The Lion King, calves' brains, and RPGs
Welcome back to Memoir Monday—a weekly newsletter and monthly reading series, brought to you by Narratively, The Rumpus, Catapult, Longreads, Tin House, Granta, and Guernica. 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. It may be the start of a new work week, but at least we have this great new writing to get us through it.
My Father Lives in Me: On the Lion King, Grief, and Resemblance
by Noah Cho (art by Sara Wong)
“You look a lot like him,” they said to me.
“They,” in this case, was just about everyone in my orbit in the days and weeks after my father’s death. From the mourners who came to gaze at his open casket . . . to family members who held my face in their hands, as they looked for my father, somewhere still alive, in my eyes and nose and hair. They seemed to see him there, maybe, barely haunting my face, but present enough that they were convinced he was there, somewhere.
Strip District Meats
by Sheila Squillante
Sitting at the dining room table this morning, I sipped coffee out of my favorite yellow mug—the same yellow as the dining room curtains and the tablecloth, now pulled aside to let the light fall through—and I explained to Rudy that making true turtle soup might be difficult, given the illegality of turtle meat in some areas, but we can make a mock version. He asks how. I show him a recipe that includes the boiling of a whole calf’s head plus brains. “Sure!” he says. “Absolutely. Let’s do it.” I feel a thrill of electricity and possibility. A powerful surge of nostalgia. Yes, let’s do it! I make a mental note to ask my local foodie friends where, in Pittsburgh, I might source calves’ brains, though in truth I’m not sure I could bring myself to prepare them.
Leaning In with Alex P. Keaton
by Nicole Cyrus
A week after I turned 16, I called my mother into the kitchen for a meeting. I was running a personal campaign to become an international business tycoon from my family’s ranch home near Washington, D.C. My mother, a registered nurse, had volunteered to be my assistant. She sat with her hands folded on the wooden table, awaiting instructions.
My Secret Lives in The Facebook Role-Playing Universe
by Benjamin Mock
I role-played in the musty corner of my family’s guest room, on a rickety old computer with a USB modem, using the excuse of fictional school projects to exceed my allotted screen time. I spent a couple of hours per day — usually from the timeI got home from school until around dinnertime — on my George account.
Writers’ Resources
Just one week left to register for Catapult’s Writer’s Winter Break!
The next Memoir Monday reading is one week from today! Please RSVP so we know how much wine to bring…
Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Memoir Monday, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution (if even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Memoir Monday could be self-sustaining!) by clicking here.
If you received this email from a friend or found it on social media, sign up below to get Memoir Monday in your inbox every week!
Until next Monday,