Essay Daily: Talk About the Essay

Friday, November 6, 2026

Marissa Landrigan, What I Lost in the Breakup(s) | L*STS

What I Lost in the Breakup(s)

Marissa Landrigan

L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents

The red Cursive t-shirt with the “Driftwood: A Fairytale” design, which he’d bought for me the week before at the show. When I told him I didn’t see this going any further he said fine, then, give me back the t-shirt. Women’s XS;
At least two—possibly three—Claddagh rings;
Access to the washer and dryer in his apartment building;
The version of me who thought she’d marry the boy she fell in love with when she was 18. The ability to believe in something so simple;
The kind of self-confidence you can only have before being dumped by someone you were planning to dump;
The antique steamer trunk painted red and chipped, and the gorgeous mint green corner book cabinet with streaks of pink showing through where the DIY paint job (not his) got sloppy. His parents had bought them for us at his favorite antique store in Bozeman, then we’d moved both pieces from there to New York and then to Iowa; they were rightfully his, and I felt too guilty for making him drive back to Iowa from his summer job counting blue-winged warblers in ___ State Forest just to pack his stuff out of what was now just my apartment. I made it happen, but I was still sad to see them go;
All his field guides, and the names of things inside them;
The bright orange and literally threadbare Reese’s t-shirt which was my favorite to sleep in;
Foo Fighters Greatest Hits on CD, which he insisted was his when I came to get the (very small) handful of my things I’d kept at his apartment (really, such a small number of things after every night there for nearly two years). It wasn’t his—he’d been with me when I bought it—but I didn’t care enough about the CD to fight for it. I’d fight for him to take me back for another year, and lose much more from that;
Omaha, a whole city I loved and thought I’d make a home in—the used bookstore with stacks piled in every aisle and corner, threatening to topple; the brunch burritos; his mother’s house, his childhood friends;
One of my best friends;
One of my best readers;
Salmon, and ratatouille, and beef bourgignon, and the handful of other things I’ve not yet bothered to learn to cook for myself;
The ability to listen without crying to “Weird Goodbyes” by The National feat. Bon Iver, or “You Made it Feel Like Home” by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross;
Most of the decent furniture I’d acquired in my adult life: the grey West Elm couch my parents bought us; the bed frame and dresser I spent my tax return on; the dining room set we financed when we started hosting our own Thanksgiving dinner and needed more seats at the table. I left all these willingly in what I knew would still be my daughter’s house—still her furniture, still her Thanksgiving table;
Yes, the house, too: my first house—our first house, that we named House Finch weeks after moving in, when a little yellow bird landed on the fence one May morning while we sat outside drinking coffee;
The rusty old metal shed we’d together painted green and blue before even closing on the sale, the shed we’d agreed to convert into a studio for me when the time came for us to turn the office into a nursery for the baby. We’d never actually converted the shed—the project was clearly too complex and expensive an undertaking, the baby came sooner than we’d expected, we didn’t have the money or the time so I just wrote at the dining room table instead;
Nights spent with friends out in the big hilly backyard, around the firepit, grilling and drinking beer and debating the relative merits of the various installments of the Fast & Furious franchise;
Some as-yet-uncounted number of these friends, especially those in couples or those who were single men, most of whom had known him for a decade longer than they knew me;
The handwritten recipe cards from his grandmother, for her corn salad, her seven-layer cookies, her beef with potatoes and green beans. The tiny recipe book his mother gave me as a wedding gift, which her mother and friends had filled as a gift for her bridal shower decades earlier. Of course. Of course these were his. They were family heirlooms from his family, which was no longer my family. They should live with him, his mother, his sister. But the loss of that lineage of women. The artifacts of belonging. The only remaining tangible connection I had to his grandmother, gone now, who also bore my daughter’s name;
The only photographs that exist of me in labor, which live on his phone, in his Cloud. I could ask for them. I might someday. But it’s not only the photographs, which I don’t even like because of course, labor photos are not (meant to be) flattering, but—the memory of the most important day of my life, which lives in the mind of only just this one other person. The only other person who was there when they cut her from me, the only other person who loves her in the precise way that I do, the only other person who saw me become her mother. My primary witness, the shared keeper of these memories;
My emergency contact;
A shared history that becomes like an amnesia—not gone, exactly, but once-removed. An echo remains but it is not the thing itself. Someday soon I will bury the tattoo of his initial under another image, but the tattoo won’t ever be gone, just inked over. And no one else but him and me will ever remember what was once there.

I make lists constantly; I organize my life around them. To-do lists, grocery lists, reading lists. I am always chasing the dopamine hit of crossing an item off a list, of having accomplished something. But I've also long-since been preoccupied with the idea of being or getting lost, of losing things, people, places -- maybe as a kind of incantation against loss. Recently, the structure of my life has changed dramatically, and my meditations on loss became real and heavy in a way I hadn't previously contended with, so I thought I'd try to make a list to navigate this: a list where everything has already been crossed off but nothing has been accomplished. A list of absences, abandonments. A list of what is not there anymore, whether I like it or not.

Marissa Landrigan's essays and creative nonfiction have appeared in numerous publications including Orion, The Atlantic, The Rumpus, Creative Nonfiction, Fourth Genre, Diagram, and elsewhere. Her first book, a food memoir titled The Vegetarian's Guide to Eating Meat, was published by Greystone Booksin 2017, and she is currently at work on a second manuscript on motherhood and animal migrations. She is an Associate Professor of Writing at the University of Pittsburgh - Johnstown, where she also chairs the program in Multimedia and Digital Culture. She lives in Pittsburgh with her daughter, and will always happily talk to you about bats.

Wednesday, November 4, 2026

Colin Rafferty, Whatever Happened to That Girl Next Door? | L*STS

Whatever Happened to That Girl Next Door?

Colin Rafferty

L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents

That Playmate died of a barbiturate overdose.

That Playmate ran a real estate firm and retired in 1996.

That Playmate was found guilty in a postal obscenity case (later overturned).

That Playmate died in the Tenerife air collision.

That Playmate was a regular on The $64,000 Question.

That Playmate taught as an adjunct at CCNY.

That Playmate built B-1 bombers.

That Playmate married a popular singer.

That Playmate died of heart failure (ashes spread at the Mansion).

That Playmate married one of the Nelson brothers.

That Playmate was in an Elvis movie.

That Playmate killed her husband (whom she was separated from) with a shotgun blast to the heart.

That Playmate was one of Pharaoh’s daughters in the movies.

That Playmate mothered a famous actress.

That Playmate died of cancer.

That Playmate was in two Elvis movies.

That Playmate dated Elvis.

That Playmate had a granddaughter who was a Playmate, too.

That Playmate dated Hef.

That Playmate lives in the suburbs of New York City.

That Playmate was on an episode of Bewitched.

That Playmate dated one of the Nelson brothers (the other one).

That Playmate learned how to fight bulls.

That Playmate works in property management.

That Playmate was in an Elvis movie.

That Playmate had six sons.

That Playmate did a commercial for Chock full o’Nuts brand coffee.

That Playmate worked as a porn star’s secretary.

That Playmate works as an interior decorator.

That Playmate dated Hef and died of cancer.

That Playmate had a daughter who was a Playmate, too.

That Playmate died in an automobile crash.

That Playmate became an English teacher.

That Playmate married Marty Krofft.

That Playmate died of cancer.

That Playmate died of a heart attack.

That Playmate owned and ran several successful restaurants.

That Playmate died of cancer.

That Playmate was the first woman in the pits at the Indianapolis 500.

That Playmate married a prominent hotelier.

That Playmate worked as a “gal Friday.”

That Playmate played a recurring character named “Mimi.”

That Playmate works as an interior decorator.

That Playmate hosts a cable tv show about empowered women.

That Playmate breeds Arabian horses.

That Playmate died of a heart attack.

That Playmate married the comedian Mort Sahl.

That Playmate served as a magistrate in England.

That Playmate died by suicide.

That Playmate was subpoenaed by a federal grand jury investigating organized crime.

That Playmate started a restaurant in Mexico.

That Playmate married the comedian Dick Martin.

That Playmate writes DVD reviews for Adult Video News.

That Playmate had her photo on the moon during the Apollo XII landing.

That Playmate died of a heart attack.

That Playmate became an associate dean at a university in the West.

That Playmate had a daughter who was a Playmate, too.

That Playmate died of an overdose of sleeping pills.

That Playmate became a horse trainer, specializing in Arabians.

That Playmate got a degree in English and became a teacher.

That Playmate has a thriving real estate business.

That Playmate dated Richard Burton.

That Playmate died in a car accident.

That Playmate got arrested in Greece with 17.5 kilos of hashish.

That Playmate cleans houses for a living.

That Playmate was born-again.

That Playmate became a nurse.

That Playmate worked as a waitress.

That Playmate died in an automobile crash.

That Playmate died of an overdose of barbiturates.

That Playmate started an alternative newspaper.

That Playmate was a winning contestant on “Match Game.”

That Playmate became one of “Barker’s Beauties” on “The Price is Right.”

That Playmate became a ski instructor.

That Playmate dated Hef.

That Playmate dated Brian Ferry.

That Playmate became a wildlife photographer.

That Playmate worked for a real estate firm.

That Playmate married the quarterback of the Chicago Bears.

That Playmate worked for a real estate firm.

That Playmate became a massage therapist.

That Playmate gave testimony to the Attorney General’s Commission on Pornography.

That Playmate appeared as a Playmate in “Apocalypse Now.”

That Playmate became a therapist.

That Playmate worked for a real estate firm.

That Playmate became a paralegal.

That Playmate bought a hair salon.

That Playmate produced off-Broadway plays.

That Playmate went into acting.

That Playmate died by suicide.

That Playmate represented Luxembourg in the Eurovision Song Contest.

That Playmate hosted a television show on gardening.

That Playmate dated Todd Rundgren, Iggy Pop, Elvis Costello, Steven Tyler, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and Jimmy Page.

That Playmate became a reporter and published a novel.

That Playmate acted in “The Killing of a Chinese Bookie.”

That Playmate acted in a Van Halen video.

That Playmate acted in “Risky Business.”

That Playmate acted in many television commercials.

That Playmate was born again.

That Playmate owned an exterminating business.

That Playmate moved to Fiji to follow a guru.

That Playmate opened a day-care center.

That Playmate married Jimmy Connors, the tennis player.

That Playmate was murdered by a serial killer.

That Playmate opened a restaurant in South America.

That Playmate became a registered nurse.

That Playmate worked for the government of British Columbia.

That Playmate married the drummer from KISS.

That Playmate worked for a real estate firm.

That Playmate did public relations work for the 1982 World’s Fair.

That Playmate contracted a disease that left her blind.

That Playmate runs a bed-and-breakfast in her hometown.

That Playmate had a walk-on in a Woody Allen movie.

That Playmate died from an adverse reaction to prescription medication.

That Playmate ran the New York City Marathon in under four hours.

That Playmate opened her own salon.

That Playmate was murdered by her estranged husband.

That Playmate published a successful guide to pregnancy.

That Playmate posed for Helmut Newton.

That Playmate appeared in the video for “Thriller.”

That Playmate owned a travel agency.

That Playmate owned an avocado ranch.

That Playmate worked as a school counselor.

That Playmate appeared in the video for “Sharp Dressed Man.”

That Playmate sued the magazine for the right to describe herself as “Playmate of the Year” on her website.

That Playmate became a stuntwoman.

That Playmate died of a heart attack.

That Playmate died, perhaps by her own hand, and her body was undiscovered for two weeks.

That Playmate lived with the bassist from KISS for 28 years before they got married.

That Playmate was born again.

That Playmate had a steady role on a daytime soap opera.

That Playmate became a freelance photographer.

That Playmate had a steady role on a daytime soap opera.

That Playmate became a flight attendant.

That Playmate appeared in the video for “Lay It Down.”

That Playmate ran a non-profit that aids the poor in Haiti.

That Playmate owned an antique store.

That Playmate did social work in Phoenix.

That Playmate worked as an interior decorator.

That Playmate married Lee Majors.

That Playmate retired to Spain.

That Playmate ran a resort in Utah.

That Playmate became one of Barker’s Beauties.

That Playmate did stand-up comedy.

That Playmate did hardcore pornography.

That Playmate did sports talk radio.

That Playmate became a professional bodybuilder.

That Playmate worked for a real estate firm.

That Playmate became a chiropractor.

That Playmate played Nina in a production of “The Seagull.”

That Playmate was injured in a car wreck, which left her paraplegic.

That Playmate married Nikki Sixx of Mötley Crüe.

That Playmate married Robin Zander of Cheap Trick.

That Playmate testified in the civil trial of O. J. Simpson that she had seen him strike Nicole Simpson.

That Playmate married Hef.

That Playmate worked as an interior decorator.

That Playmate testified in the trial of wrestling entrepreneur Vince McMahon that he had distributed steroids.

That Playmate was arrested for fraud.

That Playmate became a novelist.

That Playmate had a recurring role on Baywatch.

That Playmate had a recurring role on Baywatch, married Tommy Lee of Mötley Crüe, and had a sex tape stolen and put on the Internet.

That Playmate married Mitch Gaylord, the gymnast.

That Playmate was widowed by a fan who shot her husband.

That Playmate died of an accidental overdose of prescription drugs.

That Playmate started a line of baby accessories.

That Playmate died.

That Playmate came out of the closet.

That Playmate became a ballroom dancing champion.

That Playmate works for a real estate firm.

That Playmate made fetish videos.

That Playmate advocated against vaccines, claiming they caused her son’s autism.

That Playmate was digitally cloned for a morph set.

That Playmate helped in high school mathematics teacher development in the Los Angeles area.

That Playmate was named in a complaint over insider trading.

That Playmate worked as a judge on a reality show about interior decorating.

That Playmate got a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and did hardcore pornography.

That Playmate died of a heroin overdose.

That Playmate underwent electro-shock therapy for depression.

That Playmate graduated summa cum laude from UCLA.

That Playmate contracted the flesh-eating bacteria while in Fiji.

That Playmate married Vince Neil of Mötley Crüe.

That Playmate had a recurring role on Baywatch and married Nikki Sixx of Mötley Crüe.

That Playmate married Mike Piazza, the baseball player.

That Playmate dated an actor who played Superman.

That Playmate competed with her husband on a reality show.

That Playmate produced a documentary about surfing.

That Playmate worked as an interior decorator.

That Playmate recorded an album that went gold in Sweden.

That Playmate was twice nominated for a Daytime Emmy.

That Playmate took over a role on a daytime soap opera.

That Playmate dated Tom Brady, the football player.

That Playmate served one year in federal prison on cocaine trafficking charges.

That Playmate became a cable sports reporter.

That Playmate married Aaron Boone, the manager of the New York Yankees.

That Playmate graduated with a degree in criminal justice.

That Playmate married the son of Dr. Phil.

That Playmate had a recurring role on a parody of Baywatch.

That Playmate owned an event planning service.

That Playmate worked for a real estate company.

That Playmate worked as a waitress.

That Playmate married Michael Andretti, the racecar driver.

That Playmate worked as a print advertising model.

That Playmate dated Hef.

That Playmate testified against a cult’s leader in a homicide trial.

That Playmate dated Hef.

That Playmate worked as a print advertising model.

That Playmate hosted a radio show for the magazine.

That Playmate won a poetry contest in “Reader’s Digest.”

That Playmate starred in a reality show with her husband.

That Playmate made a sex tape with Colin Farrell.

That Playmate dated Hef.

That Playmate became an activist for PETA.

That Playmate worked as a hair stylist.

That Playmate appeared in beer advertisements.

That Playmate appeared in tequila advertisements.

That Playmate married Jeff Garcia, the football player.

That Playmate became a veterinarian.

That Playmate became a pilot for a regional airline.

That Playmate appeared in the video for “Shake Ya Tailfeather.”

That Playmate became a model on “Deal Or No Deal.”

That Playmate moved to Ireland.

That Playmate was the first one eliminated on a reality show.

That Playmate discussed stock picks on CNBC.

That Playmate appeared in the video for “P.I.M.P.”

That Playmate became a model on Deal Or No Deal, and was the first one eliminated on a reality show.

That Playmate became a substitute model on Deal Or No Deal.

That Playmate was arrested with a kilo of cocaine.

That Playmate dated Brody Jenner, the reality show star.

That Playmate worked as a print model for Hooters.

That Playmate worked as a runway model.

That Playmate worked as a model.

That Playmate became a Neo-Nazi and anti-vaxxer.

That Playmate was arrested for driving under the influence.

That Playmate owned a dance studio in Ohio.

Those Playmates dated Hef.

That Playmate married Evan Longoria, the baseball player.

That Playmate appears on several seasons of a reality show about real estate.

That Playmate died by suicide.

That Playmate works as a Russian-English interpreter.

That Playmate appeared on an episode of CSI.

That Playmate became a certified surgical technologist.

That Playmate posted a photo on Snapchat of a woman in the showers at an LA Fitness, got fired from her job, and spent thirty days doing community service after pleading no contest to a misdemeanor invasion of privacy charge.

That Playmate co-owns a yacht company.

That Playmate married Jenson Button, the Formula One driver.

That Playmate married Ryan Lochte, the Olympic swimmer.

That Playmate is an Instagram influencer.

Process: In 2010, I learned, probably via Twitter, that former Playboy Playmate Tanya Beyer had been arrested after six months on the run for drug trafficking, which got me to thinking about both the fiction of the Girl Next Door persona that Hefner presented and the memoir of the Playmate Data Sheet that each woman filled out--birthday, measurements, turn-ons, turn-offs, and ambitions. Beyer's arrest (and mugshot), as well as my vague 1992 memories of her (furtive glance at Waldenbooks? neighbor kid with older brother?), led me to the question that became the title of this essay. A few hours of Wikipedia diving later, I had the first draft of this, a sequence of oddities, tragedies, and celebrity marriages. That draft sat in a drawer for a while (twelve print pages felt less like a publishable thing and more like an exercise in conceptual essaying, at least to me) before getting updated for this project. For the historical sticklers: this essay is drawn from the run of Playboy from its first issue in December 1953 to the last nude centerfold in February 2016. You may wonder what the weirdest bit of trivia I learned in writing this is? Glad you asked: it's that Juliette Fretté, Miss June 2008, initially posed as part of a class project proving that a Playmate could be a feminist (and vice versa), and has since become a fully-fledged white supremacist neo-Nazi, Holocaust-denying influencer. Which, y'know, is maybe more the Girl Next Door for this era than we'd like to admit.

Colin Rafferty teaches nonfiction at the University of Mary Washington in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and is the author of two books of essays: Hallow This Ground (Indiana University Press) and Execute the Office (Baobab Press). He lives in Richmond with his wife and their two dogs.

Monday, November 2, 2026

Brenda Miller & Julie Marie Wade, Anxiety Roll Call | L*STS

Anxiety Roll Call

Brenda Miller & Julie Marie Wade

L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents

The guest assigned to bring the vegetable dish arrives empty-handed.
The grass-fed beef warming in the oven threatens to overcook.
The back room bristles with recycling.
The bathroom trash forgot to be emptied.
The laundry did not wash.
The guests speak of Pearl Harbor, another site of disaster.
The guests have secrets they cannot tell.
The guests linger in the doorway, do not want to leave.
The guests are leaving.
The dogs are limping.
Your mother is limping.
The world limps along, shot in the hip.
Everything you love will always be moving away.
The landlord has decided to sell the apartment.
The realtor calls night and day: Is now a good time to show?
It is never a good time to show.
Potential buyers rifle through your pantry, tug the shower curtain from its crooked hooks.
Television news is the new ambush predator; it watches you nightly.
Television news watches you picking up your take-out at the bar.
Television news watches you at the gas pump, in the dentist’s chair, reclining.
Television news idles beside you in the mini-van at the five-way intersection.
Someone asks if you like Rachel Maddow; you say, How would I know? I’ve never even met her.
Someone asks if you like Ellen DeGeneres; you say, Ditto.
The cats look like they want to tell you something about the new potential buyers.
But the cats always look like they want to tell you something.
Cats are stealthy prodigies of secret-keeping.
People keep secrets, but want you to guess.
So you always say the wrong thing to someone else’s secret.
The secrets glower at you across the table, cross their arms across tightened chests.
You want to be right but are always left.
You eat more at midnight than you did all day long.
This food is a secret, will not be logged.
Logs roll so slowly in the floods, cannot be mapped.
Everything is flooding, covering up, turning to mud.
The dogs want to be walked, have resorted to whining under their breaths.
You want to be taken for a walk, wearing the correct shoes.
You want to walk for miles and miles, away from other people’s secrets.
Away from your own secrets, the insistence you are wrong, have always been wrong.
Instead, you walk two miles up the boardwalk and buy a power vegan sandwich.
The man at the counter smiles at you, asks if you’re vegan.
“Almost,” you say. Even being vegetarian feels like you just don’t care enough.
On a student’s paper, you write, “Specificity is a form of caring.”
Specifically, you love half & half in your coffee and every kind of cheese.
But that’s not specific enough, is it?
The television wants to be watched; the dishwasher wants to be loaded and unloaded.
Remember when you didn’t have a dishwasher? Remember washing everything by hand?
…brie, cheddar, Gouda, Havarti, pepper jack, provolone...
You didn’t buy paper plates for easy clean-up, though, despite all the Chinet ads.
…cheese from cows and sheep and goats...cheese with an ash line, from the fancy section at Whole Foods...
The television wants to be watched, and you think it’s safe—it’s only the Oscars.
Joaquin Phoenix wins Best Actor, boasts a purely plant-based diet. You find him cloying, but you also fear he’s right.
The planet won’t save itself.
Or maybe it will.
Maybe it will shrug and we’ll simply fall away.
No more secrets. No more more.
Only right now.
The students, nervous and over-eager, lurching out of their chairs…
The owner, with smudge-fated fountain pen, signing over the deed…
The stranger, waving in the rearview—is she flagging you down or cheering you on? —
Only present now. Only Here!

Our history as collaborators dates back to 2015, and for all the essays we've written together, usually at least one of us remembers the source of inspiration and something about the writing process itself. "Anxiety Roll Call" is different, both in its compressed style and in the mystery that surrounds its creation. We both assumed this essay was written during the pandemic, when anxieties of all kinds were particularly high—enough to warrant a "roll call"—but looking back at our correspondence, it appears that we wrote "Anxiety Roll Call" in 2019 leading into 2020, seemingly anticipating the larger zeitgeist anxieties yet to come. During the pandemic, we lost sight of "Anxiety Roll Call" and rediscovered it again in late 2022 when our emails reveal that we contemplated adding details of the pandemic but ultimately decided to let the lyric flash stand as is: a fast-paced volley of glimpses from our lives and riffs on each other's glimpses. 60 entries total, 30 entries each. Our shortest back-to-back collaboration to date, written in a flurry of exchanges over just a few days, and which we seem to have forgotten we wrote--not once but twice! Reading "Anxiety Roll Call" again in 2026, the essay foreshadows much of the anxious present from a time, nearly seven years ago now, when we couldn't have imagined how much our individual and collective anxieties would grow and change. Thank goodness for the "L*sts" call from Essay Daily, or we might not have remembered it was still in our hopper, waiting for the right home.

Brenda Miller's new hybrid collection, Love You, Bye: A Daughter's Journey in Essays and Poems, is just out from Skinner House Books (April 2026). She is the author of six additional essay collections, including A Braided Heart: Essays on Writing and Form and An Earlier Life, winner of the Washington State Book Award for Memoir. Her work has received seven Pushcart Prizes. She co-authored, with Holly J. Hughes, The Pen and the Bell: Mindful Writing in a Busy World, and, with Suzanne Paola, Tell It Slant: Creating, Refining, and Publishing Creative Nonfiction, now in its third edition. She coined the term “Hermit Crab Essay.”

Julie Marie Wade is Professor of English & Creative Writing at Florida International University in Miami. Her newest collections are the memoir Other People’s Mothers (University Press of Florida, 2025) and Quick Change Artist: Poems (Anhinga Press, 2025), selected by Octavio Quintanilla for the 2023 Anhinga Prize in Poetry and winner of the 2026 Silver Medal in Poetry at the Florida Book Awards. A finalist for the National Poetry Series and a winner of the Lambda Literary Award for Lesbian Memoir, Wade makes her home with Angie Griffin and their two cats.

In 2019, Miller and Wade’s first collaborative collection Telephone: Essays in Two Voices was selected by Hanif Abduraqib as the winner of the Cleveland State University Press Nonfiction Book Award and was published in 2021. Their collaborative work has previously appeared in Creative Nonfiction, The Georgia Review, Kenyon Review, among others, as well as the anthologies The Spirit of Disruption: Landmark Essays from the Normal School and They Said: A Multi-Genre Anthology of Contemporary Collaborative Writing.

Friday, October 30, 2026

Porter Norton McDonald, Stones | L*STS

Stones

Porter Norton McDonald

L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents

The word for pebble in Hebrew is tz’zor. It is also the word for bond. In Jewish tradition it is customary to leave a pebble or stone atop a grave to show that you were there, that you remembered. This custom ties back to sitting shiva, the seven day mourning period associated with Jewish funerals. Like a stone, the mourner sits, while friends and family visit and help with the prayers, with the grief.
Cemeteries, like church, never held much importance to me as a child. I don’t remember ever visiting a family grave. I never laid flowers, never whispered in quiet conversation with the dead. Our dead were cremated. Their ashes were sown into the sea or sprinkled beneath apple trees. No stones. Death in my family was fine and fleeting, meant to be released, meant to be taken by winds and scattered, and, given time, meant to be forgotten. But I like stones. Stones are good at sitting.
No one ever spoke of our Jewish heritage. Like a handful of ash, this side of the family was scattered by the gusty winds of Wall Street or maybe swept under a carpet of some Upper West Side apartment. We only found out about the Wertheimer’s after my older sister stumbled upon their graves while doing some internet sleuthing. We were all surprised, but my Mom most of all. How had no one told us that we were Jewish? Who was it that decided to intentionally erase this vibrant part of our family story? Like a game of Clue, the mystery became a wild period of pointing fingers. “It was your Grandma Anne in her sailboat with a bottle of gin!” “No, it was your great-grandmother Dorothy on 5th Avenue with a D.A.R. membership card!” One thing we all agreed upon was that this was some WASP-y bullshit
I needed to place stones on my ancestor’s graves. I needed the weight of my stones to pin Dorothy Sprague to her lie. J’accuse! I needed our lost dead to know that they were found. They were purposefully forgotten, but here is my stone. You are known. You will be remembered. I wanted my stones to hold them down in time like a paperweight so they wouldn’t blow away again. I wanted my stones to pile up like cairns, like markers to guide distant cousins to me. I’m here! I’m right here! Do you see me?

I don’t have an obsession with death, per se, just my own death. To be more specific, I have an obsession with my funeral. Funerals are ceremonies wasted on the living. My fixation on planning my end of times started well before my fixation on being Jewish, but both topics elicit heavy eyerolls from my friends and family.
“Load my body into the back of your car and drive out to the desert,” I say. “When nobody’s looking, pop the trunk and hit the gas. Bob’s your uncle.”
I had just outlined my current postmortem scheme to Mike and Lisa, my good friends and hosts in Teaneck, New Jersey, where I’d be staying for the New York City leg of my ancestry research trip. We were well into our first (or maybe third) cocktail. Okay, by we I mean me, but I was drinking rye whiskey, and since my third-great grandfather was a distiller, this was “research.
“Look, all I’m saying is keep it simple.”
As I expected, the room went quiet. And then came the comments.
“Yeah, Porter…I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“That’s not a funeral. That’s a body dump.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”
There are so many ways to handle the dead body of a loved one. You can embalm and entomb it, preserving the flesh and pomp for eternity (or close to it). You can stick it in a sack with some soil and the root ball of a sapling. As previously mentioned, you can burn it up until only dust remains. Perhaps more should be said here about the reality of cremains, because it isn’t a can of ethereal fluff. Cremains are lumpy. And there are bone bits (nobody ever mentions the bone bits). Cremains will kill a sapling in less than a year. When our dog Roscoe died, my wife and I buried his ashes under a beautiful (and expensive) Ruby Red Grapefruit tree. Within three months, the leaves dropped and the once-vibrant branches dried and browned. So we dug up the tree, now cursing the ghost of our dog. Then we shot the hole with a deluge of hose water in an attempt to wash Roscoe out of the hole. We mixed in “Happy Frog” compost. We planted a new tree into the now-steaming mud wound, a Blood Orange. The new tree died within two months.
Don’t plant a tree over your cremains.
But fear not. Today there are many companies that have developed crafty ways of dealing with your beloved’s ashes. Here are a few:

You can melt and mix them into stained glass.
You can mix them in clay and make a little pot.
You can mix them into a glaze for said little pot.
You can melt, mix and press them into a vinyl record.
You can melt, mix and squirt them through a 3-D printer.
You can even melt, mix and compress them into a diamond and wear Gramma around your neck.

As I scrolled through the copious crematory options, I was amazed at the connection between human ashes and ballistics:

You can shoot them out of a cannon (if you’re Hunter S. Thompson).
You can shoot them into space (if you’re rich enough).
You can shoot them off in a fireworks display (if you’re not rich enough).
You can compress them into bullets and then shoot them off (if vengeance is your thing).

I want none of that.
Roll me into the desert and let the scavengers have their fill. Farm to table.

My obsession with death began at an early age, probably at the moment of birth. My mom’s father Richard died of nephritis in 1950. He was only twenty-six. My mom grew up never knowing her father, and had to scavenge for the few stories of his flash-in-the-pan life. Just like our Jewish heritage, her family let go of his life, letting it blow away in the wind off Long Island Sound. The few stories she had were repeated like litany, how he would mime eating a juicy peach, how he drove over a land mine in France and thought he was blind (it was mud on his glasses), how his arms looked just like mine with only a whisper of blonde hair. My mother longed for stories of her father and this longing was passed down to me. What comes of a life when its stories are no longer told?
My mother had an older brother, also Richard, but we all called him Dick. When I was nine, Uncle Dick suddenly died of a staff infection. He was only forty-one years old. He went to the dentist on Thursday with a high fever and was dead by Saturday. I remember my mom coming into my room when she found out he was in the hospital dying. I remember her waking me up crying and holding me and telling me that she needed to leave for a few days. I remember this was the first time I had really seen my mother weep, seen her knocked off her foundation, and I remember it frightened me a little.
We all drove up to Maine for his memorial service. I remember adults milling around speaking in hushed tones. I remember muted colors and a blanket of gray clouds, but maybe that’s just me projecting “somber”. I remember wondering if the men in my family were cursed to die young. I remember wondering what age I would die and how I would be remembered. Most of all I remember two objects.
The first object was Uncle Dick’s old Stetson cowboy hat, which I asked for and received. This hat would follow me through many adventures, but that’s the subject of another essay. The second object was a mix tape. Two actually. These two tapes, like the hat, would play a fundamental role in who I became and how I thought about death.
Dick was an audiophile. His record collection was a treasure, and when he died, my mom and his best friend went through his vinyl, pulling choice tracks and recording them onto two cassette tapes.

These songs and that hat would fuel a trajectory of folk music, guitar picking, and blues crooning that—much to my teenage daughters’ dismay—I am still on today. “But let me tell you why this song was so important….”
I used to think that Dick’s music was him reaching back through time to shepherd me through my early teenhood, but really it was my Mom. Maybe she was making sure he wasn’t forgotten by inserting a little banjo and Delta blues into my formative years.

My wife is usually the one on the receiving end of my funereal preoccupation.
“Steal my body.”
“What?!”
“Steal my body…from the funeral home. Like Gram Parsons. His friends stole his body and burned it on a funeral pyre in Joshua Tree. Or Ed Abbey, his friends boosted his corpse and buried it out in the desert.”
“I’m not stealing your body!”
“It’s a thing.”
“I’m not going to jail for your funeral.”
“This really limits my options.”
In addition to bearing the responsibility of actualizing my funeral ideas—one scheme involved an exploding casket that would shower raw meat upon the mourners (that was a hard no)—my poor wife has also been plagued with trying to remember all the songs I want played at my funeral. Eventually she forced me to just write them down. I was recently surprised that, considering my unhealthy obsession with my own death, the Funeral Songs playlist in my Spotify account only has eight songs on it. And these eight songs aren’t all winners. Perhaps I forgot about the list when I came up with the body dump idea? Currently, my Funeral Songs playlist consists of the following tracks. I tried to arrange them in order starting with a few sad and pensive numbers to play as folks are seated, wiping eyes behind black veils, etc. Cue the sad music.

“Dress Sexy at my Funeral” —Smog
“Hard Drive” —Evan Dando
“My Blue Heaven” —Gene Austin

And then come the pallbearers. Oh yeah, we’re in a church. Yeah, I know. I’m not religious, but so what? Six handsome men in black suits come dancing out with my coffin to tune of:

“Goin’ Down Slow”- Bobby Blue Bland

This song is my piece de resistance. There is a version of this song on Dick’s medley by Geoff Mulduar titled “I Have Had my Fun,” which is essentially the same song, but there’s an incredible cathartic build in Bland’s version. Even though I’m pretty sure it’s about a guy dying of an STD, I still think it fits.
Back to my funeral. The pallbearers have reached the altar (is that the correct direction for the body to travel?). We’re right at the end of the song, and there are horns and backup vocals and electric lead guitar, and we’re building to a climax here, when suddenly my coffin blows open! And like Dracula rising from the dead, out pops a life-like mannequin of my body. BOOM! Jump scare! I look fabulous, of course. I’m dressed in a suit covered in silver sequins. Cue the next track:

“96 Tears” —? and the Mysterions

“Too many teardrops for one heartache…” Aretha Franklin’s version is on Tape 2 Side B, but I prefer the bouncy organ and wild 1960s garage band zeal of ? and the Mysterions. In the church, now the sounds of laughter overpower the weeping. Too many teardrops, baby. It’s time to boogie! The church turns into a dance party like that scene in Blues Brothers. Maybe my coffin is full of ice cold beer?

“Fantastic Man” —William Onyeabor

Because only a fantastic man would plan a party like this, right?

“Pressure Drop” —Toots & the Maytalls

Sweet relief.

“Sweet Talkin’ Lady” —Electric Light Orchestra

Yeah, I’m not sure how this got onto my funeral playlist, but it’s a damn good song, and I can’t seem to remove it. Don’t be hatin’ on ELO.

When I get into my funeral planning mode it can last awhile. I usually lose my friends and family in the process. My eyes get glassy. I get out of breath. My wife has to wait until I eventually lose steam and then, with a polite but pointed, “Remember, funerals are for the living,” she brings me back. And damn, she’s right. But what I wouldn’t give to attend my own funeral.

I never wanted a gravestone. I never wanted to take up any additional space on this earth. I still don’t, to some degree. But then I started visiting cemeteries. Troy Hill was first on my research trip. It was also my first journey among the steep slopes of Pittsburgh. Up, up, up. One-and-a-half lane streets, hairpin turns. I love the ever-present geography here, the ridges and rivers always asking something of their inhabitants, both uniting and dividing a population, allowing for each neighborhood to evolve its own endemic history, ethnicity and personality. Sara Petyk, my Pittsburgh host, told me she used to lead bike tours up to Troy Hill. My thighs balk just thinking about the trek. Apparently, Troy Hill used to be a German neighborhood and just about every family there would grow their own hops, brew their own beer, and store their homebrew in the many caves that dimple the hillside. But I wasn’t there to search for centuries-old pilsner. I was there to visit the grave of Bella Wertheimer, and to do that, I had to drive up to the top of Troy Hill to the first Jewish burial ground in Pittsburgh.
Two days prior, I spent a morning in the basement archive room of Rodef Shalom reading through the 1875-1906 meeting notes of the Bes Almon Association, the oldest Jewish organization in Pittsburgh, of which my family were active members. It was mostly yellowed pages, slanted ink, but also some insight into the work it takes to keep community and tradition alive in a rapidly changing United States. Much of the first few pages of the notebook were filled with notes on how to obtain land for a burial ground, which was important because there are many rules about how to deal with the dead. First and foremost, according to Halacha or Jewish law, the Jewish community must own the cemetery, and the deceased must own the plot, deed in dead hand. While that might be an exaggeration, it does create a memorable image. The members of Bes Almon had to purchase land, keep accurate records of who purchased which plot, and maintain the long and somewhat treacherous road up, up, up to the top of Troy Hill.
Second rule of a Jewish cemetery is that those buried in it must be Jewish. This seems obvious, I suppose, but it does get a little tricky when Jews start marrying gentiles and gentiles convert to Judaism. Could I be buried in a Jewish cemetery? According to Jewish law, I think so? “Ah,” say those that have noticed the tattoos adorning my skin. “You are far too inked to be buried with your Hebraic ancestors.” This is a myth. Traditionally, true. Nowadays, not so much. The idea goes back to keuod ha-met or “treating the dead and dead bodies with respect.” Cremations are still forbidden in Jewish burial practices and, I imagine, so too is rolling a corpse out the back of a car. Autopsies and organ donations, while traditionally forbidden, are now generally tolerated. Amputees are okay, too, especially if you can bury the severed limb in a clearly delineated and properly deeded plot with a promise of reunion once you shuck your mortal coil.
The cemetery up on Troy Hill was small. About the amount of land you’d need for a couple of small houses with enough yard for a swing set and charcoal grill. My unit of measurement came easy since small houses and yards with swing sets and charcoal grills were what surrounded the graveyard, enveloped it. I parked as close to the remarkably unmarked gate as I could without blocking people into their driveway. Or maybe I was in a driveway? The single-story home directly abutting the cemetery was missing its aluminum siding, exposing Tyvek like a fresh scrape. The site was on the side of a hill, not quite on the top, so I hefted my cameras and notebooks up to the top and began to methodically wind my way down, looking for Bella Wertheimer.
A jay was screaming itself hoarse from somewhere inside a bent pine. It was cloudy and gray. Perfect graveyard weather. The headstones seemed ancient. Some had tipped forward and now lay face down in the earth, collapsed as if exhausted from the weight of marking a life. I walked slowly, respectfully, reading names like a mantra, feeling the syllables roll out my mouth, wondering if anyone kept their stories. Some headstones—the inexpensive ones, I imagine—were blank, the names washed away by almost two hundred years of rain and snow and the acidic excretions of moss and lichen. What happens when your name is no longer legible? Is that the last step? Are you officially forgotten? And why does that terrify me?
Bella’s grave was obvious in the end, and stood out with somewhat ostentatious pride. It was immense compared to every grave around it (how did I not notice it at once?). It was shaped like a bed, or maybe a lounge chair you might find by a pool, but made of stone. It reminded me of the kind of grave in a Hammer film upon which you’d find a sexy vampiress sprawling seductively. It was the only one of its kind. Clearly the Werthheimers had money. Was that the message? I had forgotten a pebble, so I pinched a piece of gravel from the driveway near my car. Was this a fancy enough stone for Bella Wertheimer? It was rough, grayish green, and slightly pyramidal. I rubbed at a smudge of asphalt on the corner before gently placing it on her headstone and returning to my car for the long drive down Troy Hill.

The essay, “Stones”, is the result of two phenomena from my past. The first, an obsession with my own death—specifically my funeral—derived from the early deaths of many of the men in my family. The second was the intentional erasure of my Jewish heritage, not by state-sponsored genocide, but an equally insidious form of antisemitism: capitalism. The above tragedies left lacunas in the lives of my family, holes that I have attempted to fill in with research, holes that I now mark with the stones of my artwork.

Porter Norton McDonald is an interdisciplinary artist exploring narrative and the interplay between image and text. His work includes illustration, sequential art, book art, poetry and performance. By exposing the methods and structures used to create narrative, the mechanisms lurking in the shadows off stage, Porter draws attention to the craft of storytelling, the role of the narrator and the blurry the line between truth and fiction. Porter’s art has been shown internationally at the Czong Institute for Contemporary Art in Kimpo-si, Korea and the Museo de Arte de Sonora in Hermosillo, Mexico. His work has also appeared in Tucson, Arizona at the Steinfeld Gallery, Pidgin Palace Arts, the Lionel Rombach Gallery and the Mexican Consulate. He has performed excerpts from his current book On Dogs on TV at Wave Archive, Desierto Books (Tucson) and the Poetry Lounge (Pittsburgh). Porter is an MFA graduate in Illustration/Design/Animation at the University of Arizona (2027).

Wednesday, October 28, 2026

Paige Lalain, The Things I've Swallowed | L*STS

The Things I’ve Swallowed

Paige Lalain

L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents

Lists | Lasts | Losts | Lusts | Other

My grandpa telling me I need to lose weight on the morning of my grandma’s funeral, explaining, “It’s OK for boys to be husky, but not girls,” and him meaning well. The embedded knowledge by eight years old that licking a lollipop could draw men’s eyes, and the instinct to perform when I was given one. Boys in second grade inventing songs about my body, the lyrics of which I’ve forgotten in mind but not nervous system. Two dipshits named Alex and Grant ruling that my boobs were apples on a scale from grapes to melons. All three of my fifth-grade best friends moving away at once—England, Arizona, Ohio—how overjoyed I was when one of them moved back home, and her telling me I’d gotten plump while thwapping me with a lunchbox (what?).
A girl named Chandler changing my name to “fat bitch” in middle school, and that catching like a stomach bug. The cream cheese and sausage sandwiches I’d pound after school while watching episodes of A Haunting; blanketing myself past my forehead and sleeping like the dead, my arms a railroad crossing sign over my heart. Being shooed into an armoire in my basement while two boys fought over who got to kiss my friend; peering through the white slats like a fence my body couldn’t cross. The early-aughts computer game where I perfected a doll version of myself, and meeting my “late teens” “boyfriend” there as a child. The photos he eventually wanted. The nickname he gave me: pobrecita, “poor little girl,” “little vulnerable one.”
A boy in sophomore English touching me during class (let me explain: I’d lost weight, my Miss Me jeans were tight, and my bras were neon pink) and my awkward giggles, the teacher telling us to please quiet down, equal parts of me enjoying the attention but hating the scolding. A boy junior year convincing me that being good with my tongue was a greater honor than being loved back (let me explain: I’d gained weight). A kiwi skin-haired, Rothko-eyed guy at Mizzou asking me if I wanted to make out before I went down on him, and that being my first kiss. Tech9ne, a Missouri rapper named after a pistol, booming in his dorm room. Him firing in my mouth. Him saying, “You’re a natural,” to the sucking, not the smooching. A man I sold newspaper ads to taking me to the back of his store and saying he’d like to place a seed in me through this partnership, the way it hung in the air like a wink.
The offer of a one-thousand-dollar shopping spree if I lost “the weight.” Nutrisystem chicken cacciatore. Smart for Life bars grief-thick and cork-dry. 100 Calorie Packs Oreo thin crisps, just lousy black crackers with flecks of white dust. Being hailed as an inspiration, a force of ironfisted will. Zero-Weight Watchers-points frozen grapes and dill pickles and yellow mustard. The cartilaginous chunks in Blue Ribbon “Naked Nuggets,” the texture of flesh erasers. A beauty pageant invitation in my mailbox, like a message from a new land. Green Tea Fat Burning pills from Costco. Phentermine and Vyvanse. Diuretics and laxatives. That potato chip at a party like an opioid on my taste buds. Two fingernails on the epiglottis. A spoon down the throat. A whole lot of nothing. A whole bunch of everything. The fossil smell of rubber as I toppled tractor tires. The taste of guillotined grass as I slammed football tackle dummies into the earth. The salt-slime of sweat after a run where I’d covered myself in plastic, like my body was a kill room.
My reflection puffing and swelling like a marshmallow in the microwave. My reflection prying my smile open so big and wide my head split in half, and a river poured from it.
Neither of those observations being real.
News from a doctor that my heart had taken a beating. Several sloshing bags of intravenous fluids. A Tang-orange potassium solution. A heart monitor. A fall risk bracelet. Two months in a program where I was met in the parking lot each morning by the statue of a saint. Fear foods— nachos with liquid cheese, a root beer float, a brownie, a slice of cake—sipped and chewed like needles in my gums, injecting a kind of medicine. The gulp of learning the word “fat” is a descriptor, not a blow to the back of the knees. The realization that when all of this started, I had committed no crime. I had simply bloomed, plush and petaled, in a world full of buds.
When I vomited up everything I’d stomached, the contents were stark and boundless as melanoma. I fed my emptied belly something delicious.

While drafting my memoir, I’ve been exploring the timeline of my body and feeling the nerve endings of my struggle with eating disorders. While there are probably countless formative moments—some imperceptible, even—I sat down and briefly listed what first came to mind. When I read the list back, I saw a young girl examined, admired, and crushed within a culture that rewards or punishes based on the palatability of our bodies. But I also saw the beginnings of release.

Paige Lalain is a Best of the Net-nominated essayist living in Chicago. She is the former Head Creative Nonfiction Editor at Nightingale and Sparrow and a former Creative Nonfiction Reader at Atlas and Alice. She has a degree in creative writing with a specialization in literary nonfiction from Oakland University. She is working on a memoir.

Monday, October 26, 2026

Jon Reinhardt, a List of Lests | L*STS

A List of Lests

Jon Reinhardt

L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents

I've passed on another drink I really could have used,

lest I should suffer a hangover..

I've passed on the jalapeño pizza,

lest I should get heartburn...

I've skipped dessert,

lest I should get fat...

I've passed on joints, or only pretended to inhale,

lest it make me paranoid...

I've left before a party really got going, sometimes with an Irish goodbye,

lest I should make a drunken fool of myself...

I've deleted social media from my phone,

lest it suck away all my time...

I've deleted a really witty but mean reply before posting it

lest I should get into a pointless argument with a random stranger...

I've made up an email address to get access to an article

lest I should receive unwanted email spam...

I've made up a phone number to get a discount code

lest I should receive unwanted phone spam...

I've set my alarm on both my phone and on my watch, as well as ordered a wake-up call

lest I should wake up late...

I've made list of things I could easily have memorized, made up weird mnemonics to remember things, and scribbled things down in the middle of the night after being awaken by them,

lest I should forget them...

I've worn a mask, gloves, and protective eyewear, a hat (including ill-fitting ones), a coat or extra layer, a back brace, aknee wrap, and an elbow wrap

lest I should become sick, scratched, maimed, sunburned, cold, or hurt...

I've bought trip insurance

lest I should have to cancel a trip...

I've packed a backup pair of glasses, an extra eye mask, earplugs, extra sleeping drugs, and extra adapters, dongles, and cords (though still sometimes the wrong ones) in my carry-on

lest my checked bag be lost...

I've changed my flight to a longer layover

lest my first flight be late...

I've put secret treat stashes around the house for the cat

lest the catsitter forget to come and the cat starve...

I've woken up my cat to say goodbye

lest she forget me...

I've gotten to the airport way too early

lest there be traffic or long security lines...

I've texted a heart to my partner just before putting my phone into airplane mode

lest he forget that I love him...

I've texted 'landed' or the little landing plane icon to my partner immediately after touching down

lest he worry...

I've not put my phone into airplane mode,

lest I should have to send a final 'I will always love you' message, and the plane should go down, and we should pass a random cell tower that might catch it and relay it to him, so he would always know...

The conjunction 'lest', which means 'in case something undesirable happens', is increasingly considered archaic. This is unfortunate because it has a power we are losing in late modern English by triggering the subjunctive mood, reserved for talking about hypotheticals, desires, suggestions, and alternate universes without resorting to the clunky indicative mood. Just by adding a modal like 'should', or by dropping the third person singular -s, we are brought into a space for imagining the best--our unrealized desires and hopes and imagined worlds, or the worst--a safe place to be obsessive, paranoid, or anxious. Nowadays, however, we say things like 'If I was rich', as if we already were, deluding ourselves with the indicative, because let's face it, we'll probably never be rich as we are imagining ourselves, as it were. When we speak, the subjunctive reminds us and whoever hears us that we realize what we're saying is not true, though it might have been, or it might yet be. Imagine the best and the worst, but no worries, it's safely contained grammatically. Long live the subjunctive!

Jon Reinhardt is a middle-aged grammar professor who travels a lot, doesn't take unnecessary risks, and tries not to think about statistical probability, because he is generally lucky. For this reason, he is a big fan of the subjunctive mood and wishes it were not forgotten. He is the Head of the English Department at the University of Arizona.

Friday, October 23, 2026

Quandra Prettyman, MEMO From: Mommy Date: September 13, 1987 Subject: Some Very Traditional Advice | L*STS

MEMO From: Mommy Date: September 13, 1987 Subject: Some Very Traditional Advice

Quandra Prettyman

L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents

Money

Never lend more than you can give. You can give a stranger five bucks.
Don’t lend a friend any amount which the failure to pay would cause a lapse in your friendship.
In splitting checks, be willing, if you are in a generous mood, to merely divide the check. Among friends, this usually evens out.
But if fellow diners (or users of a mutually bought object) feel specific, then be specific. Don't say "all right, that's your bill" and then pay the tip yourself.

Drink

Avoid any liquor without food.
Avoid sweet drinks if you get a "feel like drinking" mood;
you’ll probably consume less.

Sex

A man who is unconcerned about your becoming pregnant is a man who is unconcerned about you.
Use contraceptives. Abandon the notion that a nice woman only has sex when she is out-of-control of her body.

Religion (or ethics and moral judgment)

A person who does not respect yours is a person who does not respect you. A person who does not respect you is not a friend.
When among people who cannot understand what you mean by "no," or a courteous "I'd rather not," find a graceful way to excuse yourself, if possible. Blame the potential of your mother's heart attack, if it will help. Run away, if necessary.

Grades

Of course, grades matter. But grades really are not, to me, the most important concerns.
This is how grades matter to me. It will cause me quite a bit of distress if you fail. I mean fail with a certain specificity, that is, get an F. That's because if your work falls so far short of the expectations held for your peers, it is a signal that something is wrong, seriously wrong, wrong enough to require intervention.
D's--you should treat as a very serious warning.
This is how grades don't matter to me. From C up is acceptable to me. C's won't get you summa cum laude; if you want to be summa cum laude, that's your cross to bear, not mine.
There will be times when you do not do as well as you thought you would or hoped you would. When that happens try not to sweat over it. If you think the teacher really made a mistake, discuss it with the teacher. If you think you didn't understand what was required, ask the teacher to show you a more satisfactory response. Don't waste your time (and the teacher's) by nit-picking. Try to see in what way the other work was better. If you don't think it was, try to see how the teacher may have perceived it as better.
There will be times when you feel that you did not do as well as you might have because of peculiar circumstances. Some will be petty--you had a cold, you stayed up too late the night before. Don't let that interfere with your next assignment.
There will be times when you were not in full control of the circumstances and made a compassionate decision, e. g., a friend was troubled. When you make such a decision, and I think you ought to do so, be prepared for the consequences.

Health

Your health has become your responsibility in a special way. True, I have been saying how do you feel, etc. But I have also been around to say that if that's how you feel I'm going to call the doctor. You have to call the doctor now. You have to decide to take an extra day off to recover. You will bear the responsibility for your decision. I hope you will go back to Grades and make a sensible decision; the body you have has to last a lifetime.

Mother's Worries

I will worry more about your well-being than about your grades.
I will worry more about your safety than about your choice of friends.

Anger

These things will make me very angry:
your failure to tell me that you sick your failure to tell me that you are doing well
your failure to tell me that you are engaged in some political activity for which there may be serious consequences
your failure to tell me that you are involved in a relationship of which you think I would not approve.
I cannot promise you that if you tell me these things that my response will be "OK, so what else is new?"

In keeping with her activities as a collector and informal archivist, Quandra Prettyman was a list aficionado. Her freezer always had a typed list of its rotating contents; her papers include chronologies of yearly activities, and lists of what to buy (with descriptions of the staff) at her favorite stores. Even one of her poems, “Facing Forty Facts,” takes the form of a list. Her intellectual and pedagogical rigor, coupled with her innate hospitality, care, and deep belief in the power of community, made her a safe harbor and model for countless students, particularly Barnard College’s Black community. They remember lessons on effective writing offered in the classroom and life lessons from class dinners in her book-filled apartment with its brilliantly yellow Kitchen.

This memo written by a single mother to her daughter in 1986 is typical of the practical, caring and wry advice she was known for. The Memo form gives the advice an official feel, perhaps softening the blow of letting go and losing daily mother-daughter contact. Now it is a generational document, as her daughter and friends have passed on copies of the letter to other college-bound women.

The late Quandra Prettyman was a poet, an editor, literary critic, reviewer, book collector, teacher, and scholar. Born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland, Prettyman studied history at Antioch College (1950-54) and English at the University of Michigan (1955-57), where she studied 17th century and modernist literature. She joined the Barnard College Department of English in 1971 where, like many women of her generation, she squeezed writing in the spaces between professional life and motherhood. Prettyman edited Out of Our Lives: A Selection of Contemporary Black Fiction in 1975, featuring writers such as Amiri Baraka, Ann Petry, Ernest Gaines, Sherley Anne Williams, and Louise Meriwether. She also authored one of the earliest academic articles on African American cookbooks, “Come Eat at My Table: Lives with Recipes” (1992). Her poems have appeared in multiple collections, including Black Out Loud: An Anthology Poem (1970), The Poetry of Black America (1973), and Black World.

When Prettyman passed away in 2021, she had taught at the College for 50 years and left behind voluminous unpublished works. Most recently, her poems “Late Crape for My Mother” and “Carousel” were posthumously published in Callaloo (Spring 2026).

The Quandra’s Table editorial collective is a group of friends, family, and former students, all connected by fierce affection for the late Professor Quandra Prettyman. The Collective is currently compiling a volume of Prettyman’s unpublished writings, including her poetry sequence, A Safe House. For inquiries, please email Professor Kim F. Hall (quandraprettyman [at] gmail [dot] com) or contact Isabelle Robinson (https://www.isabelle-robinson.com)