Category Archives: Writing

That woman is me

The prospect of writing the words “me too” on Facebook has filled me with dread each time I’ve gotten close. This morning I read a friend’s post expressing similar feelings and it made me recall this essay. I’ve decided to share it here. 

That woman is me

by Jillian Myrom, Minnesota Women’s Press, July 29, 1992

I’ve never seen a dead body before. I didn’t expect that feeling of numbed comprehension, the awe that comes over me as I stand at the window with the other secretaries looking out at the scene at 8 a.m.

Any other day, we have the best view in the building, looking up a sloping grassy hill with the St. Paul Cathedral looming over the top. Majestic. Idyllic.

Today there are several policemen lining the road at the top of the hill. The body is at a distance from them, lying at the foot of a tree. Behind her is a low wrought-iron gate which scales the hill; behind the gate is a forest. Continue reading

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Someone misses us now

Dietmar and I at the Müggelsee regatta

Dietmar and I at the Müggelsee regatta

The tables have been turned. The blogger has been blogged about—in the Wannsee rowing club newsletter, by one of her own characters, no less. After dropping his name all year in my blog, club organizer Dietmar has done the same and written an article about “a certain American rower” who kept a blog.

I’ve been outed; the people I wrote about in Berlin are becoming aware that during those months I rowed with them, I was soaking it all in, carrying home stories of how life is from their shores. Continue reading

Wilting

orhcidMy life seems to ooze out in all directions here in St. Paul; Berlin contained us, lifted us up out of our natural habitat like a sieve, straining out all possessions and people, plunking our fivesome in an alien place that looked familiar but wasn’t quite. It was as if we’d been scooped up from the ocean and released in a kid’s dug-out pool of seawater on the beach. We swam around there for a while with wide eyes so we could report back to our friends in the big ocean what life in the pool was like, knowing, always, that the arrangement was temporary.

Coming home is like the tide came in and swept us back up into the big churning sea. The ocean is far too vast to describe; it’s too familiar, it’s all consuming, and the long and short of it is I can’t figure out how to blog in this environment. How to write in this environment, I should say, because some people might insinuate that blogging is not really writing, but that was months ago, and I think I’m over it now. Continue reading