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THE NARRATIVE ARC
Does Women’s History Even Matter When the Bombs are Dropping?
Women keep doing exactly what Maya Angelou said
Some days start out just like any other day. And then, in one split second, they aren’t like any other day. Not before and not since.
It was a cold winter morning. Woke up and turned up the heat. Poured a cup of coffee and carried it to my office like every other morning.
I was deleting spam when I saw the subject line.
Hello Linda, I think you are my cousin.
What? My God, I’ve been looking so long my hands are shaking as I click to Ancestry to read the rest of the message. Hunting for the family my grandparents left behind so long ago. I click. Log in.
Your baba is in my family tree, she says. When your baba went to Canada, mine did not. I think I am your cousin. I am in Ukraine.
I text my child. Say I found my cousin in Ukraine. I’m crying. For this person I have never met and don’t know. But she is my blood.
She asks me if the correct spelling is Alexandra or Oleksandra and I tell her it’s an A. Upload a photo of tattered brown paper in acid-proof plastic and she says “oh my gosh, what a treasure to have” and I agree.
