“My dad’s not gay! You’re a liar!” I had never spoken to anybody with such violence, but I did so now to Jenny, a childhood friend. We were settled in her bedroom, and the emptiness of the newly painted room echoed the grief that rang out in my voice. The walls seemed to be closing... Continue Reading →
My seven-year-old daughter has pictures of Betty Friedan taped to her bedroom walls. The pictures are on leftover handouts from the college English course I teach. My daughter hung them after I explained to her Betty Friedan’s importance. (In 1963, Friedan wrote The Feminine Mystique, largely considered to be the start of second-wave feminism.) Before... Continue Reading →
My mother threatened to make me walk thirty miles to a piano competition unless I played the piece she liked. For clarity’s sake, my mother did not play the piano at all. She could not read music nor did she play any other instrument. She dabbled in singing as a college student and that was... Continue Reading →
The Bookshelf of Emily J. 