Dog shows, Chinatown, and dating when you really just want a baby...
Welcome back to Memoir Monday—a partnership between Narratively, The Rumpus, Catapult, Longreads, Tin House, Granta, and Guernica. It may be the start of a new work week, but at least we have this great new writing to get us through it.
Towards Chinatown
by Melissa Hung (art by Olivia Waller)
I step off the bus and walk to the Chinatown YMCA for a swim. Most of the pools I frequent are harshly chlorinated. Open your mouth while submerged in them, or worse, accidentally swallow the water, and you realize immediately your mistake. But here the pool is saltwater, soothing on the skin. As I swim freestyle down the middle lane, joy rises through my body like a buoy. This surprises me — that after two days of feeling terrified about losing my mother, I am capable of joy. I swim for 35 minutes, then listen in on the chatter of aunties in the locker room as I change. Technically, I am eavesdropping, but I don’t think of it that way. They are talking loudly enough for everyone to hear, the way my Po Po used to talk.
Applejacking
by Ginger Strand
In the zombie apocalypse, booze will be as fungible as ammo. And it was a vague desire to be zombie-ready that caused my husband, Bob, and me to learn to make hard cider. Something about country living brings out your inner prepper. We keep a manual grinder and a propane camp stove in our house in the Catskill Mountains so that when the power goes out, we can make coffee and not kill each other. But this is mere household readiness, not prepping for survival in a WROL situation. People who use the acronym WROL (“without rule of law”) tend to be apocalypse-minded conspiracy theorists. Bob and I aren’t, but we do share a smidgeon of their survivalist impulse. It propelled us to start applejacking.
Family, Fate, and Fortune Tellers: Navigating Romantic Relationships When You Just Want a Baby
by Karissa Chen
In October, when we’d known each other for nearly a year, I got my eggs frozen. Throughout the process, my boyfriend sent me kind notes and flowers and checked in with me on a daily basis, but I felt far away from him, my loneliness augmented with every solo clinic visit. He tried to make jokes to lift my spirits whenever I grew emotional over lower-than-expected follicle counts or the addition of new injections I had to administer, but I grew upset, unable to joke about any of it. I felt he wasn’t taking this seriously, that he had no idea how difficult all of this was for me. The disconnect between us seemed to reveal an essential truth: What I was doing was not for us, but rather only for me. It wasn’t his future or our future I was trying to secure, only mine.
Turning Purple: The Borderland
by Leigh Hopkins (art by Dara Herman Zierlein)
The hour before what might have been our first kiss was perfect. I made a beautiful dinner. The dog pressed his furry cheek against the painter’s leg while I cooked, beside himself that he had managed to win her over in such a short time. I was about to open a bottle of wine when I looked out the kitchen window, and the sky was on fire.
Confessions of a Misfit on the Dog Show Circuit
by Sassafras Lowrey
In my 20s, I moved to New York City. In the middle of all of the people, the concrete and the buildings, the Church of Dog found me again. This time I was lucky enough to find an openly gay trainer to work with, and I became her apprentice, helping her teach beginner dog-agility classes in Manhattan and Brooklyn.
Writers’ Resources
Read The Rumpus’ interview with Keah Brown!
I’m teaching a creative nonfiction online workshop with Barrelhouse starting September 9. Check out details and sign up here!
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With love, until next Monday,