Psychics, mould, and Mr. Miyagi
Welcome back to Memoir Monday—a weekly newsletter and quarterly reading series, brought to you by Narratively, The Rumpus, Catapult, Granta, Guernica, and Literary Hub. Each essay in this newsletter has been selected by the editors at the above publications as the best of the week, delivered to you all in one place.
My Grandmother Glitches the Machine
by Tan Tuck Ming (art by Briana Finegan)
A few years ago, I took part in a research study at an institute of parapsychology, an underground sub-field of psychology that deals with psychic abilities. I did not think I was a psychic, but I was in my second year of university and could have believed anything. The man who conducted the study led me into a windowless room with a hulking and unbranded pre-millennium computer. He said that I would have twenty minutes to complete a series of tasks on the computer; if I did so, I would receive $8 and a chocolate bar. He gave no other details.
How Do Writers Without Access to Books Develop a Craft?
by Sulaiman Addonia
Those of us who have come from the peripheries of society and still managed to be published can attest that there are methods other than reading by which people can strengthen their writing and sharpen their tools. These methods require people to open their imagination in order to see that everything around them—buildings, nature, and people—has a story, and what matters is the patience to learn to read them. It was in our refugee camp where I first found the means to build my imagination and the power of storytelling.
Exodus
by Zahra Hankir
I found myself walking Beirut’s streets four days after the explosion. It took me a moment to realize that the countless glittering smithereens, shining on the ground in the evening sun, were shards of glass that were once whole. They had made up the windows of homes, stores, schools, bookshops, cafes, hotels, churches, mosques, and hospitals.
What Mr. Miyagi Taught Me About Anti-Asian Racism in America
by Beth Nguyen
As an Asian American, I have a love-hate relationship with The Karate Kid. But the moment I saw the middle-aged faces of Daniel LaRusso and Johnny Lawrence in Cobra Kai, I knew I had to watch every episode of that show. I wasn’t just catching up on The Karate Kid characters three decades later; I was catching up on what I remembered of that era, including my long-ago 1980s self. Maybe Cobra Kai was supposed to be a low-stakes escape from pandemic life, something to watch while folding laundry. But it left me feeling wrecked—like Daniel and Johnny, stuck in a past that can never be changed.
Mould
by Alice Ash
I always found the mould beautiful, even though it caused Mum a lot of distress – when she could, she’d gather neighbours as a taskforce against the mould; they’d spend the day scrubbing, and all that would be left was a long lick of dirty water. The mould always came back though. When I was very little, and my dad was still at home, my parents built an extension on the back of the house – they dreamt of a study, a utility room for the washing machine and our little white underclothes, but within a year the wood was wet to the touch, shedding and orange. It was just a very damp house, I guess – the drains bubbled underfoot.
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