by Claudia Wysocky I beheld a stranger in the cracked mirror that once doubled as my best friend and worst enemy. Thin, sunken cheeks stared back at me, hollowed out by anorexia’s relentless grip. My ribs jutted out like a macabre xylophone, each bone a discordant note in the song of my life. I hated
by Diana Raab As a memoir writer, I do a great deal of reminiscing both on the page and in conversations with friends and family. Last year I entered my seventh decade and realized that I’ve created enough memories for a number of lifetimes. At this point in my history and the history of the
by Daniel Acosta, Jr. It was during my zero-period class in my senior year (that started at 7:30, rather than the usual 8:30 time for most of the students) with my English teacher, Mrs. Briggs, that I truly accepted my Mexican identity. My zero-period class had several exceptional students; I guess I was one of
by Kimmo Rosenthal It is interesting that upon tracing the etymology of the word essay to its roots, we come across the Latin word exagium, which means a weighing. The idea of an essay as a weighing of sorts is not surprising. In her illuminating essay on the current proliferation of “personal” as opposed to
by Alan Swyer The best thing about being part of Ray Charles’ inner circle – other than spending time with the man justly called “The Genius” – was meeting so many people who were, or at one time or another had been, part of his world. Some, like Solomon Burke, Mable John, and Billy Osborne,
by Alice Lowe There was a stretch of time when I opened each week’s New Yorker magazine to the “Goings On About Town” pages to plan imaginary weekend getaways. I would choose a play, opera, or concert for each night of my stay. Mornings were earmarked for long walks around the city, followed by museum
by Michelle Cacho-Negrete We were Poland. We were Romania. We were Ukraine We were Hungary. We were Russia. We arrived in New York with ragged clothes, a swirl of languages, and our babushkas and yarmulkas and kasha and borsch and pierogi and cozonac and palinka and our dreams and nightmares, and later, tattoos on our
by Thaddeus Rutkowski The first sign was a brownish-gray blur shooting across our floor. It went so fast we couldn’t tell if it was a living thing or just a trick of the eye—a shadow made by the batting of an eyelid. Over the next few days, however, the blur slowed down, as if the
by Andrew Sarewitz New Year’s Eve, 2013. Early, around 9:30 p.m., I sauntered into the bar in Hell’s Kitchen as if I belonged there—which I suppose I felt I did. My brother-in-crime and owner of the bar, Sasha, hugged me hello. With the crowd being far from overflowing, he was concerned the lack of cash-carrying