The Story of My Father’s Hands
In that motel room I saw my father forever altered, with lasting wounds, like the scar on one of his hands—hands I’d studied and knew by heart.
Art in America
Square PegsFamily Ties
“Why did they move?” I asked my mother.
What did children ever do?
Blaise Allysen Kearsley is a Brooklyn-based writer and creative nonfiction writing teacher. She is currently working on a memoir about growing up biracial in the 80's punk scene. She is a contributing editor at Vestal Review and the creator/producer/host of the How I Learned storytelling series. On Instagram she's @blaiseallysen, but to learn how to pronounce all of her names visit her at blaiseallysenkearsley.com
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More in this series
You Will Be With Me in Paradise
“Femur, pelvis, flecks of skull—father’s remains are served in a silver tray.”
Closed Casket: One Family’s Story of Suicide
“I never told dead brother I loved him. My fear of him was too great.”
In the Kingdom of Tamarac: Shuffleboard and Other Acts of Remembrance
What I knew about my grandparents was enough to fill every hidden closet, every secret candy drawer.