Mistaken identity, miscarriage, and the New South
Welcome back to Memoir Monday—a weekly newsletter and quarterly reading series, brought to you by Narratively, The Rumpus, Catapult, Longreads, Granta, and Guernica. Each essay in this newsletter has been selected by the editors at the above publications as the best of the week, delivered to you all in one place. It may be the start of a new work week, but at least we have this great new writing to get us through it.
My Name-Twin Was Arrested for Robbery...and Everyone Thought It Was Me
by Davon Clark (art by Thomas White)
It wasn’t the first time an acquaintance of mine had had legal troubles, and it damn sure wasn’t the first time I’d been mistakenly accused of being involved, but my anxiety was still surging. Nothing had been more ingrained in me as a black man than the mandate to do whatever I had to in order to avoid being seen as a problem to society. Now it felt like I had failed that simply by having the wrong name. It felt like the plot of a sitcom and a nightmare rolled into one.
If Miscarriage is So Normal, Why Doesn’t Anybody Talk About It?
by Anna Lea Hand
The entire time I am pregnant, the entire three-and-a-half months, Jamie and I tell no one about it except for a couple people out of necessity. I tell no one because that’s what I’m supposed to do, and, honestly, because I didn’t want to be seen as a pregnant person and have people put their expectations on me, their joy on me, their definitions of how I must and should be feeling on me.
Carving Out a Vietnamese Identity in the New South
by Kim O'Connell
We stopped at a rest area near Charlottesville for a bathroom break and some snacks. As we pulled into the crowded parking lot, I noticed an SUV with four men inside, eating some takeout. I didn’t think much of them until I saw the trunk of their car—filled with robes, hoods, flags, and signs. Hateful signs. I knew instantly what I was seeing: members of the modern Ku Klux Klan.
Too Close to Home
by Ali Black
In the days that follow, I order mace and look online for a pocketknife and bat. The paranoia stalks me. Around the house, whenever Donald isn’t home, I command our dog to follow me everywhere I go. “Come on, Vizhen,” I plead. Sometimes he looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. Most of the time he follows me. I know he knows what’s up. When I’m in the kitchen cooking, I make a plan to throw the hot catfish grease on any intruder. When I’m getting out of my car, I think about anything I can grab and use as a weapon. Our shovel. My laptop. Anything.
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