Wedding Song
Wedding Song

It was time for our one rehearsal, the day of my daughter’s wedding. A group of family and friends who had been practicing alone now gathered, anticipating the thrill of voices blending and harmonizing, woven together by the glistening thread that is my daughter’s life force. In the run-up to this event, all said, “Yes, we will sing…We are honored to sing…We are thrilled to be part of this special surprise,” a touching tribute to a father long dead. All coming together from different places, different times, different experiences, to fuse in song.

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True StoriesJulia Nusbaumgrief, love, familyComment
(W)hole
(W)hole

I used to place Ken’s hand right on the mound of Barbie’s breast. It fit, almost precisely, as if the rounded palm was created for this small act of intimacy. Of course, further south it was merely a place where two legs connected, a smooth sweep of plastic that neither confirmed nor betrayed pleasure. But that didn’t stop me from imagining. I used to sit on the floor between the two twin beds in the upstairs bedroom at my grandmother’s house.

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True StoriesJulia Nusbaumsex, sexuality, bodies, body imageComment
The Cost of Leaving
The Cost of Leaving

I stare out at the sky. The man next to me is snoring, mouth wide open. His head drops forward, jolting back upright. It’s February. If the year had gone as planned, I would not have been on this airplane. I would have been finishing breakfast with my roommates and walking to class. Tonight, they will make dinner without me. We won’t dress up together this weekend, sifting through each other’s closets, to attend a party where we drink too much and laugh too hard. I am leaving home.

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True StoriesJulia NusbaumReligion, father daughter, Change, Change of life, family, teacherComment
The Memorial
The Memorial

In the early morning hours after John Lennon was shot and killed, people began gathering in front of the Upper West Side apartment building that he shared with his wife and their young son. For more than a week, from everywhere and of all ages, they came to keep a vigil. Watching the local news channel, I hear them referred to as Beatle fans. But what I see are mourners. Crowded together, hemmed in by police barricades, they weep and hold candles and signs, cleaving to the spot where Lennon left this earth.

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True StoriesJulia NusbaumChild Loss, miscarriage, still born, stillborn, New York, Beetles, John Lennon, Grief, Loss Comments
Seeking, Listening, Echoing
Seeking, Listening, Echoing

I grew up in the north of México in a city called Tecate, B.C. I used to think that I could, just as well, have grown anywhere else. I used to ignore, as I grew up, the situations of Mexican migrants. My family was not and that is why they always made sure that I didn’t know what, thanks to them, “I didn’t need to know.” My father and my uncles crossed the border as if getting into the neighbor’s yard to retrieve something they had lost. Only they hadn’t lost anything and were looking for what they never had, and without permission but with confidence. The confidence of someone who has crossed a territory that is not theirs many times knowing they shouldn’t.

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True StoriesKristina Buschfamily, immigration, relationships, languageComment
Illumination
Illumination

In the minutes after she was born, all of the lights came on. We watched her climb the wall of my body and land, exhausted, at the shore of my breast. Under the sharp white of hospital light, they did the weighing and measuring, and she screamed so that every number and value only reached my ears as alive, alive, more evidence of her realness, her presence. She sent howls up into a brightness that must have been like looking at the sun.

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True StoriesDiya MehtaStorytelling, Motherhood, mother daughter, life and death, dearComment
Eyes in the Dark
Eyes in the Dark

When I close my eyes to sleep, and all is quiet, and all I can hear is the sound of my breathing in the dark, I see him. Two black eyes glinting in the night. One smile, too white and too wide, unmistakable above me. I open my eyes in a panic, fear crushing my chest, paralysing my limbs and he is still there, looming above me in the shadows. I reach desperately for my phone. Light blinds me. I blink a few times as the image of a dog pops up on the screen.

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True StoriesDiya Mehtasexual assault, Storytelling, moving forwardComment
Valentine's Day Thoughts
Valentine's Day Thoughts

Sometimes I wonder why lovers hold hands when they walk around. I wonder how long they have been dating. Are they in that new stage, where it feels like they have to hold on tight, constantly let the other person know that they are there, that they aren’t going anywhere, that they want to touch them, that they want to be touched. Or is it the older couples, the ones who have been together for longer that hold hands. A gesture they don’t even realize they’re doing, their fingers just mindlessly reaching for each other, keeping their connection as they pace around the city.

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True StoriesDiya Mehtalove, self love, Self Discovery, heartbreak, valentineComment
Cold Water
Cold Water

After running around in the heat of a South Carolina sun all day, I didn’t think there was anything that could scare you. We wandered from pier to pier, picking up nearly every shell on the shores of Myrtle Beach and kicking over abandoned sand castles. After a long day of pink streamer bike rides and arcade bubble gum, it was time to rinse off the day and rinse the sand out of our Kool-Aid dyed hair.

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True StoriesKristina Buschgirlhood, sexism, sexual harassment, sexual assault, traumaComment
The Weight of Her Womb
The Weight of Her Womb

In a conference room cluttered with cold Chinese take-out, I sat with Jane as she wolfed down shrimp and noodles, finally eating lunch at three PM. Jane was a small woman with ocean blue eyes, golden dot freckles, and a pixie cut. She listened patiently as another OB/GYN resident in the room talked about a recent study proposing C-sections as standard of care over natural birth.

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True StoriesKristina Buschmotherhood, pregnancy, doctor, womanhoodComment
Change of Heart
Change of Heart

The first memory I have of our camping friends is of the day our daughters started kindergarten. We weren’t camping friends at this point, just parents of two children apiece. Their daughter—crying quietly at her desk. Mine—bright-eyed in her blue/green/white plaid skirt, matching headband, white polo.

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True StoriesJulia Nusbaummotherhood Comment
The Albedo Effect
The Albedo Effect

Every week she asked me how I felt and every week, while, in general things were “fine,” I always told her there was almost always a day, or a couple of hours a day, where despondence grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. It was as if someone, something, was wrestling me and trying to get me to give in, to tap out. We were in different weight classes though. I was the lightweight and the despondence was the heavyweight and I didn’t have any agility or tricks up my sleeve to counteract the weight disparity between us. 

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True StoriesJulia NusbaumMotherhood, Women, Women's Stories, Storytelling, Feminist, Light, Depression, Mental Health Comment
Why We Came
Why We Came

When they ask me, I tell them we came for the rain.

It’s easy that way. It makes them laugh. It’s the dog walkers who always want to know. A passing conversation in the park. They usually talk about Mochi’s long legs first. Like a mom with a new baby, I let them gush over him. No, he’s not a puppy, just small. Yes, he’s enthusiastic. I tell them he’s a rescue and an immigrant too. He was my carry-on luggage, stored safely below the seat in front of me from San Francisco to Dublin. We linger for a few minutes, as our dogs take the time to sniff. Then they ask, they always ask, why did we come?

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True StoriesKristina Buschrelationships, reflection, family, moving forward Comments
So, You Joined a Sorority
So, You Joined a Sorority

Derby Days is the first convergence of Greek life on campus during the fall semester. It is your introduction to the Greek life competition, and it must be taken seriously. At dinner, some of the girls who will be participating in the lip sync competition tonight start to arrive. Someone tells you that they will be lip-syncing to some rap song. You can’t help but laugh because you can only imagine how funny it will be to watch a group of skinny white girl’s rap. You’ve just finished clearing your plate when you exit the kitchen and see something you’ve only ever seen in pictures. You see Sister S, in full blackface. Sister S is wearing baggy blue jeans, a wife-beater, an oversized button-down tied around her waist, a bandana wrapped around her head, and chunky skater sneakers. You don’t realize that you’ve been frozen staring at her until she comes up to you.

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True StoriesKristina Buschcollege, racism, friendship, sororityComment
If You Relate to These Five Albums by the Mountain Goats, You Might Want to Consider Therapy
If You Relate to These Five Albums by the Mountain Goats, You Might Want to Consider Therapy

I’m losing my virginity to the Hamilton soundtrack. We’re in a college dorm room in North Carolina and he accidentally hits my head on the headboard in his rush to undress me. We don’t yet know that I’m not going to leave the dorm room for nearly three months after he leaves; what we do know is that the music is awful to fuck to. He gets up and reaches for his phone, one hand still on my chest, and scrolls Spotify until he finds a certain playlist. “This is better,” he tells me with a grin as the warm buzz of a Panasonic boombox floods the room. The rhythm is better, for sure, but I find the lyrics interesting enough that I get distracted and ask him to turn it up. “I thought you’d like it,” he says. He knows how important music is to me, and he tells me the name of the singer as the man and his guitar continue to wail: John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats. This is the first time I’ve listened to the singer-songwriter for more than a few passing seconds. I can’t guess my relationship with John and his music will far outlast my relationship with this boy.

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Kristina Busch Comment