BETTER. EMPATHETIC. DECENT. In 2013 my 79-year-old father had been in and out of the hospital repeatedly and then had to be placed into a facility that specializes in Alzheimer’s care. His Alzheimer’s, along with prostate cancer, caused a substantial decline in his overall health. During a visit with him to one of his doctors, […]
LOVING. CURIOUS. DETERMINED. I am one of 7 children born to my mother, I’m next to the youngest, one of 4 girls and the 2nd of three daughters born to her and the man I call my father. My mother was married once before she and my father met and from that union, my three
WIFE. MOTHER. PHENOMENAL WOMAN. I never asked my mom or dad the whole time I was growing up why I looked different than everyone in my family. But growing up in rural small-town Iowa, I was keenly aware of it and it affected everything I did throughout my childhood. I was the only “black” child
JOYFUL. INQUISITIVE. ADVENTUROUS. On June 2, 1978 at the St Francis Hospital in Peoria, IL, I was born. Less than 30 days later, I was adopted by Russ and Norma Hudson. Russ was a farmer and worked at a major seed company at the local plant. Norma also worked on the farm and became an
MOTHER. POET. WRITER. The first strong memory I have is being on a ship with my beloved nursemaid, Gladys. I remember not feeling well and being in my little bed most of the time. By the time we docked though, I was feeling fine and ready for another adventure. I remember the two of us
FATHER. HARD WORKER. FAMILY. In December of 2018, my Aunt offered to send my wife and I DNA tests. She had been building the family tree and was also curious about my wife’s side of the family. We were really excited because we’d always wanted to do them to learn more about our ancestry. Our
WRITER. WIFE. COMPLETE. When you look at family tree charts, they’re beautiful. The roots run deep, hidden, all the way to Adam and Eve. Then comes the trunk, heavy with sturdy limbs. Each limb is covered in branches, laden with thousands upon thousands of leaves. That’s me, just one small leaf. Only my family tree
NURSE. RETIRED. CARETAKER. The man I’d always known as my father said some startling things on his deathbed. You know, Alesia, he remarked during those final weeks, your mom is not who she seems to be. Mark my words, he said another time, once I’m gone, your mother will marry again in less than six
MOTHER. ADVOCATE. STORYTELLER. I was born in Seattle to a single mom. My dad, who’d cleaned himself up briefly had relapsed into heroin use and left my mom just two months after they were married. They divorced before I was one. My mom’s parents were murdered when I was four—but that’s another story. So, it
