All posts tagged: Sisters

Their Father’s Daughters: Four Sisters Come Together to Say Goodbye

I am the eldest of four girls, a number that felt ever-so-slightly obscene. Like, couldn’t we have stopped at three? But no, we couldn’t, because numbers 3 and 4 were identical twins. Prior to their conception, Mom had read an article about how to conceive a boy. She followed it to the letter: eat this; do that; have sex at this time of the month; stand on your head and clap three times, chant a Tibetan prayer, who knows what it said? I never read it. But I have always wondered how many other babies born in 1972 have that article to thank for either their twins or their vaginas. Each sister, in our own time, were supposed to have been named Jeffrey Scott. Instead we were Deborah Elizabeth, Jennifer Robin, Laura Suzanne, and Julie Michelle. We literally used up all the innocuous girl names. When my eldest was born, 21 years ago, my dad rushed into the hospital room to meet his first grandchild. “I don’t believe it!” he said. He ripped open the …

TueNight Live: We Party with Our Sisters [Photos]

Whee —  our seventh TueNight Live event, people! This thing is becoming real, real. Once again we brought our issue to life, this time with the theme, “Sisters,” honoring both our biological sibs as well as the many women with whom we feel so close. We gathered at The Wren Downstairs, a lovely, cozy room below a charming restaurant on Bowery and Great Jones Streets in Manhattan. Tasty cocktails paid homage to some of the badass sister matchups of our era. Margit started us off, talking about the sister-filled Women’s March and what it meant to her — excerpts from her Margit’s Note. Adrianna read a piece from her own sister, Lindsay El Tabsh, about how sisters can help us through even the saddest of days. Penny Wrenn described the joy and heartbreak of being a black woman with a white sister. Then a quick break to eat some delicious empanadas. We came back to nary a dry eye in the house as artist/activist Abby Dobson sang of the unremembered black women lost at the hands of police violence, inspired by AAPF’s #SayHerName campaign. Here’s a brief video of Abby …

Why I Marched: 9 Women Across The Country Share Their Reasons

Planned as a protest in Washington, D.C. to the inauguration of the 45th President of the United States the day before, the January 21st  Women’s March on Washington surpassed all expectations of size and scope. Millions of people showed up in D.C. and in cities all over the country—and beyond that to all seven continents—to march, chant, and listen to speakers, united in focus on resisting Donald Trump’s agenda. Many of the women wore the famed pink knit “pussy hats,” although headgear was entirely optional, and most carried signs with pro-woman and equality, anti-Trump and fascism messages.  I talked to several women about why they marched, what steps they plan to take next, and if they consider this day the birth of a movement. Sandie Angulo Chen, writer Maryland I marched in Atlanta while attending the American Library Association’s annual midwinter conference. I marched because as Rep. John Lewis reminded us, we can’t afford for our nation to take even one step backwards when it comes to human rights, civil rights, women’s rights. Since then, …

Sister, Sister: I’m a Black Woman with a White Sister

When people ask if I have brothers and sisters, I don’t know where to begin. Do I say, I’m an only child, the youngest of seven or the seventh of nine? In fact, all these answers are true. I’m my mother’s only child and the youngest of my father’s seven biological children. But if we’re talking the order in which my father’s children entered his life, then I’m not the last. When my parents divorced, my father remarried and I inherited two step-siblings. Still, however I go about answering the “Do you have brothers and sisters?” question, I always get to this part: I am a black woman with a white sister. Her name is Amy. People would come to my old Harlem apartment see her photo on my bookshelf, the one where I’m standing next to her on her wedding day, and they’d ask, “Who’s that?” But I would never just say, “My sister.” I knew that I must follow up with an abridged version of my family history, saying something like, “My parents divorced …

Calling Julie: The Sister I Chose and Lost

I still have her listed as “sister” on my Facebook. You know how you can tag people as family in your profile? It has been five years since she died, and I just can’t bring myself to change it. Perhaps I never will. Julie was my best friend. We first met each other when we were working at The Destin Log on the northwest coast of Florida. It was my first “real job” out of college. I had followed a cute Air Force officer to the beach town after I got out of school, planning to move on to Atlanta after the summer. Turns out I loved it there and, although the dude didn’t love me, I stayed. I had a friend who knew someone at the local paper, and — voila — I got a job there on the lowest rung, working the government beat in nearby South Walton County. Julie was the features editor — a beautiful woman who drove a cute red BMW. I was drawn to her immediately. Now, the government …

Margit’s Note:  Thanks, Sis

It was a chilly 4:30am morning in Brooklyn, and I was bundled up and headed to the Women’s March in D.C. My bus was packed with pink pussy hats, mostly women —  and three guys. No one was quite awake yet. But no one wants coffee yet. It’s too damn early. I knew the organizer Sara and her sister Amy, but otherwise I didn’t know a soul. I’d nabbed one highly coveted seat to get to D.C.; I needed to be there, to represent, to feel connected in a world that seemed more and more divided. For me, this trip was semi ambitious — it was the first time I’d done anything this physically challenging since I’d recovered from cancer treatment. The idea of hoofing it and standing around for eight hours made me a little nervous, but for some reason I wanted to do this on my own, without my husband, mainly in the company of women. It wasn’t more than 10 minutes before I’d met the sparkly Yoon and Kathleen, two moms sitting across from me, cracking open their hard-boiled eggs. We bonded …

Margit’s Note: What Was I Going to Say?

The brain is a weird place. We instantly forget the name of someone we just met, but we remember every damn lyric to “Hotel California.” (“What a nice surprise, bring your alibis.” ARGH!) We rely more and more on our cloud-synced calendars, to do lists and electronic data to keep us current, and if that cloud ever crashed, our whole world would fall from bytes to bits. I am somewhat terrified of losing my memory. I remember seeing my great aunt delicately picking up a spoon to use with her salad and then putting salad dressing on her hamburger and being quietly explained to that she had lost her ability to remember how to do things. (To be fair, given today’s grain-filled salads, she might not have been so off.) As a six-year-old, I was scared to imagine that in the same way I was learning things, I might at some point unlearn them, too. I’ve often thought that there’s only enough genetic data for one sibling to get all the memory juice. For example, my sister has a photographic …