An archive of all of the personal essays we’ve published at Hippocampus Magazine over the years.
When my father said the word predisposed, I felt a twinge of nerves. We were having “the talk.” Not the one about birds or bees, but something bigger and scarier that my brother and I would have to inevitably face…
I was eight years old the first time my father pawned his wedding ring for drug money. When the fight started, I was standing heedlessly behind my mother thinking about birds.
You are wearing your purple knee-length dress because it’s the most pomp and circumstance you could muster for this day. Your brown flats are not so festive – you want to bend down and rub the scuff off the left one, but you don’t care enough.
I knew it was a lot to ask for, even though my father was rich and even though I was used to lavish vacations and a constant stream of new clothes.
I’m no Lindbergh, but for 20 minutes or so one picturesque late summer, I, in my own adolescent mind, ruled the skies over Northern Illinois.
Ming joined our English conversation course, already in progress, when she first came to New York City. Twenty adult English language learners and me, their U.S. born teacher.
I was six, going on seven, when my brother, Nelson, came home on leave for Thanksgiving in 1943. World War II was in full swing. He was a Lieutenant Junior Grade in the U. S. Navy and a designated Naval Aviator. … I wanted to be just like him.
At midnight, I sat, thirteen years old, curled into a ball inside the front door, waiting for the sound of Dad’s car in the driveway.
“You’ll be living here with five other nuns,” said Sister Helena. She opened the apartment door and we entered a dark hallway.
I sat crying in front of a receptionist in pink scrubs. No. Crying isn’t the right word. Crying is something you do at the end of a sad movie.
