Why I Write

Updated: Oct 6, 2019

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I write because I've seen a miracle.

Way back in the day, before childproof caps, I overdosed on children's aspirin. I remember the chalky-orange taste. I remember going back to the bottle several times as I would as an adolescent with a spoon in the Haagen-Das. I remember the look on my mother's face when my two-year-old lips told on myself. The nurses gave me syrup of ipecac (now banned), and I retched it all up, and then I fell asleep in the baby-jail crib hospitals still use. I remember it like yesterday.

I love that two-year-old kid. She has seen so much as she grew up. From Tricky Dick to #45, I have spent a lifetime to dig her out of a landfill of societal bullshit. That kid has been my greatest teacher and champion because she is my pure will to endure. She is my drive in this world.

That kid went on to learn dance and play the violin, write stories about imaginary friends, and act on the stage. She also became a voracious learner, UC Berkeley grad, doula and midwife assistant. It should have been no surprise that this kid would eventually become a nurse, a professor, and an author. Places, where all of her life knowledge would coalesce.

The miracle was not that doctors and nurses saved her life. The miracle was that I saved her life by saying the worst words a mother can ever hear. Those words liberated us from a dark ending.

That is why I write.