Why I Started Human/Mother

Never in a million years did I think that this would be the "circle back" that I'd make, but here we are.

Last January, I re-read my undergraduate honors thesis titled, “Anne Bradstreet’s Ambiguous Desire for Print Publication.” And yes, as you can imagine, the now fifteen-year-old essay, written by me, a naive college kid back then, had not aged well.

The strangest part about re-reading the physical book was that by the end of it, I felt something shift within. No, it wasn’t because of the queasiness I felt from the cringiness while reading the maladroit writing—but something else. And then I realized that I, too, shared something in common with the 1600s-era Puritan wife of a governor: I, too, had an ambiguous desire for print publication that began decades ago.

In my thesis, I argued that Anne Bradstreet, socially, religiously, and politically, could not have shown an outward desire to have her work published for a larger audience because of the devious implications and also the devastating backlash she would have faced. Printing her work would have been seen as egregious and unlawful as a woman, as a Christian, as a Governor’s wife, and as a mother. She would have become the next “Joan of Arc,” except the one from Massachusetts. In modern terms, she would have been “canceled.”

She played a subordinate role in every facet of her life—except on the page. 

Her willingness to scrupulously study her craft and then experiment with it irrefutably proves that there was some innate desire burning beneath her pious guise. 

We write for ourselves, yes, as a form of therapy, but we also write for myriad reasons: to share information; to feed our egos; to share both our heartbreaking and heartwarming stories; to understand ourselves and others; to expand our perspectives of the world; to search for life’s purpose; and, perhaps above all, to continue the love affair that we have with our “Pen,” as Bradstreet so eloquently captures in her poem, “Prologue.”

I’m confident that my attending professor rolled his eyes when he read my thesis proposal. Anne Bradstreet? Really? Yet, I am uncertain which he found more boring: the subject matter or me. Either way, I was determined to learn more about this obscure historical figure, to piece together the puzzle that would perhaps reveal something new, something undiscovered by the male scholars who were “experts” on her life. I desperately wanted to prove that women have had unspoken wants for far too long and that for once, we should be goddamn heard—even if it's centuries later.

As a self-proclaimed cold case detective, I was on the hunt to revive and defend Anne Bradstreet. The connection I felt to her writing, her situation, and her unspoken hopes and dreams was palpable—maybe even prophetic.

I’m doubtful that I constructed the strongest case for her as a twenty-year-old honors English student, who drank PJ (i.e. “party juice”) on most weekends during my junior and senior years, but I gave it my best shot.

Now, after extensive self-reflection, I’ve come to realize that it’s time for me to give myself my best shot at age 36.

Since I was a little girl, I have loved writing. Playing with words and grasping for my “muse” were amongst my hobbies as young as the age of nine.

I used to wake up in the middle of the night to scribble down a new poem or jot down a few words brought to me in a dream. I would then wake the next morning and attempt to put together the clues and polish my “unrefined ore.”

I checked out books from my local library and read voraciously, studying various writer’s styles and techniques. The stacks became my preferred place of refuge, beating out my own home.

In middle and high school, I started reading author’s autobiographies and books written by authors that discussed their processes. (Stephen King’s On Writing, Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life, and Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic are some of my favorites that immediately come to mind.) 

Whenever I tell you that I was a “real one,” I was a “real one,” as the kids say these days. 

I ended up pressing pause on my dream to be a writer and an editor due to the 2009 recession. A mentor professor suggested that I go into teaching because I was good at it (based on my experience of tutoring freshmen English students) and because of the job security and benefits. And so, I listened to her advice and went straight into a graduate-level teaching program at North Carolina State University with her recommendation.

I spent the next ten years teaching English language arts in middle and high school classrooms in North Carolina, Texas, and NYC. I fell in love with the job, albeit slowly. And after ten years of service, hormonal teenagers had completely won my heart, and I found great joy in the creative work of crafting engaging and relevant lessons every single day for my students.

“My kids” helped me better understand my strengths and weaknesses as a teacher and as a human being. I improved in my craft as they improved in theirs.

They also taught me about Life’s As and about our Country’s Fs. As their English teacher, I read some of the most heartbreaking stories; some of which dealt with sexual or emotional abuse, suicidal ideation, immigration, trauma, and grief.

But, despite their challenges and the insanity that is teaching middle schoolers, my faith in humanity and in the next generation was restored. (Side note: Y’all, we’re going to be okay!)

During my tenth year of teaching (2019-2020), I was awarded both personally and professionally: I got pregnant and received tenure from the NYC Department of Education. And then in March of 2020, COVID infiltrated NYC and changed my life’s trajectory (and millions of others’ life trajectories, too). On April 14, 2020, I gave birth to my first child: a beautiful baby girl.

And that’s when everything changed—everything. 

In that formidable first year of parenthood, I began to take a good, hard look at myself in the metaphorical mirror. Old wounds from my childhood started to crack open and bleed all over the place. I was breaking—physically, emotionally, and psychologically.

I realized that I needed professional help, but I was afraid to ask for it because that would mean that I would have to relive the painful memories that I had spent years burying. And as a new, sleep-deprived mom, I couldn't fathom “doing the work” and expending all that non-existent energy. While breastfeeding or changing diapers or bathing or stroller-ing or staring at my perfect miracle while she slept, I often wondered in total befuddlement: When? How?

In December of 2020, our family of three packed up our 500-square-foot apartment in Sunnyside, Queens and moved to a two-bedroom bungalow in Asheville, North Carolina, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. And, as we began to settle in a new city, I became pregnant (again) and became a mama (again) to another sweet baby girl in January of 2022.

Matrescence, like adolescence, is, without a doubt, the most massive shift in a woman’s identity—mind, body, and soul. The things that were once important no longer are, and the things that seemed “basic,” pre-kids, are of the utmost importance.

Feeling the sun on my face, moving my body, nourishing my body, hydrating my body, being present, and practicing gratitude, compassion, and kindness are non-negotiables these days.

Who cares what I did today, but what did my daughters do today? 

Did one of my daughters learn a new word? Did she bust out a new dance move? Did she write her name from memory? Did she create her own bedtime story? Did she look me in the eyes, close them, and give me a kiss and a hug? Did she tell me that she loved me? 

Our world becomes theirs. And we give it to them—at first, begrudgingly, but then rapidly: unapologetically, selflessly, gracefully (most of the time). 

I weaned my youngest daughter two months ago, and I have begun to feel another shift. My headspace has become less cluttered. My body has begun to feel more like my own again. My soul has expanded and continues to expand like the mysterious Universe that which we are so lucky to have a place in.

The experience of becoming a mother has been wild to say the least, but what I have learned from the experience is this: we cannot silence our inner child, who is fighting tooth-and-nail, to heal and to play. 

Since becoming a mother, little Katrina has been screaming, pulling, and slapping for my attention, just like my children behave in the middle of a tantrum. She not only requires of me to do “the work” (i.e. therapy); she commands me to sit down and to begin—to dance my fingers across the dreamscape of keys before me and embark on a journey that, like motherhood, is both terrifying and thrilling.

And as I set out to tell my story, to write straight from the heart, I have begun to feel lighter, feel more free—feel more me.

So, without further ado, it’s time to do the damn thing for Anne Bradstreet, for my girls, and for me.

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