WARNING EXTENDED BLOG: (Fit to print!)
Did you know that you can get paid to write? There is a whole slew of contests out there just waiting to be won. Money up for grabs.
I have my eyes on a “contest” through the Bronx Council of Arts called: ” Individual Art Grant and ACE.” Twenty-five people in several different artistic mediums are chosen to win a $3,000 grant and then perform some type of community service as part of the grant. Sounds good to me. The husband has already submitted some poetry.
That said, here’s, what I hope is, the first draft of a winner. This is what they call an extended blog. You have been warned. If you are supposed to be at work working or at school learning, hop to it.
(Had to center it to get any kind of margins!)
Daddy’s Little Girl
by AM Hausman
by AM Hausman
I used to think that my father lived in a drawer. Literally. Until I was fourteen years old, my mother kept a drawer for my father. Even though he had been gone for as long as I could remember, a drawer full of his old sweaters, shirts and pants sat in my mother’s mahogany dresser. When the sock drawer threatened to overflow, I asked my mother if I could move my father’s things elsewhere.
“No. It’s your father’s drawer.”
On Father’s Day at my elementary school, all the fatherless children would make Father’s Day cards. Every year, it was the same card. On the front, I drew a shirt with a tie. My father didn’t own any ties but every Macy’s commercial leading up to Father’s Day seemed to suggest that he should. When I came home from school, I would show the brightly decorated card to my mother.
“See, Mami, I made a card for Papi in class today. Look, Mami, mira!”
Every year, my mother would pause, a faraway look overtaking her. She wouldn’t look at me.
“Put it in the drawer.”
¨¨¨
Read the rest of the story here: Daddy’s Little Girl
“No. It’s your father’s drawer.”
On Father’s Day at my elementary school, all the fatherless children would make Father’s Day cards. Every year, it was the same card. On the front, I drew a shirt with a tie. My father didn’t own any ties but every Macy’s commercial leading up to Father’s Day seemed to suggest that he should. When I came home from school, I would show the brightly decorated card to my mother.
“See, Mami, I made a card for Papi in class today. Look, Mami, mira!”
Every year, my mother would pause, a faraway look overtaking her. She wouldn’t look at me.
“Put it in the drawer.”
¨¨¨
Read the rest of the story here: Daddy’s Little Girl
Memoirs of a Jewminicana 