For IVF patients, especially women in their 40s, every day counts. As Zoya Teirstein and Jessica Kutz report in this story, more than half of fertility clinics in 13 states—including Florida, Connecticut, New Jersey, and Delaware—are at risk of hurricane damage. In this collaboration between Grist, Vox, and The 19th, Teirstein and Kutz follow Kirsti Mahon, a woman in Naples, Florida, undergoing IVF, and recount how Hurricane Ian nearly shattered Mahon’s dreams of having a baby. The piece is part of a larger series that focuses on how climate change impacts reproductive health.
On Wednesday morning, Justin injected Kirsti with the last dose of her medication. Southwest Florida was flooding, and parts of the state were losing power, but they hadn’t heard anything from the clinic. Their appointment was supposed to be the next day. As far as Kirsti knew, the procedure was still on track.
Ulrich said she’d love to see clinics establish better relationships with other fertility treatment centers in their region so that patients could transfer to them in times of disaster. She also encourages clinic staff to review their emergency action plans to ensure they are prepared to meet the changing nature of storms, and to be ready to make decisions quickly to salvage cycles and protect embryos. All clinics store embryos in nitrogen tanks, which do not rely on electricity and are typically safe from blackouts or issues with electrical grids. But the labs that embryos mature in before they are frozen do depend on electricity — and if a disaster takes out power for too long, even backup generators can run out of fuel. During Hurricane Katrina, embryos were lost at one clinic for this reason.
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If you’re on social media, you couldn’t have missed the flurry of #80sdancechallenge posts shared across platforms, in which people posted videos of their parents showing off their ’80s dance moves while grooving to Bronski Beat’s “Smalltown Boy.” In this fun read, Jessica Winter discusses great examples over the years of adult children using their parents in film and television projects—from John Cassavetes’ 1974 film A Woman Under the Influence to Max’s Jerrod Carmichael Reality Show. Really, though, the best links in the piece go to Francesca Scorsese’s TikToks, where she records herself with her famous filmmaker dad in genuinely warm and funny clips. It’s a short but thoughtful piece on role reversal, generational drama, and sometimes complex family dynamics.
Across the spectrum of the reverse-sharenting canon—from TikTok teens stunting on their immigrant folks to Oscar-winning directors—a primal generational drama unfolds: how the near-absolute authority of a mother or father gradually wanes, but does not entirely abate, as their kids mature and seize some of that authority for themselves; and how this redistribution of power is further complicated if the adult child attains unusual creative clout, prominence, or wealth. In Carmichael’s reality show, in his standup, and in his interviews, he repeatedly brings up the fact that, despite his parents’ refusal to embrace him completely after coming out, he paid for the house that they live in and he covers their health insurance. This is a multi-edged disclosure. It’s a gotcha on his mother and father, for sure—they accept what he earns but not who he is. But there’s also the plaintive suggestion that he is trying to buy their affections. And, if the viewer senses that their participation in his series is somewhat reluctant, it seems possible that a hint of financial obligation is also in play.
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With our distance, what I miss most is our car rides. You listen to Little Saigon Radio on AM and I prefer to bypass radio frequency with my Spotify playlists. Together, we settle on so-called “easy listening.” You still use a physical map in the rare instance you go somewhere new. I use Google Maps for the most familiar of places. Our final destinations are usually different.
I learned the most about you sitting in the passenger seat. The most memorable conversations with you have been on Beltway 8 en route to the Houston airport before I fly away again. I still haven’t figured out why these drives have literally been the vehicle of our relationship—perhaps it’s the desire to mask the terrible soft rock station, or the monotonous freeway scenery, or your need to be candid since months will pass before we see each other again.
This trend started when I was 18, a few hours before I traveled to Washington, DC, for my first day of college. Our conversation began in your car and continued into terminal A of Houston’s Intercontinental Airport. We sat on a bench a few feet from security. Like always, we were too early.
On the Vietnamese zodiac, you are a water buffalo, typically steady in your movement and words. Like an egret, I relied on you for protection and nourishment. On this day, you were out of temperament. You had talked about your childhood in the car and, now at the airport, you had become an adult. You said, “Did you know that your grandfather died in a reeducation camp?”
By then, I had to go through security. It was time for me to take flight. It was perfectly timed or ill-timed, I’m still not sure. All I know is that I’ve thought and written about that conversation for years. I became obsessed with arranging the historical details of our lives.
In the decade after college, I still needed to be driven to the airport. One early Saturday morning, my final destination was San Francisco—the city I considered home, albeit second only to Houston. I had spent the past 10 years piecing together my family history and you were much more open to all my questions about your life—the escape from Vietnam, the lonely arrival in the United States, and the constant, lingering struggle of life as a Vietnamese man with US citizenship.
“Can I ask you something?” you said, interrupting the synth melody emanating from the “work-friendly” radio.
I was anticipating another significant life event to add to the patchworked narrative in my mind so I said, eagerly, “Sure, Dad.”
“What do you think of me dating again?”
I was baffled. No one coaches you on how to react when your father casually informs you that a family member died for political reasons in a reeducation camp. Similarly, no one tells you how to approach a dating conversation with your aging father. You finally needed me as much as I had needed you.
More confounding: this was the first time we didn’t talk about your past or my next steps. It was about your future.
I wish I had come out to you in the car. Instead, I started that journey alone on a December morning during a visit home. Born on December 25th, you have shared your birthday with what was formerly your wedding anniversary and what is always Christmas day. We often bought a single cake that forced a decorator to write a triple message in buttercream. Now the holidays also commemorate your lesbian daughter coming out.
Dad, it was strange to “come out.” I imagine it was like what you told me at the airport about my grandfather and on all the car rides across Houston. We never learned how to talk, so we kept things inside until we couldn’t.
In San Francisco, I volunteered at an organization where young people lined their office walls with colorful artwork depicting stories and slogans of coming out and being proud. I wasn’t like those kids. I hadn’t said anything to you yet.
I imagined my own artwork. I would draw a picture depicting my Vietnamese parents embracing me. I conjured the full conversations I could finally have with you because I thought my sexuality was the biggest barrier in our relationship. I thought of all the doctor’s visits and therapy sessions where I relayed vague symptoms of anxiety, fatigue, and stomachaches—the signs of being closeted, apparently cured with a serum called coming out. The narrative was too good for mere daydreaming.
I decided what I would do the night before. At daybreak, I positioned myself on the cream-colored polyester couch facing your bedroom door. Do you remember where that was, Dad? I know it has been years since the divorce and since you had to leave that house.
I was still a twentysomething who went to bed late and woke up later. You were a veteran of the South Vietnamese Air Force and maintained a rigid morning routine despite being decades removed from the war and nearly 10,000 miles away from Saigon. With a circadian rhythm more like a sloth than a soldier, I forced myself to wake up before you. As always, I was up, yet so tired.
I remember jolting at the familiar sound of your sticky door. The doors of our rooms expanded and contracted with Houston heat and artificial cold, never fitting perfectly in their frames.
The doors of our rooms expanded and contracted with Houston heat and artificial cold, never fitting perfectly in their frames.
“Jenny?” you said, inflecting my name in confusion. “Why are you up so early?”
“I have something to tell you I’m gay,” I heard myself say. The words fumbled out of my mouth without pause, as if stopping would halt my momentum and propel me back into the closet. Is that how you felt when you told me about my grandfather?
I vaguely recall your reply. It was either an “okay” or a misplaced pleasantry like “thank you” or “I understand.” Although I don’t recall the words, I remember what I didn’t feel: catharsis, relief, or the heaviness that was supposed to lift from my body. All I felt was cold. As I withdrew into my head, you disappeared into your morning walk.
Here is what you did not see:
I paced as the sun rose, awaiting your return, wondering, “What’s supposed to happen after I say it?”
Pauline’s door opened shortly after you left. She was being a dutiful daughter too, home for the holidays. With a drowsy shuffle and a satin sleeping mask on her forehead, she saw the scene: me—alone, confused, upset.
When you returned, I was relieved you decided to come back. I wasn’t used to either one of us returning so soon after an announcement. That relief turned to regret when you began to cry into Pauline’s shoulders.
“What’s going on?” I heard Pauline say.
“What did I do wrong?” you said softly.
I also wondered what I did wrong.
Years later, I now know what went wrong. It wasn’t you or me.
I should have known that before any other identity, I am Vietnamese American first. Before I knew I was gay, I knew I was your con gái—your youngest daughter. Before I was Jennifer, I was “Jenny” because Vietnamese elders flattened the “er” sound from its harsh pronunciation.
I should have known that before any other identity, I am Vietnamese American first. Before I knew I was gay, I knew I was your con gái—your youngest daughter.
I was Vietnamese American in the way I approached the world, always feeling like the underdog fighting someone better. It’s in the arrogant guerilla-like confidence of knowing I have a chance to win despite the odds. It’s in my inclination to add fish sauce to a dish to add depth, how I prefer my beer watered down, enjoyed on a hot day. It’s in my preference for taking my coffee dark roasted, iced, and blunted by dollops of condensed milk.
Most of all, it’s in my way of talking or lack thereof. It’s always with contradictory deference to and skepticism for those who say too much. You always taught me to trust actions, never words. After all, in Vietnam people talked a lot, especially the Americans.
What was more important than talking was our ability to hold secrets. From you, I learned the many shapes of silence—how it can be used violently or as a powerful form of restraint. Rarer was silence as the embodiment of peace, where two people can sit together without words, but in mutual understanding.
Most of the time, we used silence to protect ourselves. You could tell no one of your escape from Saigon before it fell. Otherwise, someone—you, my grandmother, your father—would have died. Like you, Mom survived because she boarded a fishing boat leaving the country having told few people. Unlike those who lived, I imagine that your father died because someone extracted his secrets. Maybe he admitted that he worked for the South Vietnamese government, that he was a high-ranking civil servant, that he wasn’t a communist. He suffered the same ending as those who were open about who they were: he died far away from his family at the hands of the so-called enemy. Years later, no one has told you what actually happened.
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I also had secrets that felt scary to say out loud. The fear of death was not the reason I couldn’t tell you about my sexuality, though at times it felt like the end of the world. I didn’t want to add shame to your difficult life, so instead I tended it myself.
In your years working and living in America, you had to learn English beyond asking for food, water, and shelter—to not just speak English, but to talk in English. Like silence, there are contours to talking. There’s transactional exchanges and intimate conversations filled with emotional depth. You were fixated on talking as deception.
“Talk is cheap,” you often say. It’s your favorite American saying. Similarly, mine is, “Say what you mean, mean what you say.” From you, I developed an aggressive bullshit meter. I learned to listen with one ear and watch with both eyes. You distrusted Americans, but also Vietnamese people of unknown origins, politicians, coworkers, and sometimes your own family.
Dad, talking with you was not just cheap, but also rare. There was safety in keeping secrets, but you were also Vietnamese with limited English and tired from American life. I was too American with deficient Vietnamese and disinterested in our cultural history.
We were both displaced from each other. The divide meant I couldn’t tell you much—like my favorite bands, my day at school, the girl I liked. Instead, dinners were always wordless and so were most of the car rides. This is where silence was disquieting.
Looking back, we never had conversations, just announcements with no expectation of response.
“We’re going to the store right now.”
“I’m going away for college.”
“Your grandfather died in a reeducation camp.”
“I’m gay.”
Dad, you have trained me to be disappointed by talking and its lack of resolve. It worked. I had “come out” many times before I did so with you, all to less than satisfying results. I was so focused on just saying the words that I was never prepared for the responses.
I remember the first time I said “I’m gay” to Pauline. I rehearsed as I had seen on shows like Ellen. We were at a Brooklyn bar in autumn. I was in college, but still underage, so she bought me one of my first beers. I remember the bitter taste and my nervous tick in drinking liquids to quench anxiety. Once I finished, I began to scratch off the blue label, blending the paper with the bottle’s icy residue until a cobalt paste formed at my fingertips. By the time I had finally said “I’m gay,” the bottle had been completely stripped of its label. It was naked and transparent.
As it turns out, Pauline could have been gay too or at least a typical student at NYU because she gave me literal packets of “So You Think You’re Gay” information. Don’t worry, Dad. Your other daughter is, in fact, very heterosexual and a good ally. She didn’t seem phased except when she said this:
“You know, things are going to change with our family.”
Of course, we didn’t really talk about what this meant.
Then there was coming out in college, first to two of my closest floormates. They said something to the effect of “cool” and the conversation continued about something that wasn’t gay like chemistry class and dorm food. My statement was more of a comma than an exclamation in our dialogue.
The most disappointing experience was coming out to my first crush. I had imagined a situation where one of two extremes would transpire. She would either express her love for me as well or she would throw her lunch at me, telling me I was a disgusting fag. I had internet-stalked her enough to know she had used that word once.
From you, I learned the many shapes of silence—how it can be used violently or as a powerful form of restraint.
Neither transpired. We had lunch in Houston during one of our college breaks. I was eating a sandwich when I told her.
“Thanks for letting me know,” she said as if I informed her that I would be running late.
“And you were my first crush,” I added to provoke something—anything—beyond the tepidness of the moment.
“I’m honored,” she replied, grinning through a bite.
I continued eating my sandwich. I drove home in a “why did I hold this in so long, what good did that do” silence.
Dad, in all of these instances, I was working up to you.
We were both taught that secrets would hide and protect us from pain, but perhaps we had less choice in the matter. There’s a difference between being silenced and being silent.
Vietnamese history is a long list of people trying to silence us, of our ancestors remaining quiet for survival. First, it was the thousand years of Chinese rule when we were merely a tributary state, meant to be a vassal for someone else’s trade and culture. Then there were the Catholic missionaries with their colonial conquests. They romanized our language so that we had to relearn how to read, write, and speak with each other. Then came the Japanese, who were cruel and led with disquieting fear and famine. When the French came and went, as most colonizers do, we stopped talking and began to fight each other for power. It was the North, the South, the mirage of the 17th parallel dividing a country along fictitious lines. Most famously, it was the Americans who decided to wage a proxy war with their ammunition and anti-communist messages. Like most hawkish powers, they left and so did their promises.
You and mom were supposedly the lucky ones. You became refugees. You left Vietnam and had two daughters in America where the silencing was passed to the next generation. In this part of our history, I now fight something that obstructs my ability to talk to you and be fully Vietnamese: American assimilation.
Dad, it was probably too hard to talk to me about the violence you witnessed, just as it was too shameful to tell you about my sexuality. To have a conversation requires an engagement or an exchange—something we could not do since we were in constant translation. To you, I was an American girl in a Vietnamese family living a life that you could not recognize. We spoke in updates, never in dialogue about relationships, sex, life in Texas, or your life in Vietnam.
In college, one of my goals was to learn how to talk. More specifically, I was practicing one of the most American traditions—talking about myself. For a long time, all I had were the words and narratives of others. In college, I was thrust into a world of queer activism. People were always late, used big words, and spoke academically. It didn’t sound like home. Instead, it confused me and made me feel stupid. My peers were encouraging me to watch coming-of-age movies and shows, which was a reel of early aughts life looped with raucous parties. It was the Pittsburgh warehouse parties of Queer as Folk and the gabby Sunday brunches of The L Word. Always a quiet person, I struggled to be heard and seen in these depictions. I listened to the coming out stories of others—the relief and acceptance that many of them felt almost immediately. I wanted to be afforded the same pride. I should have known that my narrative would be different.
In our household, you and Mom did not need to put on a performance. We never said the ultimate exchange of words: “I love you.” To be honest, I didn’t care. Like you said, “talk is cheap.” Words could be misunderstood, powerful, malleable, liberating, meaningless. Your actions said all I needed to hear.
The fear of death was not the reason I couldn’t tell you about my sexuality, though at times it felt like the end of the world.
From you and Mom, I learned that love was not about exchanging proclamations of feelings for one another, but the ability to live through pain—war, underpaid work, predatory loans, working-class jobs—to protect your family. In lieu of “I love you,” I learned there was always dinner. You and Mom always provided a four-course dinner consisting of rice, a clear broth soup, a meat, and a sautéed vegetable. We were short on money, but never short on food. Rather than verbal discussions, I could always depend on you picking me up from school activities well past midnight or mom appearing on the sidelines of a basketball game after her rotation of work and school. You were always there on time with a weary expression. Now I know how powerful that was because there are people who say “I love you” and never show up.
“I’m gay,” I told you that December morning.
I think about your response a lot. To be honest, there’s never a perfect “coming out” reply. What’s most interesting is the wording of your response.
“What did I do wrong?” you asked out loud.
Not say—do.
Dad, when I married Tracy, I kept my last name. It was partially out of laziness, but mostly because my surname is one of the last things about me that is purely Vietnamese. Everything else from my so-called mother country is broken and bastardized.
Now, I wrestle with whether I will have children. I mull not having a family, but I’m sad that I may never pass down the Vietnamese parts of us to someone else, just as our occupiers had once intended. Am I silencing us once and for all?
Our relationship is complex, woven with feelings of guilt, misunderstanding, and lost history. There’s a tension that naturally develops when two people share a similar personality, but are divided by historical luck, cultural upbringing, and a generation.
Part of my silence was the shame I felt in being able to live out my chosen future when you could not. Whether real or imagined, I used to think of my success coming at your detriment. The more I assimilated, the more it harmed you. Equilibrium in our relationship felt impossible.
There’s a tension that naturally develops when two people share a similar personality, but are divided by historical luck, cultural upbringing, and a generation.
A few months after I graduated from college and proudly landed my first job, you lost what would become the last job you would ever work. Our working-class family has always been susceptible to the ups and downs of an oil-dependent economy, but the cycle never came back up for you. Our splintered symbiosis meant you were cast aside despite years of loyal labor, yet I was allowed to ascend.
As I entered my long-term relationship with Tracy, your 30-year marriage was formally dissolving. As a bystander to that marriage, it was a long-due decision. Your union was a strained pairing that evolved from simmering pain to relentless wounds. I remember sitting in a hostel in Paris, simultaneously writing transatlantic postcards to the person I would eventually marry while reading your divorce paperwork transmitted via email. It was an odd feeling to write in cavalier, romantic language and to read, in legalese, all the reasons Mom needed to leave you.
Now, as I try to build a full life with Tracy, you work to minimize your belongings and luxuries to fit into your single life on a slender budget. No amount of phone calls or digital infusions of money can bridge the physical and emotional gulf between our lives. In the United States, you are always giving and I am always taking.
How American, right? Even my thinking has assimilated.
Since that moment I said “I’m gay” that December morning and you sobbed “what did I do wrong,” I can see the many years spent slowly moving toward one another. I had to pivot toward how we communicated best—some listening and a lot more doing. I slowly learned from your example and from Tracy, who introduced me as the Vietnamese girl from Texas, eventually shortened by her Chinese mother to just “the girl.” There was never a formal coming out. I didn’t even have to say anything. Instead, I showed up to dinners, baby showers, birthdays, days of death.
I learned that if you show up, you had better eat or do something. Here was the girl driving Tracy’s mom to the dentist. Here was the girl mediating conflict between our twin nieces. Here was the girl dancing with the 3-year-old nephew. The girl did this, the girl did that, the girl, the girl, the girl. I don’t think anyone remembered what I said.
Similarly, we began flying down to Houston together once every year, then twice a year. This was a strategy. I had Tracy install a Wi-Fi router at your house to help you access the world. She marinated meat for your Christmas-birthday BBQ. She showed up to every winter holiday for eight straight years save for the one year she couldn’t.
“Where is she?” our family asked. I knew then that our strategy had worked. We read books, we held babies, and we danced with toddlers to Bruno Mars. We drove people to the San Francisco International and the Houston Intercontinental airports and back. We brought beer to the parties, we attempted to cook, we ate, and we hosted. If someone needed a piñata, we bought it.
When Hurricane Harvey came along, Tracy was up despite the time difference looking through flood plain maps, calmly telling you and Mom what you could do next—where you should stay or go. For Mom it was leave, for you it was shelter-in-place. It’s no surprise that, just one week after Hurricane Harvey, I proposed to her. You seemed happy for me.
Along the way, the more I appeared fully, the more space there was to practice listening and talking, especially with you.
From you, I developed an aggressive bullshit meter. I learned to listen with one ear and watch with both eyes.
One July afternoon in Houston, I was home again. It was the usual checkup on your dry-rotted cabinets, your sputtering air conditioner, and that car with hundreds of thousands of miles. Amid the process, you allowed me to ask more questions, like a work-learn exchange. You told me that you left Saigon on April 28th at 10:30 PM. Your squadron leader said to your crew that “it’s over” and you had two choices: go back to your family or escape. You tried to go back home, but you couldn’t make it out of the airport because of all the shooting and killing happening outside. So, you escaped. The EC-47 took off despite a runway full of burnt planes and bodies.
Then it was a fall afternoon and I was glad to be back for another visit, a feeling that I started developing with age. We may have been at a Vietnamese restaurant on Bellaire Boulevard eating yet another plate of mì xào giòn. You let me ask another question as we waited for the greasy pan-fried noodles. You told me what happened after April 28, 1975. You landed in Thailand and stayed on a US Army base for four days. Again, you were given two choices: Guam or Wake Island. You wanted to follow all the refugees to Guam, so you were placed at a refugee camp there waiting to see if your girlfriend, mom, or dad would arrive too. They never came. Instead, you left the camp alone, headed to Pensacola, Florida.
“What happened to your girlfriend,” I asked.
“It’s a bad story. It hurts. It’s a bad story,” you replied.
There I learned to respect the boundaries of silence.
Jumping ahead to early 2020, it was the week before California decided to lock down from COVID-19. I happened to be in Houston. Newly 70, you were a perfect receptacle for the virus. In the morning, you ate one of two items stocked in your freezer—a Jimmy Dean sausage sandwich or a pepperoni Hot Pocket. You prepared for the pandemic with nothing else. I arrived at your house with soap, Emergen-C, and some vitamins. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to do except show you I could be helpful.
You refused the items, but eventually relented with: “I survived the war, I will survive this.” Do you remember this moment? I do because the war was no longer a whole story that I had to mentally prepare for. It was a hyperbole, a transition in a conversation, just one part of a full discussion.
A few years after the worst of the pandemic, we reunited again. Separated for so long with the fear of losing each other, I was more eager to talk and so were you. This time, you didn’t need prompting. You told me that your father died in 1976. He was a good man who never gambled. In fact, a director in the department of agriculture. Your mother could not leave. Instead, she died of cancer years later in Vietnam. That’s life, you said, the cycle of having children and dying.
In the process, I uncovered all the reasons you may have been silent.
“Không thể,” you said once. You can’t say because it’s too hurtful.
“I don’t want to talk too much about my life and blow it up. If you’re a loser, you keep your mouth shut. That’s the Vietnamese way,” you had explained to me.
“I love you, I want you to know. But not too much,” you said a few times before.
In a way, it all made sense. We had to talk about the silence for me to understand it and accept it. I had to show that I would not weaponize your secrets like others had before.
One-minute calls have stretched to five minutes, our conversations an even distribution of how my life was going and how you are doing. You call me after mass shootings like Colorado Springs and beg me not to go out. You spend a lot of time asking me what I am cooking for Tracy and whether it will be good. Cook for me one day, you now consistently joke. I will, I always reply. I like that part of the conversation.
Cook for me one day, you now consistently joke. I will, I always reply. I like that part of the conversation.
My favorite exchange was on my wedding day. Do you recall that windy fall Sunday in San Francisco? It was your first time visiting me. Before I walked down the aisle, you held my hand. I was wringing yours. Our rare moments of physical touch usually solicit thoughts about the callousness of your machinist hands, the cuts that never seem to heal, and the awkwardness of holding each other. Instead, we were at the doors of the Randall Museum—on the verge of walking outside, down a sidewalk typically leading people into the museum, and onto a grassy knoll. My hand, moist and tense, gave everything away.
“You feel really nervous,” you said to me.
“I’m a little nervous,” I replied.
I felt you lightly squeeze my hand.
“It’ll be alright,” you assured me. That’s all I needed to hear. It quelled the voices in my head. Together, we were in perfect silence.
Then came the cue of our music. I took a small shuffle, then a big step. Together, we began walking.
Dad, we have worked so hard to free ourselves from silence—to give ourselves permission to talk when we choose. I became a writer because I wanted to learn all the ways to twist a narrative for protection and personal provocation. You are now free to move about your days not having to quietly endure a difficult marriage, a job that cut your hands on a regular basis, and the stress of having to raise American children on a working-class wage. For the first time in centuries, Vietnam is no longer under foreign occupation and can wrestle with itself. Dad, I know you and I are luckier than most people.
We also have a lot to work on. We still fight with the same Vietnamese stubbornness that is in our blood. I struggle with knowing far more English than Vietnamese. As you age, I fret about the ultimate silence of losing you. Although this dynamic will never go away, there have been new rhetorical tools to soften our challenges. Phrases like “I’m sorry” and, more recently, “I love you.”
I no longer want to think of our lives as an American zero-sum game. I hope we are creating something else, to allow us to move beyond coming out and toward just being together. That feels much more Vietnamese to me.
Dad, in this lifetime, you lived into your zodiac sign as the steady water buffalo, rooted in Houston, working steadfastly until your body broke. I was the egret, always able to fly away when needed, only coming back when convenient. In a different existence, I imagine a world where our pairing is swapped—where I can be the water buffalo and you can transport yourself as an elegant egret. I want you to fly above the world, through the clouds, to another place where there is life beyond war and peace. Then, upon your return, you can tell me what you saw and I can tell you what I did. We can be together in motion or in stillness, whatever we choose for ourselves.
So, let’s go back to the start of our circuitous journey, where we can begin again.
“What do you think of me dating again?”
I looked at you anticipating self-deprecating laughter that usually rescues me from responding to your statements. You were serious.
I’ve engaged in dating conversations with countless people, most of whom are not you and not over 65. Many of those conversations end with my watching with fascination as they swipe left or swipe right on their apps.
Is that what he is asking for, I wondered? To help him start a dating profile?
I thought of the steep learning curve you—a man who spent a lifetime cutting pipes for oil companies—endured to learn how to use a smartphone. You handled it with the same finesse you would use to mercifully kill a spider—jamming your finger into the glass with disbelief that a machine can transmit touch to action.
Say something, I thought. Say something other than “please don’t use Tinder and date someone my age.”
“You supported me being with Tracy,” I responded. “So, I’ll support you in the decision you make.”
I started to count the green exit signs to prevent myself from crying.
“Okay, good to know,” you replied.
Lost in the emotion, I don’t remember the specifics of what we said next. All I remember is that we talked all the way to the airport.
Jennifer Thuy Vi Nguyen is a creative nonfiction writer and proud native Houstonian currently based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has appeared inEmerge(where she also served as editor), The Offing, Foglifter, the Ponder Review, and New Rivers Press as the winner of the American Fiction Award. Her writing has been supported by the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity, the Vermont Studio Center, among others. She writes humorist pieces in “Thursday Letters with Jen” via Substack. She is working on her first book, “A Writer from Houston.”
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This is the story of Debra Stevens, who found a second family amongst the elephants of Botswana. Complete with beautiful video clips, this piece immerses you into life at Elephant Havens, then threads back to a different journey of discovery back in Stevens’ home of Dallas, Texas.
The mood turns sober when the young elephant stumbles out of the truck, into the boma. Her eyes were wrapped in cloth to help keep her calm on the journey, and she blindly bumps her head along the inside perimeter of the posts until Bee manages to reach through and loosen the blindfold. The elephant shakes her head, and the cloth falls. Once she sees humans, her ears flare out wide, contradicting her emaciated frame. A backbone juts up like a curved fin, and her hide hangs in loose folds where limbs meet midsection. After getting her bearings, she rushes in our direction, stopping short of the posts.
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Emma Copley Eisenberg calls out the publishing industry for weight prejudice in this fascinating essay. Reading the piece makes you will realize how few times you have experienced an overweight main character while reading fiction. And that will make you think.
Thinness is routinely associated with morality and fatness with immorality. Characters are often made fat as a shorthand to tell the reader that they are gross, weak, evil, cruel, stupid, unimportant, or mentally ill (as I’ve previously noted over on Substack). “My body was a beautiful, perfect economy, every feature calibrated, everything in balance,” writes Gillian Flynn in Gone Girl(2012) of the character’s form before she gains weight. On the first page of The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff (2023), a character is described as “a woman whose capacity for food was exceeded only by her capacity for venom.” And in Bonnie Garmus’s Lessons in Chemistry(2022), the main character is sexually assaulted by a professor named Meyers who is described as “a big man—nearly 250 pounds—his strength a product of density, not fitness.” With few exceptions, such remarks serve no narrative purpose.
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About 100,000 people in the United States have sickle cell disease. Roughly 90 percent of them are Black. And many of them have harrowing, even devastating experiences with reproductive health care. For this investigative feature, Eric Boodman, one of the finest writers covering science and medicine today, speaks to 50 women with sickle cell disease about their experiences. They describe being pressured into having tubal ligations, hysterectomies, and abortions. “Some stories carry echoes of ‘Mississippi appendectomies’ of the mid-20th century, in which Black women would go in for a different procedure and wake up to learn that their uterus had been removed,” Boodman writes. His sources also talk about being judged, scolded, and shamed by doctors, which Boodman describes as “a kind of verbal sterilization, when doctors express the pernicious belief that people with sickle cell disease cannot or should not have kids.” Boodman examines the meaning of “informed consent” and reveals how the strict definition of the term can be exploited by doctors, protecting them from liability while still ruining the lives of patients. This story is beautifully written to boot, amplifying its impact. It is the first in an ongoing series. I am excited—and terrified—for the rest. —SD
Ann Neumann | The Baffler | June 4, 2024 | 3,561 words
In the aftermath of the opioid crisis, have we gone too far in restricting access to pain medication, creating agony for the terminally ill and stigmatizing those with a legitimate need for pain relief? Writing for The Baffler, Ann Neumann thinks so. “Opium and its derivatives are the most effective pain relievers known to man,” she writes. Because heavy restrictions have reduced morphine demand, it’s less profitable for drug companies. Less profit ensures drug companies are less motivated to produce it, causing shortages. This means you or someone you love may not have access to morphine, which the World Health Organization notes is “the most basic requirement for the provision of palliative care.” Neumann delves into the history of opium and its derivatives, revealing a centuries-old cycle of “use, abuse, and control” that has failed those struggling with addiction and those who require pain management. Her approach is a compassionate one, which I deeply appreciate. My mom suffers from sudden debilitating pain that can last for days, yet she’s loathe to take what she’s been prescribed because she’s worried about becoming addicted. The stigma runs deep. “Rather than shame and blame the drugs, the drug manufacturers, or the drug users, we will see no real progress until we compassionately tackle addiction’s roots in poverty, trauma, racism, policing, and inadequate health care,” she writes. “A society that has seen the kind of abuse of opioids the United States has experienced, along with widespread confusion about their proper use, is a society immersed in many varieties of pain.” To vary an old idiom: if only an ounce of compassion could be worth a pound of cure. —KS
Amos Barshad | The Lever | May 30, 2024 | 3,701 words
I had a surprisingly decent Caesar salad at my second nephew’s birthday party recently—at a bowling alley. In addition to the spread of food, I was impressed by the setup, from the party decor the facility provided to its modern and comfy lounge seating at each lane. But I didn’t know, until I read this story about the Bowlero Corporation, that this place is part of an empire of bowling centers that’s wiping out independent bowling alleys across the US—and that it isn’t meant to be a bowling alley at all, but an “upscale entertainment center.” Reading Barshad’s piece on the rise of the private equity-backed firm Bowlero, which is the largest bowling center operator in the world, put the experience into context. Yes, we sipped craft beer and cocktails, and the food wasn’t that bad. But the kids spent more time at the arcade and laser tag than actually bowling, and gone was the no-frills feel of a neighborhood bowling alley. I realize that’s a plus for some people, but it honestly made me sad. When I was a kid, I loved bowling with my dad at our local spot (shout-out to Bel Mateo Bowl, which still operates in San Mateo, California!). I remember all the league signs hanging above us with bowlers’ highest scores. The shop where they measured my tiny grip and drilled holes into my very own eight-pound ball with my name on it. My dad hooking his ball perfectly, alongside other silent and methodical bowlers, throwing strike after strike. This is the bowling experience I grew up with—a culture, Barshad writes, that’s under threat as Bowlero expands. My pick last week was similar in that it commented on the privatization of another beloved pastime—surfing—but in that piece, the author laments changes in the sport while seeing the positives of riding an artificial wave inside a mall. Barshad’s dive into the inner workings of Bowlero, however, reveals a monopoly with no redeeming qualities. From discriminatory hiring and employment practices to a CEO who’s only interested in lining his pockets, it’s clear that the people running the company don’t care about the sport. “I don’t think anyone takes bowling seriously,” the CEO once said. “Why would you?” This is a great but depressing read from Barshad. There are 3,500 independent bowling centers left in the country; if yours still stands, support it. —CLR
Rosecrans Baldwin | GQ | June 5, 2024 | 4,971 words
For some reason, I have a bottomless appetite for the ways people try to crystallize the zeitgeist. Pantone has its color of the year. (Peach fuzz.) Oxford and Merriam-Webster, their words of the year. (Rizz and authentic, respectively.) Time, its Person of the Year. (Taylor Swift, though it’s only a matter of time before “insufferable 20-person polycule” breaks through.) And of course, writer after writer tries to coin the next “vibe shift.” For GQ, Rosecrans Baldwin investigates a corporeal version: men who are getting yoked and/or staving off aging by any means necessary injectable. Maybe you’re blessedly unaware of this phenomenon! Maybe your personal algorithm has avoided the onslaught of mesomorphs preaching the iron gospel on TikTok. Maybe you’ve not yet hit the age at which the word “testosterone” magically proliferates in your inbox and podcast feed. But with weight training bigger than it’s ever been, the use of performance-enhancing drugs has exploded in parallel. Baldwin talks to an endless array of people who augment themselves from every apothecary aisle; steroids, SARMs, peptides, growth hormones, and more. These confer varying effects and pose varying degrees of risk, but the most shocking thing about the piece isn’t the horror stories about things gone wrong. It’s the ubiquity. Then again, it’s yet another symptom of the mass image-driven insecurity fed by—and even accelerated by—social media. “The platforms are super apps for performance enhancement,” writes Baldwin. “[P]laces where the curious can be inspired by (edited) photos, introduced to (sketchy) regimes, and directed where to (illegally) purchase them, before finally sharing topless mirror selfies, to display their boost-gotten gains.” Yet, you won’t find Baldwin moralizing, hand-wringing, or psychologizing. Instead, he lets his sources do that work, and simply provides the scaffolding and context necessary to turn that into a story. And an illuminating one it is. —PR
Danielle Elliot | The Guardian | May 28, 2024 | 4,326 words
I have had two sets of friends go through the intrauterine insemination (IUI) process, so I am not unfamiliar with the concept of buying sperm. I have already been confused—when, on being shown a donor, I was presented with a picture of a child (sperm banks use pictures of donors when they were children). I’ve been flabbergasted—at the cost of a single vial of sperm. Been dismayed—when it didn’t work. Delighted when it finally did. But, as knowledgeable as I thought I was on this topic, Danielle Elliot showed me I still had much to learn about this world. Sperm is a hot commodity, with low stock levels post-pandemic and a screening process that accepts only about 4 percent of donors. Elliot’s piece is a rollercoaster ride as she races to meet her ovulation cycles. With securing a vial of sperm akin to getting a Taylor Swift ticket, I felt my stress levels rising as Elliot dithers on the phone during plummeting stock, wanting to yell, “Just buy it!” at her. Even when sperm is secured, there are many hurdles to cross. One particularly frustrating moment is when Elliot misses a cycle because, as a doctor informs her, “The woman who facilitates sperm shipments will be on vacation next week.” Navigating logistics and expense, Elliot begins to consider other options: after all, $16,723 in, she is no closer to having a baby. Written with a searing honesty, you will find yourself deeply invested in this journey. —CW
Audience Award
Which story did our audience love most? Let’s hear some timpani!
Maria Iqbal | Toronto Star | May 25, 2024 | 2,935 words
An Italian woman named Antonietta spent her last years in a care home, with no visits from anyone that knew her. But she was not friendless. So why was no one in her community informed of her whereabouts? A heart-wrenching story of a woman, quite literally, lost in the system. —CW
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Whether or not you agree with the headline’s hyperbole, there’s no denying that steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs are more widespread than they’ve ever been—another foul tributary branching out from the social media cesspool. For GQ, Rosecrans Baldwin talks to the men and women who have taken the syringe route to Swollsville. Natty or not? Definitely not.
Still, Nick stuck with them and gradually added other compounds. He rattled off some of the drugs he tried during his career with such familiarity, they sounded like underground hardcore bands. Anavar, D-Bol, NPP. At times, depending on the compound, he was shooting every day, a thousand-plus milligrams per week. And he grew muscle, lots of it—and he also grew paranoid, and felt extremely lethargic outside the gym. And yet: “The second you touch a weight, you’re a god. I was gaining 20, 40 pounds on my bench press every two to three weeks. It was madness.”
Meanwhile, one of the drugs turned his sweat yellow (also his semen). His hairline receded and he switched to a mohawk. “This is the progression of bodybuilders: full hair, mohawk, bald.” Plus, he experienced such bad acne, he started going to a tanning salon multiple times a week, mainly to roast his back.
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