Before the pandemic, I lived in New York City. On one of my mom's visits, we were sitting side by side on the subway heading downtown. I think we were talking about what to do about dinner that night. Suddenly she turns and asks me, “so, how many men have you slept with?” I'm used to questions like these coming out of the blue. Luckily, she says it in Greek. I began to argue with her, also in Greek, in a half-empty subway car, in the middle of the afternoon… about sex. Particularly how it wasn't really any of her business. “You came out of me,” which is her argument whenever I ask for privacy. Which I'm certain is a Greek thing. “Just tell me that there have been men!” She shouted. Was she asking if I was a lesbian, or if I was a virgin? “It's just sex, it's like a sausage going in and out, it's no big deal.” She was calling me a prude. “Okay, please stop talking, I have had sex,” I might have shouted in English, my mother then sighing in relief and going quiet. I would be remiss if I didn't say this is how most of our conversations go; me exasperated and mortified, she going silent or moving on to some sort of small talk. Our relationship has always been a tug and pull, mainly between my mother's traditional Greek ideas and values, and my yearning to be just like any other American Girl. My mother only come to the country in her early twenties, newly married, and not knowing one word of the language. Even so, she adapted to some American thinking and raised her three daughters with notions of getting an education, being independent, and never having to rely financially to anyone; especially a man. But some of the greek traditional ideas leaked through now and again. And then the entire world stopped. I was in New York when the pandemic came to the United States. We quickly became the epicenter of the crisis, sirens wailing at all hours, make-shift hospitals being pitched up in Central Park, and millions of people all around us completely devastated. It became too much for me. I started having panic attacks, not sleeping, and worrying about how I was going to survive. New York is expensive at the best of times, so I decided that it was best to move back home to save money. So I'm back in my childhood bedroom living with my mom and our cat Violet. I'm 30. I quickly had to set some ground rules. See, mom doesn't really know what a closed door means. She comes into my room without knocking. This would not work if I was in the office in the middle of a zoom meeting or filming a self-tape or writing. So I had to explain if the door is closed, you cannot come in. No, you cannot come pee while I'm showering. Have I mentioned my mom is bad with boundaries? She thinks I'm messy because I leave plates in the sink and she has accused me of loving Violet more than her. We've had a lot of difficult talks. Some even about sex. I told her about a guy I invited to stay over after we stayed out really late; how he offered to sleep on the floor and that nothing had to happen. “So he slept on the floor, did you give him enough blankets?' “No Mom, he slept in my bed because I wanted to have sex.” My mom shuttered. “I thought you wanted me to tell you about this stuff?” “Yes, but not all at once, Niki.” She's learned about online dating which she calls appointments for sex. Which I encourage because it's hysterical. On our family trip to Greece the summer I was 13, my aunt, my older cousin Eleni and I were sitting in a cafe. A really obnoxious sports car drove by, I think it was lime green, and my cousin said how much she liked it. Without a second thought, my aunt told my cousin, “if you marry a rich man maybe he'll have a car like that and you can ride in it.” I was shocked, so I asked my aunt, “why couldn't Eleni get a car like that for herself?” She looked at me with pity, “that's harder for girls to do.” My mother would never have said that to me. If I wanted a fancy lime green Ferrari she would say, “you'll have to work very hard.” I realized how different the two women were. My aunts do not know how to drive a car, they don't own their own property, do not have a bank account separate from their husbands, and don't work. Leaving in her early twenties made all the difference, not just in how she carried herself and lived her life, but how my mother raised her daughters. I'm brave because she was. I'm moving back to London in September and my mom is not very happy about it. She's just always going to worry about me when I'm somewhere alone with only me looking out for me. That's just the way it's always going to be, because I'm her kid. We keep having our hard talks, she keeps walking into my office without knocking. But we make sure we have an outing every Sunday, and she makes me laugh because she's the funniest person I know. And we talk. I haven't told her how many men I've slept with but I put the dishes in the dishwasher now. She's still learning about boundaries. And that's okay.

Grace moved from England to Montreal as a war bride in 1945 where she raised her 4 children. Melanie was the youngest daughter of 5. Melanie's oldest sister died during the Blitz of London. Melanie was given a diary when she was 8 years old. Every night before bed she wrote in her diary and she turned to it as if it were her best friend. Melanie describes in detail what life was like for her. When she was 17 years old she boarded a plane with her mother to return to Lullington Road in Dagenham England to visit her Gran and Grandad. This is where she met Tony, the boy next door. A boy Grace did not approve of. Melanie, quickly fell in love with Tony and by age 19 they were married. Tony and Melanie moved to Canada to start a family. They had a son and twin daughters. Melanie was diagnosed with breast cancer that spread to her brain and she passed away in 1999. She left behind a son of 16 and twin daughters aged 13. I am Melanie's youngest daughter. She had written nightly diary entries until she died. During the pandemic I began to read the diaries and the trauma of such profound loss spilled out of the pages and into my lap. Life's bitter grasp of grief that had been clenched around my throat after her passing began to loosen and I discovered who my mother was. I discovered the love story between my parents and the reason why my father never recovered when she died. How was he truly to live without her? During the pandemic I held the weight of her diaries on my lap like a thousand pounds of brick and decided it was time to heal from the trauma that had ruled my life! I created a blog and through the pandemic I was reunited with my mother who left me behind nearly 25 years ago.

My son was 17 when Dr. Christine Blasey Ford accused Brett Kavanaugh of sexual assault. I was busy in the kitchen when my son bustled down the stairs yelling, “Mom! Where are you?” Finding me at the stove, he asked if I was aware of the accusations. Elated he was up-to-date on current events, I turned to give him full attention. “Can you believe this woman is accusing him of sexual abuse that supposedly happened 30 years ago? Why did she wait until now? I think some women want attention by accusing men when they get famous.” I was incensed. I wanted to confront my son with statistics- to throw every scholarly article on sexual assault in his face. But I knew if I did, I would not only close the door on further discussions but slam it in his face. His words triggered deep wounds. I was also 17 when my gym teacher sexually assaulted me. He told me not to tell anyone, and quite frankly, I was afraid of him. He had all the power. When my parents found a letter to my friend detailing the assault, they contacted the school. Called to the principal's office, I encountered two angry men who stood by the coach's denial and accused me of lying. It was his word against mine-I had no proof. The coach was not fired and remained at the school. It is traumatic to be sexually assaulted, but to be shamed and called a liar compounds the trauma. False reports of sexual abuse are rare. Unfortunately, there is a cognitive dissonance that occurs when we hear about sexual assault, making it difficult for people to believe that it can be true- especially when the accused is famous, well-respected, or influential. I didn't know how to help my son understand this dynamic, but the silence was no longer an option. I had only one choice, and it would require a vulnerability my son had not seen from me. During a relaxing family trip to the mountains, my son and I were sitting on the deck of the log cabin enveloped by the gentle winds, the cacophony of birdsong, and the smell of the musty forest floor. Reluctantly, my voice quivering, my stomach full of bumblebees, I told my story. I shared what it feels like as a victim of sexual abuse; how hard it is to tell someone; how demoralizing it is to be discounted, shamed, and silenced. His gaze intense, I could see anger, pain, and compassion. It would have been easier to keep my secret, to share facts, figures, and scholarly research in the hope my son would see the issue from a different angle, but it would have eliminated the human component of a sexual assault. It is one thing to read about it; it's another to know the victim. Recently, my son asked for my abuser's name as I hadn't revealed this. When I asked him why it was so important, he said, “Because I want to hunt him down.” I guess our next conversation will focus on nonviolent activism, but for now, I have to remember he is 17 and loves his mama.

I am pissed off with my mother because she wants me to eat cupcakes..... which is fine but after a long night of artwork producing I got hungry for chocolate cupcakes and nearly ate the whole fucking box not knowing I was going to have the motherfucker of all nightmares. I was nice to her this morning but now remembering the fucked up dream... I want to cuss her out. But then again it's hard to stay pissed off with your pearl.

I don't know if my pearl will approve of this but I shall tell you guys. I may have found someone who I might want to spent spend my life with. This took two month to blossom and I don't know his name. But this I know he is potentially Buddhist, is in to Tantra and tantric love, he love autumn and early winter when the snow is pretty and he lives a peaceful life. He is intelligent and a gentleman. Unlike the other nerds who show off their junk to girls or post obsence stuff on your Facebook. Yes there are dorks like that. But I think I have found the big one. We flirt and talk about spirituality and what we want to do teachother. He is concerned when I am not online. The last asshole I stumbled up on was in high school and that little shit cheated on me repeatedly. But this current guy is older and wise. I hope to we one day at least spent one night together.

My friend, my first love, my joy, my everything. I would have never accepted the fact that a woman would mean so much to mean. Allow me to introduce to you a woman who has been my back bone for a very long time. If you like the person i have become, then very big thank you should be her portion. I know she deserves more than thank but there is nothing in this world to compensate her effort better than a grateful heart. She sacrificed a lot than i could ever imagine. Some of these sacrifices, i have seen whiles i am yet to discover the rest. Through my victories, my desperate times, i resort to no one else but this amazing woman. I have gotten angry with some of your principles, but here I am in a whole different environment using and teaching your principles like i created them. There is no better name to call her then Mother, your cuddle kept me warm as a baby even though you were cold. Your words comfort me in times of trouble. And your principles serves as the light to my path as i journey up to a higher height. Thank you for the love and compassion. This has been critical to my growth. You are my inspiration, you stood strong during the storms. Even though I saw your scars, you kept a smiling face and kept assuring me, everything will be alright. I still wonder how you did it but hey, I love you than you could ever imagine. From your offspring.