What It’s Like to Have a Linguist for a Mom
Lessons on creativity, comma placement, and life
Every story, novel, poem, or parody I write gets a first-cut edit from my mother, and it happens without her ever laying eyes on the piece. She is always in my head, gazing at me from the ridge of a ravine.
On the other side, 13-year-old me stomps her feet on a rock and tosses her long hair over her shoulder, posing to capture the wind. She is furious. Her parents have moved her to a college town in the mountains to start graduate school, and she’s about to start seventh grade. No one consulted her about relocating (because she’s 13). No one cared about her plans (because she’s 13). And now, her mother has the nerve to tell her she can’t hike alone through the deep woods of the national forest behind their house as the sun sets behind the mountains.
Teenage Me tucks her hair behind her ear and spits, “I’m only here because of you. Just remember: moving here was your dream, not mine.” She expects these words to cross the rocky divide, punch her mother in the solar plexus, and double her over with regret for the many ills she’s inflicted upon her innocent child.
And indeed, my mother doubles over, tears streaming down her face. She is laughing so hard she can’t breathe. She sweeps her arm to encompass the scene…
