The Monthly Theme Essays are a collection of essays written each month on a predetermined theme. These essays are always published during the last week of the month. To submit a Monthly Theme Essay check out our upcoming themes.
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In high school, my philosophy teacher assigned each student a different question and corresponding primary sources for our term paper. He assigned me the question, “Are women free?” and handed me a Sandra Bartky article that outlined the fragmentation, domination, and objectification the female body endures.
Read MoreWe didn’t know the beauty we would find there. It wasn’t an obvious dazzling beauty. It needed to be unearthed, searched for. Our clothes stuck to us as we ambled off the plane. The heat and strong odors of others, of ourselves, pressed in on us. We cranked our windows down in the taxi as broken Soviet buildings rushed by. Their gray concrete stark against the sharp neon green of the trees and grass.
Read MoreHe poured his second, maybe third vodka tonic. He didn’t even look at me as he eased his six-foot-something frame through the sliding glass doors onto our deck. His words grazed by me as he sat down in the folding chair placing his drink on the small table between us, next to his worn copy of Machiavelli’s, The Prince.
Read MoreI stare into the camera, waiting for my cue. In the background, a shelf displays the brightly colored toys of my childhood, rendered in the fuzzy technicolor of a 1990s video recording. Next to me, a stuffed King Kong gazes off-screen.
Read MoreMy daughter’s fortieth birthday is soon, and I’m looking for something special for her. It’s a tradition in our family. At particular milestones, the mother gifts the celebrant with a special piece of jewelry, other “heirloom” from her own life. I’m looking for a piece of my history—something of me to stay with her as she moves toward all she’s becoming. When I turned forty, my mother surprised me by crocheting a lovely blue throw that I still can snuggle under on cold nights. I don’t have time to create something, so I sort through my jewelry box, looking for just the right thing.
Read MoreI’m seated in the passenger seat of my old gray Prius teaching Zahra how to drive. She is in the driver’s seat intently watching the traffic light, waiting for the moment it turns green. I sit quietly so I don’t disturb her concentration. She’s wearing a black blouse with long sleeves and black pants on this hot summer day; her headscarf is absent. I’ve known her long enough to know that she wears a headscarf only when she wants to. “It’s not for religion,” she’s told me before, stopping short of telling me why she sometimes wears it. I’m wearing a short skirt and a tank top in light colors. Despite our different appearances, I feel a strong emotional kinship with her.
Read MoreIt is a beautiful, crystalline Saturday morning, early, 8:00 a.m. I pull on my lilac-colored capri pants, the ones with the pocket for my phone so I can listen to my music. I put on my spongy, perfect black socks and the running shoes I love so much, cushioned from every sidewalk crack by a substance like clouds.
And then I’m out the door.
Read MoreI build up speed as my blades dig into the ice. Cold air stings my face the faster I go, but I don’t care. My pre-teen brain disconnects from my body and dreams my big thoughts of having that cute boy in math smile at me, coming up with a snappy comeback to my sixth-grade nemesis, or being a reporter like Woodward and Bernstein. The Dutch Waltz plays over the loudspeaker and while moving forward on my right foot, I lean into a strong inside edge, and position the heel of my left blade near the right, to transfer my weight onto a left back inside edge. The Mohawk. Forward, backward—I am flying, and I can be anything.
Read MoreI’ve never seen the rooster next door that crows at dawn. And during thunderstorms. And during the ubiquitous fireworks—this is Oaxaca, after all. In the afternoon, when he’s tired of scratching at the same dirt hoping to find something different, but it’s just the same fucking dirt, he crows a little louder.
“I hear you,” I whisper over the fifteen-foot wall that separates us. “I feel you.”
Read MoreI rush to the quai in the Gare de Lyon in Paris. Flinging my small case on the train, I jump on. Moments later the train pulls away along the track, heading to Nice.
Slumped in my seat, I can relax, breathe, and observe those already settled in my compartment. Business people, couples, and single travellers surround me. One small figure catches my eye—a lady in her early sixties, dressed in a double-breasted camel hair coat, green beret, and smart brown leather gloves. She is elegant, with red lipstick. The slight nervousness of her fidgeting hands is familiar.
Read MoreI leapt from the car, Bible in hand, and burst through the door of the West Chicago Baptist church.
“Slow down.” my mother shouted as I descended the stairs to my Sunday School classroom and flung open the door. I didn’t care about the message for the day, but I couldn’t wait to see my best friend, Judy Wesman.
Read More“I’m done,” says Leigh, her voice full of defeat. But she’s angry. There’s always anger.
I heave a sigh, and my shoulders slump. “I think I am, too.”
My eyes are puffy and red, my nose feels like it’s clogged with cement. I need some Advil. And a drink.
Read MoreI thought, for the split-second between my brain recognizing that I was being called out to speak and my mouth automatically responding, that I should give a fake name.
I always had an inexplicable liking for “Veronica.”
Read MoreThe week I got back home to New York after spending my junior year of college in England, two unexpected things happened. I got a phone call offering me an internship in Manhattan that I’d been rejected for months earlier and my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor.
Read MoreI saw my weight today. A healthcare provider who didn’t take my history of an eating disorder into account put my
weight on my visit summary, completely unaware that her subconscious act would terrorize me
for the rest of my day. In a more hopeful vein of my recovery, I finally found a therapist who specialized in eating disorders, ending a months-long search for the recovery holy grail: an ED-trained therapist who also accepts insurance.
I always thought self-confidence had more to do with your outside beauty, your physical appearance, than your inner beauty, your personality. In that respect, I knew my grades were stronger than my looks. Which now I recognize as a form of self-confidence, but at the time, I didn’t see it that way. It all came down to what I saw in the mirror.
Read MoreThe first time I cut my skin intentionally was on my sixteenth birthday. That morning, I’d failed my driving test. I shouldn’t have taken the test that day, both because failing made for a shitty birthday and because I didn’t really know how to drive. I didn’t understand, for example, that you should slow down while turning. I was disappointed and embarrassed, so I dragged my shaving razor across my forearm once or twice.
Read MoreOur bodies twitch and lurch and tingle and pinch and tire and inspire and confuse. For example, on a crisp fall day in 2023, I was sitting in a classroom, an observer, when I felt an itch. Without conscious thought my hand moved to my breast, an instinctual move, a response, an urge, only to touch my hand to my body just in time to remember it was a phantom itch, a glitch of my brain and nerves and memory, the breast, almost three years gone but still ever present. This happens in other contexts, too, where I will reach for my breasts only to find them gone, like when taking a bubble bath and my mind sees them, like ghosts, sagging with gravity towards the lavender scented bath water.
Read MoreFor as long as I can remember, I have been at war with a word. The f-word. No, not that f-word, though I could easily tell a tale about the wins and losses I’ve had with that notorious expletive. The f-word that I’ve been battling, well, it’s been bigger, meaner. I’m not alone in this lifetime fight either. Most of modern society views fat as far more offensive than that cuss-word f-word could ever be.
Read MoreI am seven. Wooden blocks from a wooden box are my favorite toys and I spend hours constructing miniature houses on the brown linoleum floor of our family room. I want to build houses like the ones my grandpa and uncles build, like the houses they live in. But I never see them build. Only my cousin Joe is invited to join them at their work sites, to watch, to practice, to learn. Joe is a boy.
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