Essays, Fiction, Poetry

Still intact in the little vault in my brain are

Every year around the Christmas season,

A couple of years ago I retired to Charlottesville

Sometimes I’ll spot an adorable baby

I’ve spent years searching for my birthmother, but rarely with directions of such military precision.

November 27, 2020—my first Black Friday purchase ever.

The first arrow attacked my psyche in 1977 during a fundraiser at Mr. Silks 3rd Base

A month to immerse myself in German life.

I didn’t expect a DNA test to change my life.

Fall had just set in, 1987. My family tree was shedding its leaves,

The glitzy mall I picked for our meeting spot hadn’t aged welled in the 20 years since my last visit.

A G.I. baby, I was born in Korea

I was born in the early morning hours of March 6, at New York Hospital on Sixty-Ninth Street.

In 2018, I took a DNA test for fun.

I shake the hands of the various deans. My two favorite

When I was 38, after both parents had died, I found out my mother wasn’t my birthmother.

It’s almost my birthday (sort of) and I’m turning 40, the same age my mother was when she had me (possibly).

On Saturday Dave and I are eager to throw off the week’s stress with a spring bike ride along Portland’s waterfront.

Mariska Hargitay is arguably one of the most famous women in America, if not in the world. The star of the longest-running prime-time live action series in television history, she plays Olivia Benson, a tough yet deeply compassionate sex crimes detective who, in every episode, encounters people after unspeakable tragedy—victims, survivors, and loved ones of violent crimes, whose secrets have been publicly laid bare in the most brutal fashion. Beautiful and intelligent, Benson is devoted to her work and guarded about a secret in her own past—that she was conceived as a consequence of rape. In her public life, the 61-year old Hargitay exudes warmth and humor. She’s known as a tender, yet strong woman, a loyal friend, and a loving wife and mother of three. Photographs of her with her husband, actor Peter Hermann, inspire envious Instagram memes with captions like “Everyone needs someone who looks at them like he looks at her.” She’s also a philanthropist, a certified rape counselor, and, as the founder of the Joyful Heart Foundation, a fierce advocate for survivors of child abuse, sexual assault, and domestic violence. But in her wrenching documentary film, My Mom Jayne, Hargitay pulls back the curtain and reveals herself to be the beating heart of a family enmeshed in tragedy and trauma on multiple levels—a family that shouldered the weight of secrets until those secrets could no longer be borne. Deeply sad, the film is also tender, sweet, and, ultimately, uplifting. Like Hargitay, her mother, Jayne Mansfield, was one of the most iconic figures of her time—as Edward R. Murrow observed, “the most photographed woman in show business.” A world-famous sex symbol, she reluctantly leaned into a pinup persona in hopes it would offer an opportunity for her to become known instead for her keen intelligence, acting ability, and prodigious musical talent. She tried to reinvent herself, but couldn’t break out of the mold she’d cast herself in. Unhappy with her career and struggling in her marriage to Mickey Hargitay, a Hungarian bodybuilder and former Mr. Universe, she fell prey to alcohol and drugs and became involved with men who abused her. When she was 34, she died in a car accident. Three-year-old Mariska and two of her brothers survived in the backseat. Although she had a loving stepmother after Mickey remarried, she was greatly affected by her mother’s absence. At the same time she was embarrassed by her legacy and wary to explore her life. As she grew older, with no clear memory of Jayne, she became driven to learn more about her and during the pandemic became a real-life detective, tracking down vast collections of photos, letters, memorabilia, public records, contemporary interviews, and fan mail. Hargitay conceived the documentary as way to fill the hole left in her heart, to learn about her mother what she couldn’t bear to learn when she was younger. Click on image to read more.

By Michelle Talsma I met my younger self for coffee … well, iced chai with soy, at the campus Starbucks. “It’s still our favorite drink to order here?” she asked. “Yes, we get light ice now to make the most of it, because it’s still pricey,” I said with a smile. We hug and sit in a well-lit corner. Outside, the campus of Northern Arizona University is woodsy and gorgeous—green, alive with students scattering back and forth. We both love it here. She’s tired and rushed. In college, she’s taking 18 to 21 credits a semester, too many extracurriculars to keep track of, trying to make sure she builds a future for herself. She has a point to prove yet never feels like she’s doing enough. Some things never change. “She never gets sober does she…” She just asks, point blank, no filter. It’s not really a question. She knows. “No, she doesn’t, I’m so sorry…” A couple of years earlier, at 17, we left a note on our mom’s dining room table. “When you’re able to be a mom, give me a call,” it said. She never makes that call. “Does she ever meet our kids?” she asks. I know she’s worried about navigating that. Like me, she worries constantly about how to make others feel comfortable and seen. She chameleons to others, sliding in and out of lives and relationships, always on a quest to make others’ lives better and to find a place that feels like home. That trait calms down over the years but it never fully leaves. We’re working on it; always working on it. “You won’t have to worry about that…” her eyes don’t change, she knows. “But your dad meets them for a time, and you’ll treasure the photos always.” “I’m a mom?! We’re moms??!” Her face lights up and we both break into tears. I’m not allowed to give specifics, so I use “them.” Life will hit her hard in the quest to be a mom; she needs hope now more than exact answers. “Yes, and it’s as amazing and healing as you think it will be. And you rock it. They’re amazing. Black hair. Brown eyes. Your entire world and it’s the best experience ever. I promise.” I know her and all she wants to be is a writer and a mom, so I let that slip too… “You’ll be published nationally. Locally. Two hardcovers. It gives you the flexibility to be there for every moment of their childhood. Being a mom—it’ll be what keeps you going. You’ll be so grateful for it sometimes that your heart will swell with joy.” I let her soak that in and I feel like I’ve already said too much. But, right now, she needs hope more than anything. She knows plenty of grief. “Do you want to know more?” I ask. “I just need a moment,” she says. I do, too. I don’t know how to tell her to prepare for a life with as many bumps as blessings. How do you tell someone that at 22 their mom will pass? At 24, their dad will follow almost to the day. At 35, they’ll find out that their dad isn’t their biological dad and their world will turn upside down and inside out. Click on image to read more.