Unite to Move Forward

Not all Trump voters use vulgar speech to objectify, belittle, or humiliate women. Not all Trump voters are members of the KKK. Not all Trump voters are violent, and many even follow a God whose highest commandment (after loving Him) is to love our neighbors as ourselves.

Let’s remember that we’re in this together – we have to be if we want to rise above the fear that is holding us down as a country.


Thank you to rickkarasaki.blogspot.com for this beautiful Hawaiian proverb.


I understand that you voted the way you did because you felt it was the right decision. But I need you to meet me halfway. I need you to understand something too.

Violence against minorities has skyrocketed. This is not your fault, because you’re not violent or xenophobic or misogynistic. But it is your responsibility to inform your fellow Trump supporters that their violent actions are unacceptable. Because it is every human being’s responsibility to stand up against violence, wherever they see it.

People are afraid. Not just about losing their health insurance or their ability to feed their family. Not just about whether their marriage will be torn apart or their children carted off to foster care because of who their parents love.

No, people are afraid for their very lives.

And with good reason. Since the election results came in, hateful people have become emboldened to follow the lead of their president-elect. Minorities across the country are being attacked.

Your fellow Americans – your own family, friends, coworkers, neighbors, people you know and love and see every day – are afraid that they will be next. And the way things are going, they might be.

Look around at the people in your life. How many of them are women, Muslim, immigrants, LGBTQ, differently abled, or otherwise marginalized? Now imagine someone attacked them because of this.

Are you willing to protect the people you love?

Do what your president-elect has failed to do: Take a stand against discrimination and hate crimes.


Thank you to Meredith Nudo (writer) and Isaiah Brousard (artist) for this helpful how-to comic. Originally posted on draw-the-line.ca

Be an ally. Attend rallies and protests. If you see someone being attacked – physically or verbally – step in. And even before it comes to that, stand with those of us who are in danger, and vow to protect us from the extremists who threaten us and our loved ones. Offer to walk with someone to a safe place. Make conversation with the scared person sitting next to you on the bus. Call or write your legislators and demand action against hate crimes.


Thank you to the Middle Eastern Feminist for this wonderful description of a successful technique used in psychology.

Educate yourselves as well as your friends and family. Read books about and written by people  of various backgrounds, and teach your kids that differences are to be celebrated not feared. Actively seek out ways to help, rather than waiting for someone to ask you for help – because until they know you, they might be afraid of you.

Here’s the thing. A lot of us “bleeding heart liberals” feel betrayed by you. You may not have voted the way you did because your candidate uses hateful speech and actions against women, Muslims, immigrants, the LGBTQ community, differently abled people, etc. But the hatred he spewed was not enough for you to look at his name on the ballot and say to yourself, “Oh hell no.” You were willing to look the other way when we were threatened.

It’s time to stop looking the other way.

You cannot change your vote, but you can take accountability and start to heal the betrayal that more than half the country is feeling.

I’m not asking you to support same-sex marriage. I’m not asking you to be pro-choice. I’m not asking you to welcome immigrants or provide them a reasonable route to citizenship.

All I’m asking is that you defend human beings’ right to live, and live with dignity.


Please share on social media to let your loved ones know that you have pledged to protect them from hateful attacks both verbal and physical.

What is this “free time” of which you speak?

You’d think that being unemployed would come with oodles of free time.

But I’m finding that having more time at home does not mean having more time to do with as I please. In fact, it means having less time. Because now I’m spending eight hours every day taking care of my toddler, and what used to be my “free” time, when I could write and do laundry and maybe squeeze in a shower, has now become my apply-for-jobs-online time.

And that’s on the good days. You know, the days when there are any new jobs at all for me to send applications to.

Anyway. I just wanted to check in and let my readers know that I have not fallen off the face of the Earth.

I’m hoping to summon the time and energy to write an actual post in the near(ish) future. Thanks for bearing with me.

From “Mom of the Group” to Real-Life Mom

Everything changes when you have a baby.

People have been telling me this for years, and for the most part I believed them. But I also thought, I know who I am. In a way, I have always been a mother. My friends used to call me “the mom of the group,” because I’m the kind of person who put a blanket over my friend when I found her sleeping on her couch. I’m the kind of person who tells my friends to call me if they need a sober ride, even in the middle of the night. I’m the kind of person who cried when I dropped off my sisters at elementary school shortly after getting my driver’s license. Even though I knew my mom had been dropping them off for years, and they were more than capable of walking twenty feet by themselves to get into the school.

Still, being “the mom of the group” is different from being a mom.

No matter how focused you used to be on the needs of the people around you, it cannot compare to the focus you have on the needs of your child. You know your child’s needs before they do – literally, because a baby does not yet have the cognitive ability to recognize or understand when they need something.

You have an invisible tether to your child, so that no matter how far away you may be, you feel their presence. You know when your child wakes up from their nap, even before there’s an audible noise on the baby monitor.

Your entire perspective of the world shifts. You see the world through your child’s eyes. Birds and squirrels used to just be part of the scenery, but now they are magical creatures whose graceful movements cause you to smile.

Your own mother becomes more human. This is what she went through? These are the kinds of thoughts that went through her head? The way I feel about my baby – this unbreakable, inexplicable bond – this is how she felt about me?

(Here’s a little insight to my main character in Finding ‘Ohana: Cinnamin is figuring out motherhood. Is she a mother, even though she did not give birth to her son? How can she be a mother without a role model, without her own mother in her life? How could Cinnamin’s mother abandon her, if she felt the same way for Cinnamin as Cinnamin feels for her son?)

When I was a kid, people told me, “You’ll understand when you have kids.” Well, I’m an empathetic person. I thought I already understood.

I was so wrong.

Because no matter how you try, you cannot put motherhood into words. Some things just have to be experienced.


You Matter

This post is gonna be a downer. Sorry. But it has to be said. And I promise that if you stick with me, I’ll end on a happier note.



screenshot from Reddit

In the past month or so, it seems like everyone online has spent at least some time remembering Robin Williams. And although I do not tend to get especially upset by celebrities passing (not in the same way as when I lose someone I know, at least), this particular tragedy has affected me more than others involving people I’ve never met.

Here’s why: I’ve known more than one person who has attempted suicide. I can count at least five friends, family members, and acquaintances who have done so. None of them have succeeded, thank goodness. But I have known people who have lost loved ones to suicide.

And there are many more whose stories I don’t even know.

(This is part of the reason why I included attempted suicide in Cinnamin’s story. It’s a reality of too many people’s lives – it cannot be ignored.)

The thing is… you never know who your actions are affecting. For better or worse, everything you do ripples.


Like I said, for better or worse. Meaning, if you were to attempt suicide, your actions would affect people for the worse. But the other side of the coin is, the good you do affects people for the better. And I guarantee you, you have already affected people for the better. Maybe some people you don’t even know.

Look at the above story about Robin Williams. He might never have known that Redditor’s name. We know they never saw each other again after that day. But he made his life a little better. He made his burdens a little easier to bear.

Believe it or not, you have done the same thing for someone you may never meet again. Someone whose name you will never know. (This happens to be the idea behind my novel in progress about hair donation.)

When I was in high school, a classmate of mine drove drunk and ended up killing his best friend, who was in the passenger seat when they got into an accident. I did not know either kid. I’d never known their names before. But the Monday after it happened, I heard other kids talking about it. I saw how it affected them. And it affected me. I cried. I mourned. Not for someone I’d lost, but because I saw others who had lost someone.

I called my friend in Maryland after school and told her. We cried together. She was with another friend when I called, someone I’d never met or spoken to. But she cried too.

Do you see the ripples? Three thousand miles away, death can affect a friend of a friend of an aquaintance of a friend.

The good news is that the possitive impact you have on a person’s life can do the same thing.

Whoever you are, you are the Robin Williams to the above Redditor for someone out there. Some small act of kindness you’ve done has affected someone’s life for the better. True, there’s no way of proving this, of tracking down that person and finding out what kind act you don’t remember that changed everything for them. But every action ripples. If you have ever done anything good, chances are it helped someone in some way.

You matter.

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Comic Relief

I’ve been wondering lately if there’s a lack of interest in Finding ‘Ohana because of the heavy subject matter.

I mean, have you ever been in a bookstore and read the back cover of a book that sounds great, but you didn’t buy it because it sounded a little depressing? For example, a book that deals with death, and an identity crisis, and parents disowning their only daughter because she’s a lesbian?

If I’m completely honest, I’d say that upon seeing such a book I might not buy it. Maybe it’s because I get a little too emotionally invested in fiction. It feels real to me – possibly because I know that no matter how far-fetched the story, it most likely has happened to somebody.

But maybe the fact that it has happened to real people is exactly the reason why it should be out there. People should know what the reality is. Ignorance is only bliss for the people who don’t have to live with the consequences.

And if an agent or a publisher could just read Finding ‘Ohana through to the end, they would know that it’s actually quite uplifting and inspiring. All the trials Cinnamin goes through only make her story more beautiful when she comes out of it a stronger person.


(I could go into more detail here, but I truly hate spoilers. If any of my blog audience has read Finding ‘Ohana in full, please leave me a comment and let me know whether or not the end of the book made the journey worth it for you.)



Now, don’t get me wrong, Finding ‘Ohana is not all doom & gloom until the last page. It does show happier times in Cinnamin’s life, with Naali as well as with family and friends. And Finding ‘Ohana does have a few humorous moments too, they’re just not what I would call laugh-out-loud funny.

So here’s my question for all you readers out there: Do you need comic relief in a book in order to enjoy it, especially when the book deals with heavy subject matter? Or do you think that some books need to be serious?

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

This is the third blog post I’ve started in the last week, and it’s taken me three days to finish it.

The first one I started never got posted because I decided the writing was terrible, and no one should ever be subjected to reading it. Besides, what kind of writing blog would this be if the writing I posted was terrible? Of course, then I starting thinking that maybe it’s not just the writing that’s terrible, maybe it’s the writer. And that’s always a fun road to travel down.

The second one I started never got posted because I just couldn’t find the motivation. I left my laptop open and went to bed for an hour or two before finally coming back out of the bedroom for dinner.


So why have I been so depressed lately that I can’t even get a couple short paragraphs posted to my blog? Postpartum depression.

There was a problem with my medication refill and I went almost a week without it. It hasn’t been as bad as it was during the first six weeks after the birth, but I could tell that my head wasn’t right. (These were the words I used when my husband found me lying in bed, staring into space).

Like all forms of depression, and mental illness in general, PPD is kind of taboo in our culture. “Woah, don’t tell me you’re depressed! That’s a little too personal.” The problem with this is that people don’t know how to handle it when it happens, either to themselves or to someone they know.

Since I’ve always struggled with depression, I expected to experience PPD, and I paid attention when I found information and resources on it.

Yes, it is still taboo to talk about postpartum depression (and all mental illness), but there are people out there who are trying to minimize that taboo so that those who need support can get it. Hopefully this blog post will add to that.

Today I’d like to share a beautiful story I stumbled upon during the third trimester of my pregnancy. The truthfulness in the writing, along with a few similarities to my own situation, made me feel more prepared. Of course, nothing can fully prepare you for postpartum depression. As much as I told myself that it was hormones and chemical imbalances that made me feel the way I did, I just could not shake it on my own.

Still, this story helped. Maybe because I felt connected to the mothers in it, knowing that there are so many more like us out there going through similar things. Maybe because it was cathartic to read someone else having a sympathetic point of view. Maybe because the end showed the light at the end of the tunnel, even though during my worst days that tunnel seemed so long that I could not even see the end in the distance.

In any case, it’s a beautiful story. I wholeheartedly recommend reading it, even if you’ve never experienced depression, or known anyone who has (that you know of, at least). And if you have your own story, share it! Here in the comments, and anywhere else that will let you. You never know who might benefit from it.




November 9th, 2012


For the first few months after my son was born, I called him The Baby, or sometimes just Him with a capital H, huge proper nouns to illustrate how completely he took over my life. Is he eating, not eating? Pooping, not pooping? What color is the poop, how long ago was the poop, did I mark the poop on the spreadsheet? I had spreadsheets. I had stuff — white noise CDs and magnetic blocks and this super high-tech video monitor with a remote wireless screen and night vision, which made The Baby glow electric green in the dark like he was a CIA target. It was a little unnerving, actually. It had two frequencies, an A channel and a B channel, in case you had two kids in separate rooms, and what’s interesting about this is that one of my neighbors must have owned this same monitor, because on channel A, I saw my baby, and on channel B, I saw someone else’s.

And if I could see someone else’s, then someone else could see mine.

We live in a third-floor walk-up in Uptown surrounded by other third-floor walk-ups. Jumping onto a neighbor’s Wi-Fi signal isn’t much of a stretch, so perhaps the fact that I could toggle between babies shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it was. It was huge. I was obsessed. On one hand, it was totally creepy—stalking, even—but on the other? It was sort of magical, like walkie-talkies and CB radios when you’re a kid: connecting with someone across the void, adding your voice to the collective unconscious, feeling less alone in this crazy world, and who knows who might be listening?

Who knows who’s in that Uptown condo on channel B?

A baby, to be sure, but it wasn’t the baby I was obsessed with.

It was the mother.

My imagination went wild when I thought of the mother. Did she sit there, watching my kid in the dark? Did she question his bedtime? Wonder where I got his pajamas? How might she react if I left a sign in his crib that read: STOP LOOKING AT MY BABY, YOU DIRTY VOYEUR!



Any winter in Chicago is a force to be reckoned with, but 2008 was particularly awful. The Baby was born three weeks early, middle of the night, middle of a snowstorm. My poor husband had to dig out our buried car, shovel the alley, and navigate Lakeshore Drive through a whiteout blizzard, and that relentless, pounding snow stayed through January, February, March, and into April. I’d taken those months off from work, and my husband, a web designer, had picked up extra projects to cover the difference, so for the most part, The Baby and I were alone in our tiny Uptown condo, beyond which, in my mind, was the ice planet of Hoth. Remember Planet Hoth? From The Empire Strikes Back? Luke almost freezes to death, but Han Solo pushes him inside a dead tauntaun for body warmth? That Hoth.

I joke about it now, but here’s the truth: I was scared to go outside. The Baby might freeze. I was scared to fall asleep. He might suffocate. I was scared he wasn’t eating, wasn’t latching, wasn’t gaining, wasn’t doing what the books had said he would do, and every morning, when I looked in the mirror, I wondered who that girl was looking back. We all have things about ourselves that we know to be true, and suddenly, I couldn’t remember any of them. I was unbrushed, unwashed, wearing the same yoga pants and empire-waist shirt every day. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t feed my kid. At the time, my understanding of postpartum depression was primarily shaped by Brooke Shields’s memoir Down Came the Rain: crippling depression, suicidal thoughts. But since what I was experiencing seemed heavy, but not that heavy; dark, but not really that dark; scary, but not, you know, like that—it didn’t occur to me to ask for help. I mean, I wasn’t going to hurt my kid. I wasn’t going to hurt myself. Right?

Now, four years later, I know that the symptoms and intensity of PPD are as varied as the flowers in a greenhouse. I wish I’d told someone. I didn’t need to feel that alone: just me in the frozen Chicago winter with my tiny, fragile baby. And channel B. Whenever The Baby would fall asleep, I’d stare at his Day-Glo body on the monitor, making sure he wasn’t choking—or levitating or exploding or whatever horrible thing I’d imagine—and then, assured of his safety, I’d flip the channel to see how that other mother was doing. I bet her kid was eating. I bet shechanged clothes occasionally. I bet, for her, snow wasn’t a terrifying apocalypse but rather a Hallmark-like sprinkling of picturesque flakes—”Walking in a Winter Wonderland,” if you will. And yes, I know, it was completely intrusive and unethical and above all, ridiculous. Why was I comparing myself to this woman? I never even saw her! Mostly, there was just an empty crib. Sometimes there was a baby, wiggling and doing baby things, but the mother was a total nonentity. Until one night, I flipped over to channel B and heard crying. Not from the baby—he was fast asleep, an angel—but somewhere in his room, a woman was sobbing: heavy, gaspy, gulpy sobs.

They went on. They went on and on. I shouldn’t have listened. But it was the first time since my son was born that I didn’t feel alone.


What finally changed things was this: spring. Birds! Green things! Grilling on the porch! Frozen blender drinks! Short skirts! Outdoor seating! SPF! Lemonade! Which you can get any time of year, but it tastes better in the sunshine! Sunshine! My God, how desperately I’d needed it! I’d wager most Chicagoans feel this way in spring, but for me, May 2008 was a godsend, a great, mammoth hand reaching down out of the clouds and pulling me to my feet.

That May, The Baby became Caleb, smiling, laughing, responding, four months old and learning about the world outside my lap. I’d strap him in a backpack and walk through Uptown—Broadway to Argyle, down to the beach and back up Montrose—finding magic in everyday things. Plastic grocery bags? Amazing. Tapping a glass with a spoon? Kick-ass! Water in a dish? Fun for hours! One morning he reached for a yellow street-cleaning sign stapled to a tree, and all at once I saw yellow as if I’d been blind to it for years: Brake lights! Parking lanes! Flowers in the neighbors’ yard! Taxis! More taxis!

And in that moment, we passed a woman with a stroller. She was pretty, early thirties, wearing yoga pants and a yellow empire-waist shirt. She looked nice. And tired. And interesting, like there were all sorts of secret things about her that were set on pause for the time being. She looked like how I saw myself. We nodded at each other in solidarity. This, I had newly discovered, is the way moms do it: acknowledging the fact that even though you don’t know each other, you’re still a part of this great cosmic team. And then you check out each other’s kids. Hers was grabbing his toes in the stroller—so sweet. So adorable. So… familiar, and not in that All Babies Are Alike sort of way. I looked closer: yes, I knew this kid, and suddenly I saw him not face-to-face on Lawrence Avenue, but electric green on a tiny, hand-held screen.

I looked back at the mother. “You know—“ I started, then stopped, ’cause, really, what would I have said? STOP LOOKING AT MY BABY? YOU WANT TO MEET UP AT THE PARK? How’s about the truth: YOU HELPED SAVE ME.

“Your baby is beautiful,” she said.

“So’s yours,” I said.

We stood there.

We stood there long past what is appropriate for strangers. I like to think it’s because she was thinking the same thing I was. That maybe she, too, had flipped channels in the middle of the night, trying to connect with someone across the void or feel less alone in this crazy world. Maybe she’d overheard me crying in Caleb’s bedroom, months ago when everything still seemed so cold, so impossible.

“How are you?” I asked her. I wasn’t just saying it. I really, really wanted to know.

She smiled. “I’m getting better.”

“Me too,” I said. “I’m getting better.”

It was something about myself that I knew was true.


Rumpus original art by Annie Daly.

A Writer’s Responsibility

The main thing I decided to change in this most recent revision of Finding ‘Ohana is the way that Naali dies. This actually happens to be one of the changes that my creative writing professor, Susan Palwick, recommended when she read the short story that was the beginning of my Finding ‘Ohana journey.

“Very few women die in childbirth today,” she told me. “It would be much more believable if you had her die in a car accident or because of a brain aneurysm.”

At the time, I was not ready to make that change. I was a young and inexperienced writer, and I wanted the drama. So I added a heart condition to Naali’s character and left it at that.

In the past two years or so I’ve become interested in natural childbirth, and my original cause of death for Naali started bothering me more and more.

As much as popular culture would have us believe otherwise, labor and birth are not scary. Or rather, they don’t have to be. Many women grow up seeing horror stories of labor in the media, and therefore approach their own birth experience from a standpoint of fear.

Fear then disrupts the woman’s ability to manage her pain. The pain becomes overwhelming, and adds to the fear, causing a cycle that is difficult to overcome.

But if we can approach labor and birth knowing that it is a natural and beautiful process, we can manage our pain on our own, without medication, and rise above it.


My own labor and birth three and a half months ago only solidified my believe that natural labor is not scary. I knew how to manage my pain. I swayed, I sang, I leaned on my husband and listened to him telling me that I was strong.

There were things about my son’s birth that I certainly wish had been different. But they all happened once we got to the hospital, once we had medical interventions. The part of my labor that was natural, when I was at home with my husband and my midwife, was exactly as it should be.


I hold very strongly to the belief that as writers, we have a responsibility to present our readers with positive messages. Actually, this is true of all artists. We cannot in good conscience produce art that will perpetuate negative ideas. We need to constantly analyze our own work to ensure that whatever messages it has are ones that we can wholeheartedly support.

I do not want to add one more negative birth story to the world. My novel will no longer include a character dying in childbirth. Finding ‘Ohana is not about birth, it’s about death and mourning, identity, family. So as much as I would love to include a positive birth story, it will have to wait for a future work. For now, at least this novel will only reflect beliefs that I am proud to hold.