Running with Eunice
Running with Eunice

A policeman stepped from a side street and raised his hand for us to stop.

One hand rested on the pistol jutting out of its holster. Silver handcuffs nuzzled the gun, black-lens sunglasses hid his eyes. An odor of underarm deodorant hung in the air.

He stopped us because Eunice was Black and I was white. It wasn’t illegal for the two of us to be together on the street, but in Apartheid South Africa it may as well have been. The proximity of our bodies alerted this white policeman to something being wrong.

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Redemption StoriesSelena Raygozafriendship, loss of a friend, racism, reflectionComment
Drive-Through Passover
Drive-Through Passover

I don’t suffer from FOMO. Leave me alone. Leave me out. I relish the kind of quiet the breeze by the lake makes when it moves between the windchimes, a pleasing cacophony. The chimes hang from a branch on a mossy oak that stands between me and the lake. I see at lake’s edge a hammock someone left out. All winter it’s twisted back and forth on its ends of frayed rope.

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Redemption StoriesSelena Raygozafamily, trauma, holiday stories, jewish womenComment
Glass Half Full
Glass Half Full

We’re sitting in a sterile room. Cold air is streaming from above and ruffling a stapled medical resources page tacked to the wall. It’s filled with tiny, almost illegible print and endless lines of phone numbers. Its intention is to let the occupants of this claustrophobic room know that ‘help is available,’ but even with this never-ending list, I feel completely overwhelmed. Like no amount of resources can help me.

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Redemption StoriesSelena Raygozafamily, illness, cancer Comments
Another Coming Out
Another Coming Out

It was the way he shut down when he entered the room.

He’d turned his key in a lock. He’d opened a door. His voice had risen once more in our dwelling, risen once more in me.

“Hello.”

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Selena RaygozaComment
Plucked
Plucked

In my married life in Palo Alto, in our new condo, with congenial neighbors and other friends who were all interested in the usual Boomer preoccupations—ethnic foods, excellent but cheap wines, places to travel to, movies--I kept pressing down cryptic feelings I couldn’t name or understand, was afraid to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore

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Coming Out StoriesSelena RaygozaComment
Crazy Good
Crazy Good

I’d been told in my psychologist’s office that I scored “high” in areas of the MMPI (a psychiatric test used in the seventies to determine where one’s area of mental health needed attention)—translation, “Not good.” Identity and Orientation were the categories I rang the bell on and in a voice worthy of that slug character in Star Wars, my psychologist asked, “Are you aroused by women?”

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Coming Out StoriesSelena RaygozaComment
Generational Healing at Universal Studios
Generational Healing at Universal Studios

I glanced at my cell and saw a confusing text from Dad: Does Shoshana know? We have to tell her. My gut seized. Something was wrong. My parents split when I was an infant but kept in touch, long after I grew estranged from my mother and extended family. Dad occasionally provided updates on their recent calamities. Surely, this was one of them. I called him. Nothing. C'mon. I called again and this time he picked up. No hellos.

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MotherhoodSelena Raygozaaddiction, sobriety, familiy, mother, loss Comments
Into The Mystic
Into The Mystic

Before Thomas was born, I’d had two miscarriages. Both early according to the calendar, but both late enough to fill me with a deep, empty sorrow. When my first pregnancy had been confirmed, I felt euphoric. I had a miracle within me, a new soul the world had never known. And then it was suddenly gone, fading away in pools of blood until nothing of the wonder was left at all.

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MotherhoodSelena RaygozaComment
The Mother I Needed, The Mother I Became
The Mother I Needed, The Mother I Became

The moment my son was placed in my arms, his 8 pounds, 6 ounces, and 21 inches of new life pressed into me—it was not just his weight but the pressure of my past and the gravity of the future colliding together in the sterile room filled with a faintly metallic smell clinging to the air, but beneath it, there was the unmistakable scent of newborn skin, sweet and raw, untouched by the world.

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MotherhoodSelena RaygozaComment
My First Veneration
My First Veneration

“Now I lay me down to sleep…” she said. I repeated her words, each consonant round in my four-year-old mouth, my high-pitched whisper barely audible as I mirrored my grandmother. I remember feeling that each utterance had weight, like what she was teaching me was important even if I was unsure of the words meaning. For me, it was nap time, and this ritual was part of the routine. After we finished our prayer lesson, my grandmother tucked me into the bed and as my eyes slowly closed, I gazed around at the small haven where I rested. 

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Women of FaithJulia NusbaumComment
Joy
Joy

The Sister hunkered down in my little brother’s sled, gathering her habit around her, the rubber soles of her nurses’ shoes squeaking against the plastic. She and the older Sister beside her were not dressed for the January cold, unlike my two siblings and me, cocooned in snow pants, puffy coats, mittens, and stocking hats.

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Women of FaithJulia NusbaumComment
The Emperor (Reversed)
The Emperor (Reversed)

I don’t think Jordan started out with a battle plan. But, by the time we lived together, their troops were in action in a war I didn’t even know had been declared. I didn’t have time to grab a white handkerchief, or a tissue, or my Abercrombie & Fitch tank top tinged by age. I’m sure the red flags were all there in hindsight, but I try not to assign blame to myself for not seeing the signs—for not noticing that slowly, the person I once loved was abusing me. They attacked in a three-step plan, systematically stripping away the fundamental trust I had in myself I had clawed myself into having.

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Oil and WaterKristina Buschrelationships, dating, abuse Comment
Trail Mix
Trail Mix

The majority of my childhood family backpacking trips occurred in New England. My father’s deep love of the wilderness initiated these excursions, but the whole family came to love how trees and natural waterways calmed us. Making such a journey with four small children was a tall order. In exchange for the extra effort involved for such trips—my mom was already working her ass off at home—my parents negotiated for my dad to be in charge of planning, packing, and cooking. Summer after summer, between Memorial Day and Labor Day, we set forth: to the Catskills, the White Mountains, and the Adirondacks—my dad’s pack piled higher than the top of his head and my mom’s not much shorter. If there were any tension around these trips, my parents kept it to themselves, and naturally I was eager to make similar forays once I reached adulthood myself.

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Oil and WaterKristina Buschrelationships, Travel, breakups, datingComment
Oocyte Incompetence — Over, Easy
Oocyte Incompetence — Over, Easy

Would you feel differently about me if I wanted to have children?

His pause told me everything; before he could parse out, I think so? I knew. It was more telling than the way he’d wheezed, I'm excited to see you too, dread of my visit dripping from his voice. In less than a week, I was supposed to fly out for a long weekend together. We’d been dating long distance for six months and everything seemed to be going well. He mentioned via text the previous night that he’d call to explain his ‘situation’ in the morning. I’d understood his situation as ‘needing a ride to the dentist’ while I was in town; he’d just received the bad luck news of an impending root canal. I didn’t anticipate his ‘situation’ would entail phrases such as my love has plateaued and I just need to rip off the Band-Aid.

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Oil and WaterKristina BuschMotherhood, relationships, family Comments