I told her I wasn’t feeling well. Asked if she wanted to plan a visit. It spiraled from there.

I was reminded of why I don’t reach out to her: I can’t trust her with my heart.

My sister flipped out on me on Christmas and we haven’t spoken since. Yes, I ended up flipping out on her too but that’s a story for another time.

My father died nine days after I turned eight. I’m not much in touch with his family other than occasional likes on fb statuses and a few of them reaching out to me about something I said about my dad that they didn’t like.

I’m longing for roots. I am searching for them as best as I know how right now. 


Yesterday my partner Katia told me that though my mother and I don’t have a relationship, she is still my roots. We were in the car driving downtown. I looked out onto the NYC traffic and felt the car grow smaller around me. “No,” I said. “Roots hold a tree up and keep it from toppling. Roots take nutrients from the soil to feed the tree. Roots sustain.” I looked at her, my partner, this woman who loves me like I’ve never been loved. “My mother is not my roots.” Katia navigated through the cars on 6th Avenue. “I see what you’re saying,” she said.

I am searching for roots. I know that now.


What does being unmothered look like for me?

I traveled quite a bit over the past few weeks for this writing life I created for myself. I am doing what I dreamed of–traveling for my writing, to run workshops, to facilitate workshops, to share craft talks, to be a student. I didn’t call my mother once during these trips. I didn’t text to tell her I arrived safely. I didn’t reach out to share how much I was enjoying myself, how much I learned working with one of my literary icons Lidia Yuknavitch. I didn’t call her when I got into Tin House for the second year in a row. She never called me either.

I didn’t tell her when I moved in with my partner last year.

I didn’t call her when I had to go to the ER with exacerbated asthma last January.

I didn’t call her when my yearly pap showed abnormal results. I didn’t call her to tell her about how I couldn’t sleep until I saw the doctor. I didn’t call to tell her the relief I felt when my doctor said it was minor and antibiotics for three days would heal me right up. I didn’t tell her that I cried. 

I don’t call to tell her that I miss her or am thinking of her. Even though I do…all the time.

I didn’t feel comfortable calling to ask for her help with filling out my family tree; to ask what year my father was born or to get the names of his parents, my grandparents, or to get her father’s last name.

Being unmothered means something inside of me collapses when I read posts and essays and poems about how great someone’s mom is, how supportive and loving and how “I’d be nothing without her.” Being unmothered means envying that. 

It means I hide out on Mother’s Day. It means having to tell my partner I can’t go with her family to Mother’s Day brunch. It means she will find me in a ball on the couch when she gets home with flowers. She will try to console me. She knows she can’t but she will try. She loves me that much.

Being unmothered and, yes, unfathered (I wrote this for the first time today), means I often feel unrooted and unachored in the world. It means that I cringe inside when I see mothers walking and laughing and sharing with their grown daughters. It means that few things can unhinge me like watching a father giggle with his daughter.

It means a feeling of helplessness on some days that makes me want to hide from the world. I become irritable and quiet. I struggle to get out of bed. It is sadness. A sadness that is a hollow in my chest where my parents should be. It is loss. It is the wound that is the root of all my wounds.

It is why I am writing my memoir. Why I’ve been trying to write it for ten years. Why I am trying to make art out of my pain. It is me looking at my life, at the girl I was who climbed up into that plum tree to watch her mother in the garden. At the little girl who decided she was going to leave at 13, the girl who was willing to take her chances away from everything she knew and loved. And the girl who repeated the “love me, please, love me” cycle she learned from her mother. And the woman who became a mother and finally became a writer because it was always the only thing that felt right and true and where I felt like I had some sort of control over my life. And the woman who lost her brother and reeled into the darkest place in her life and learned there that she had to heal that primordial wound that is the wound of all wounds–my relationship with my mother. It’s nonexistence.

I am examining myself as a mother who parents in resistance to the way she was mothered… I am looking at all the bodies I’ve lived in, all the girls and women I’ve been…to how I’ve gotten here, not healed but definitely not an open cicatrix.

And still, there are days when I feel like an orphan. This week has been one of those weeks. I had no idea that a simple DNA test would have that effect but it just be like that sometimes.


Years ago, over breakfast at AWP in Boston, my mentor and friend Chris Abani said to me: “Vanessa, redemption is easy. It’s restoration that takes a lifetime.” This DNA testing is another way of me restoring myself, my roots…or at least trying to.

It is taking a lifetime.


Once, during my senior year in boarding school, in my philosophy class, I said: “I think humans by nature are inherently evil.” We were having a discussion about human nature. I remember one of my classmate’s faces when I said it. A brown haired senior with dark eyes like mine, he stared at me open mouthed. “No, I don’t think that’s true.”

“You mean you can’t believe that’s true,” I said.

That’s when he closed his mouth, swallowed his lips and looked down at his desk. His notebook was open. A pen on the notebook was still uncapped. He’d been taking notes. His glasses lay next to the notebook.

When class was done, he walked out without looking at me.

My teacher, a kind eyed Mr. Kerivan who that year introduced me to Joseph Campbell, asked, “You really believe that, Vanessa?” He was sitting at his desk, leaning back on his chair, his hands folded over his stomach. The chalkboard behind him was scribbled with notes.

I shrugged, finished packing up and walked out. He stared at me the entire time.

I don’t believe humans are evil by nature. I can’t believe that anymore. What changed? I started looking at myself…


I want to see and know myself and the genes that make me, me. Was there an artist in my lineage who was also lured by story and words? Did she stare at her face and wonder whose eyes she had? The long nose? The long chin? The dark hair that’s started to grey on the right temple. Long strands that stick up when she ties it back.

Does she wonder about those that walk with her? Whose memories are in her chemistry…her memories. They visit her in dreams. They are around a campfire. A drum beats in rhythm to her chanting. She is rocking herself as she tells the stories of her grandmothers and her grandmother’s grandmothers. It is done in song. In ritual.

I am lost without those rituals. I am trying to reclaim them. These stories of my ancestors and their ancestors.

These memories are tied like chords into my helix. This lives in me. In the chemicals that make up my DNA. In the adenine, guanine, cytosine, and thymine.

They are chords like on a guitar. Except there is no guitar on which to play them. To hear their melody. I am trying to build that guitar with my hands. These hands that my Millie called “manos de madera.” If they are wood then surely they can conjure this wood I need to make my instrument.

I have to believe that. What else do I have?


It’s been proven that trauma can be carried from generation to generation in your genes.

Some Native Americans believe that our actions affect the seven generations in both directions. Think about that enormity of this. The possibilities. If I carry the trauma of my ancestors, it follows that I also carry their wisdom, yes? Can my healing help heal the seven generations that will come after me? And those that came before? Does it matter?

I have to believe that it does. I have a daughter. So much of my journey is to save her from carrying what I’ve had to…


It’s said that the brain can reformat itself. If you’re persistent, work relentlessly, the brain will be forced to build new neural pathways thus shifting your thoughts, beliefs… if only the heart could do that?


In her essay “Healing the Wounds of Your Ancestors” by Dr. Judith Rich writes:

As you step to the front of the line in your ancestry, the energy they embodied has been passed on and is now expressing as you and those of your current generation in the lineage.  As you transform, the energy of the entire lineage preceding you is transformed, for it is all happening now through you, as you.  You are the one who can heal old wounds for your entire lineage, forgive old enemies, shift conditioning and beliefs, release pain that has held preceding generations captive for centuries.  

This is the gift you bring them, for as they departed, they left behind the residue of their unfinished business, passed down through the ages, held in place by the unspoken family agreement to perpetuate it — that is, up until now.  And now it’s your turn.  Bringing completion to prior generations and setting up what happens for future generations now depends on you.

If this sounds like a huge responsibility, it’s because it is…but I’m carrying this anyway, right? Their traumas. I am unmothered because my mother is unmothered. There is a long history of trauma in the women in my family. Histories of rape and abuse and hunger and suffering, most that I don’t know but I feel. I feel acutely.

I felt it yesterday morning when I had a full on anxiety attack. I felt crazy. I was pacing and barely breathing and fighting the incredible urge to lash out and scream and yell and cry cry cry.

When I described it later, I likened it to The Hell Hole, a ride in Coney Island that I used to love when I was a kid. The ride operates on centrifugal force. You stand against the wall when the center unit starts to spin. The force pins you against the wall. You can’t move. If you try to move your head, it’s snapped back so hard your neck aches. Then the bottom falls out.

That’s what the anxiety attack felt like, and no matter what I did–tried to breathe and remind myself of where I was, tried to ground myself–nothing worked. Nothing.

I locked myself in my writing room and prayed and burned palo santo. I crumbled to the floor, put my first in my mouth and screamed a quiet scream that felt like it could shatter glass. I grabbed my crystals and stones and my Indio that stared and said, “take me with you today.” That’s when I felt the anxiety start to ebb. It slipped slowly and quietly out and off of me.

I know that shit is only partly mine. I know so much of that pain is ancient. And I know I have to do what I can to heal it…to heal me.


The only part I miss of my old hood is Inwood Hill Park. We drove by it on our way downtown yesterday morning. From the highway you can see one of the paths I hiked hundreds of times. I know where it starts and where it ends, how it snakes under the highway in two areas, the tunnels underneath that would make for great photo shoots. If you chased me into the park, I’d know how to get away easily.

I read that plants and trees have their own communication system through their roots.

No tree is an island, and no place is this truer than the forest. Hidden beneath the soil of the forest understory is a labyrinth of fungal connections between tree roots that scientists call the mycorrhizal network. Others have called it the wood-wide web.

The connections are made by the filaments of fungi that grow in and around plant roots and produce many of the forest mushrooms we know and love. They bond trees so intimately that the more you learn about them, the more it is a struggle to view any tree as an individual. Forest trees and their root fungi are more or less a commune in which they share resources in a fashion so unabashedly socialist that I hesitate to describe it in detail lest conservatives reading this go out and immediately set light to the nearest copse. ~Scientific American 

In his book, “The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate — Discoveries From a Secret World,” Peter Wohlleben, a career forest ranger, shares scientific evidence that proves that trees can keep the stumps of long-felled companion trees alive for centuries by feeding them a sugar solution through their roots. No one knows why.


For a long time I thought (hoped?) that when I got here, living this life I dreamt of, I would feel fulfilled. That I wouldn’t still feel unrooted. How could I feel this if I’m living this dream? If I’m doing what I dreamt when I was up in that plum tree telling myself stories 35 years ago. And yet, here I am. I’ve accomplished what I’ve set out to do. One by one. And yes  there’s more to be done but the point is how far I’ve come from that girl I was who shared a room with her sister and brother in that railroad style apartment in Bushwick. 

When I told my mother that I was quitting my editing job to live this writing and teaching life, she said: “If there’s one thing I know about you, when you say you’re gonna do something, you do it.” But there’s one thing I haven’t been able to do–think of her and not wither.

Yes, I’ve healed so much of my pain. I am no longer a raw open oozing wound. But I still hurt over being unmothered and so much of the way I move in the world stems from that wound.

This week a writer friend offered to help me with a project that has become mammoth and overwhelming. She gave me a step by step layout and even gave me homework. She made it manageable so I thought, “yes, I can do this.” When I thanked her, she put her hand on mine and said: “you do so much. You deserve this.” I bit my lip so she wouldn’t see it tremble.

I give easily. Often to my detriment. I’m learning not to be so self-sacrificial.

It is hard for me to receive though. It is hard to accept help. To ask for it is nearly impossible. And yet, when I do, it comes in open armed waves. People are so willing to offer help. They say: “Here. Take it. It’s yours.”

My brujermana shared what a teacher told her once: “not being able to receive is a need for control. You are in control when you give. When you receive you are not.”


What am I trying to control? The guilt that comes in swiftly. The feelings that I am not deserving. The worry that just maybe if I accept, I will see what they see in me and I will realize that it’s me fooling myself, that I am not undeserving, I am in fact worthy, I am loved and lovable; I work hard, I work smart, I care so much about what I do and how I do it, I deserve all the love and goodness…

Then why do I feel an acrid taste at the back of my throat like I want to throw up?

Is it the realization that I’m the fool? That it’s me who is wrong…or it is more of my shit coming up? And how is it that I can manage to make even a beautiful, affirming message coming in into something self-deprecating? 





I watched the movie Arrival today. I keep hearing these lines: “If all I gave you was a hammer…everything is a nail.”

What if you could see into the future? Would you change anything? Or would you just try to reinterpret your story in a new way?

I can’t see into the future. I can only look at the past, my emotional truth in it. And I can try to reinterpret my story that way. And so I write it. I write all of it. It’s what I have…

Relentless Files — Week 59 (#52essays2017 Week 6)

*An essay a week in 2017*

On Sunday I finally landed from my last of 4 trips over 5 weeks: Minneapolis where I helped run VONA’s regional program on the ground in conjunction with The Loft Literary Center; Newport Beach, Oregon for a Tin House NonFiction workshop with Lidia Yuknavitch; AWP in DC where I was on a panel; & finally a gig at The Center for Women Writers in North Carolina this past weekend. 

I was out on my deck looking at the night sky when it hit me: this swelling in my chest that felt like a lightening; a pulling in my cheeks that made a toothless smile appear and soon I was giggling at myself. I sat with this strange feeling when it hit me: it was pride I was feeling. I told my partner. She said: “You should be proud, babe. And this is just the beginning.”

Then came the discomfort. Pride feels self-lauding and congratulatory. The shame set in quickly. The who the fuck do you think you are? The: you have no right to be proud. You shouldn’t be proud. Pride ain’t ever a good thing, girl. Como te atrevez? Te crees gran mierda pero no lo eres. Bring yourself down a few notches, girl. Stop being so full of yourself.


Google defines pride as:


  1. a feeling or deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one’s own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired. “the team was bursting with pride after recording a sensational victory” Synonyms include: pleasure, joy, delight, gratification, fulfillment, satisfaction, a sense of achievement, “take pride in a good job well done”
  2. a group of lions forming a social unit.


  1. be especially proud of a particular quality or skill. “she’d always prided herself on her ability to deal with a crisis” — synonyms: be proud of, be proud of oneself for, take pride in, take satisfaction in, congratulate oneself on, pat oneself on the back for, “Lucas prides himself on his knowledge of wine”


Where does pride live in your body? It lives in my chest. It feels light. Like the weight of never feeling like I’m enough is lifted. It feels like accomplishment. It feels like I finally feel worthy and capable. It is so damn fleeting.


I used to imagine this life. I used to wish for it: the travel, the meeting people, the writing and learning and sharing love and heart and stories. I used to wish for it so hard. The wishing make me work my ass off. I quit the safety net of a full time editing job to live this life. I risked so much: financial security, knowing where my next check was coming from, how I was going to pay the bills, the rent, the light, money to fill the fridge. There were days when I had to decide whether to pay the light or buy food for me and my little girl. I’ve gotten eviction notices. I’ve defaulted on my student loans. There were so many times when I couldn’t afford to go anywhere that required money so we spent a lot of time in the park, on the grass, sandwiches and fruit in my knapsack. That’s how much, how bad I wanted this. For me. For us. Me and baby girl. 

People have called me irresponsible. What do I see? I see a woman who showed her daughter what it takes to live your dreams. I showed my daughter that she too can live her dreams if she is willing to work for it. She has learned some valuable lessons from her mama.

I know this life isn’t meant for everyone. It’s taken me a long time and a lot of talking to folks to realize just how risky it was.

At AWP, a friend whose memoir was recently released told me how much she sacrificed to make this life happen for herself. When she got her book deal, she was months behind on her mortgage payments. She was near foreclosure. But she knew she had to write this book. She just had to. It was a burning inside of her that would turn her into ash if she didn’t. So she did, and she got a fantastic two-book deal to make it happen. “You’re doing everything you need to do, Vanessa.” she said, outside of a bar where we had just rubbed elbows with agents and publishers, some who were interested in seeing my work and some who were dismissive and gross. (Let’s just say I walked out of there knowing the type of person I want to represent me and the type I don’t.) “Keep going. You’re on your way. You will have all of this. All of it,” my friend said. My eyes welled. I let the tears fall as I stared at the traffic on that downtown D.C. avenue. I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear those words. I know now that I did.

I thought of this as I felt the mixture of pride and shame that made my stomach turn sour. I wondered: Why can’t I be proud of myself? Why can’t I say “I did this” and it not feel like I need to bring myself down a notch? Is that the internalized outside gaze? Whose gaze? Who made me feel this shame? And how can I convert it into action? What can I generate from this? Can I turn it into an acceptance of this pride that I know I deserve and have earned?



Christian theology says pride is one of the deadly sins. St. Augustine wrote: “It was Pride that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels.”  

According to

“The sin of Pride is said by some to be the foremost of the Seven Deadly Sins. Hubris is the gateway through all other sins enters the mortal soul.”

What it is: “Pride is excessive belief in one’s own abilities, that interferes with the individual’s recognition of the grace of God. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as Vanity.”

The punishment in Hell: “You’ll be broken on the wheel.”

Woah. That’s some heavy shit right there.


I write about the human experience. As such, when thinking about pride this week, I started digging into my own life and the moments I was robbed of my pride. I started a list that I’m sure will grow as I continue to dig into this wound.


At my graduation dinner from Columbia University, while still draped in my graduation gown, the Columbia crown stitched into the lapel, my mother told me she knew I wasn’t going to do shit with my life (“Yo sabía que no ibas a ser ni mierda con tu vida”) when I told her I wasn’t going to law school. She slammed her fork down on the table so hard, it shook.

I have never regretted that decision.


In 8th grade, I came home excited from a dance performance. I’d finally earned a solo in an interpretive dance piece we did for the Black History Month celebration. I remember the poem started: “What shall I tell my children who are black…” (Thanks to google, I now know it’s a poem by Dr. Margaret Burroughs.)

Within minutes of arriving, my sister reminded me that I was “retarded” and “still ain’t shit.” I remember her curled lip and how she looked down at me from her top bunk. My sister has always been quick to be the needle to burst my bubble whenever I’ve felt good about myself or something I’d accomplished. 

On Christmas, the last time I spoke to her, she told me my writing was bullshit and my followers are bullshit. When I told her that she is so much the reason for why I’m a writer because as a kid all I wanted was to be like her, she said: “I don’t give a fuck why you’re a writer, Vanessa.” I’ve saved the textument. I am quoting her verbatim. 


A college professor once gave us the assignment of writing about someone we knew growing up. I wrote about Teresa, the neighborhood crackhead, and how fragile and beautiful she was. I was proud of that piece. I was so young, just 18 or 19, trying my hand at writing, and I was looking for support, encouragement. When the professor handed back the piece, he told me “this isn’t writing,” and he didn’t have the cojones to look at me when he said it.



Aristotle considered pride to be a virtue. Neel Burton writes on his blog:

A person is proud if he both is and thinks himself to be worthy of great things. If he both is and thinks himself to be worthy of small things he is not proud but temperate, for pride implies greatness. In terms of the vices, a person who thinks himself worthy of great things when he is unworthy of them is vain, whereas a person who thinks himself worthy of less than he is worthy of is pusillanimous. Compared to vanity, pusillanimity is both commoner and worse, and so more opposed to pride.


It’s often so easy to write about the difficult things we’ve experienced in life. But what about the joy? What about the times my pride was reinforced? What about the times that I was encouraged to be proud of myself and all that I’d accomplished? I think of my brother…

A few years ago, I was flown down to Atlanta when a book I co-wrote won an award. I called my brother from the veranda of the posh hotel I was put up in by the organizers of the Decatur Book Festival. It was right across the road from Emory College, and every morning I sat outside under the sun to eat a custom made omelet. I called my brother on one of those mornings. “I’m having breakfast on a veranda, bro! This is some All My Children shit.” He laughed: “What the fuck is a veranda?” Me: “I don’t know but I’m sitting on one.” We laughed so hard. Before we hung up, he said: “I’m proud of you, sis. You doing it.” He always told me he was proud of me. When I came home with good grades. When I got into boarding school and Columbia. When I wrote my first book. When I went to my first VONA and the four times I attended after. He was always the first one to say it and often the only one.


From what I can tell, there is a difference between the pride deemed a sin in Christian texts and the pride Aristotle called a virtue. The former is more about vanity; the arrogant, megalomaniac type, where the person is obsessed with himself and his power. The pride Aristotle refers to is earned pride in oneself and one’s work. A pride that is not all consuming but connected to self-worth and the work one does out in the world. A pride that encourages the person to continue producing.

In my research on pride, I found a fascinating article on Psychology Today called Pride and Creativity: How pride is pride related to creative achievement?

“You received a score of 124 out of 147, which is the 94th percentile. Great job on that! That’s one of the highest scores we’ve seen so far!”

When Lisa Williams and David DeSteno told this to their participants, they noticed a significant increase in perseverance on a difficult cognitive task. This intrigued them, so they fiddled with the dials to see what was going on. When they took out the “Great job” part and just told the participants they performed exceptional, they saw no increase in perseverance. When they put people in a generally positive mood by having them look at pleasant pictures, such as a wedding and a tropical landscape—again, no increase in perseverance. What was it about this particular phrasing that increased motivation?

The winning phrasing was effective because it activated one of our most deeply-rooted emotions: pride. Pride is receiving a lot of research attention these days, as researchers are increasingly realizing its potency. In a recent study, David Matsumoto and Hyi Sung Hwang distinguish pride from triumph, another deeply-rooted human emotion. Participants were in strong agreement about what pride looks like:

Pride may have evolved to motivate people to achieve social status in a socially valued domain. This emotion emotion is not just any feel-good emotion though. Pride particularly makes people feel good about themselves. Children are quick to associate pride with domains in which they feel competent, and are driven to further pursue those domains. In contrast, those who continually receive negative feedback in a domain quickly lose their motivation for achieving in that domain.

But here’s the paradox: pride is correlated with both positive and negative social consequences. Pride has always received mixed reviews. The ancient Greeks viewed pride as “the crown of the virtues” whereas the early Christian philosophers viewed pride as the “deadliest of the Seven Deadly Sins”. Pride is quite the polarizing emotion!

To reconcile these different conceptualizations of pride, researchers have found it useful distinguishing between two different shades of pride: authentic and hubristic.

Authentic pride is fueled by the emotional rush of accomplishment, confidence, and success, and is associated with prosocial and achievement-oriented behaviors, extraversion, agreeableness, conscientiousness, satisfying interpersonal relationships, and positive mental health. Authentic pride is also associated with genuine self-esteem, which is high self-esteem controlling for narcissism. Authentic pride, and its associated subjective feelings of confidence and accomplishment may facilitate behaviors that are associated with attaining prestige. People who are confident, agreeable, hard-working, energetic, kind, empathic, non-dogmatic, and high in genuine self-esteem would draw inspiration from others and would want to be emulated by others.

Hubristic pride, on the other hand, is fueled by arrogance and conceit, and is associated with anti-social behaviors, rocky relationships, low levels of conscientiousness and high levels of disagreableness, neuroticism, narcissism, and poor mental health outcomes. Hubristic pride, and its associated subjective feelings of superiority and arrogance, may facilitate dominance by motivating behaviors such as aggression, hostility, and manipulation…

No one said creativity is simple, or has a single cause. People may take different paths to the same outcome. At any rate, one thing is clear: pride plays an important role in fueling creativity.


Why can’t you be proud of what you’ve accomplished and the work you do without someone calling you arrogant or saying you should temper it? What’s wrong with feeling pride when you’ve struggled so much to get where you are, to create a life for yourself in spite of the odds and numerous obstacles? And what’s with this shaming when you say you’re proud? What’s this shame we impose on ourselves? Where does it come from? How can we push back on it and remind ourselves that pride in one’s work is a beautiful thing? You should be proud of what you do and how you exist in the world. I’m talking about a healthy dose of pride, whatever that means to you. Not the pride that makes you think you’re better than people. Not the pride that keeps you from helping others. Not the pride that makes you think people owe you something or should look up to you. Nah. I’m talking about pride in what you do, in your grind, in your accomplishments. Pride that will keep you doing the necessary, important work that will hopefully make this world a better place. That kind of pride.


During her lecture at AWP, Jacqueline Woodson said that even today, after having written 32 books and receiving countless accolades in the form of awards and prizes, she still wakes up some days amazed that she’s a writer. She said she can hardly believe it sometimes.

This begs the question: can you be humble and also be proud of the work you do and know its importance in the world? I think so. The thing is, we often have teach ourselves how to be. We’ve been taught as women, especially as women of color, to be humble to the point of self-deprecation, but if I can’t be proud of what I’ve accomplished, of having created this life for myself, then how can I teach my students to be proud of the work they do, of how they push themselves to dig deeper into themselves and their stories? How can I teach my daughter to be proud of her fabulousness, of being so talented and compassionate and such a hard worker, if I don’t show her that I am of her? That I am proud of myself? Our kids learn by impersonation.  


This is my promise to myself: I will work on being proud of how far I’ve gotten, as an unmothered woman who had to learn to become a woman and mother through trial and error. A woman who lives and loves in resistance to the way she was taught in her formative years. I will work on being able to take compliments and being gracious when they come in instead of cringing and wanting to run and hide. I will work on opening my heart to receiving the beautiful recognitions people gift me via notes and emails and face to face gushing that makes me blush. I will work on being a better, more accepting of love, Vanessa. Why do I say this? Because I realize that this is love that is coming my way. People show their love in so many ways. They do it when they see me and run over and want to meet me. They do it by sending me notes telling me how much my work has influenced them. They do it by sending emails to the Director of the center that brought me on to facilitate a talk and generative class, telling her to please bring me back, that I’m one of the best facilitators they’ve ever worked with, that I gave so much of myself, with no ego, with vulnerability and heart.

I don’t want to be the one to slap the hand of love away. I’ve done that so much in my life already. This was me functioning from a place of trauma. I am working on being a better Vanessa. One who can accept and be open to love in all its forms…especially now, when I have to teach myself how to be. Word.