An Ode to Her: An Anthology of Essays

"In all the beautiful places you choose to find yourself."

 1.

Thank you reader, I’ve never had a friend like you. It ended coldly. 

I feared naming it doctrinal, but the confessions I made were more of devotions than disclosures. Yet, the only offerable and substantial keepsake was my gratitude.

I spent months – and my remaining shreds of dignity– unveiling every cubic inch of my incoherence, my meaningless affairs, and my advances. 

A saintly woman once voiced her farewells through airport customs – her carry-on, only important to her because they belonged to me: the senseless, futile embodiment of her dreams.

Dear Mom, this was the first thing I could process writing. I wanted to declare my admiration for my mother. Her trailblazing spirit – an unprecedented rendition of the American dream – showed her hope that I could roll the better set of dice. 

Unfeasible. Like having the entrancing and rapturous teacher convert her second-rate student into a dame. The thought was always absurd because the promises I made to my mother never matched her caliber. 

ABUELA, 2025 - PHOTO BY ANA LEMA

Even before my thirteenth birthday, I knew most things about my mother. Her potent temperament and trolling were things I mastered. 

Let her be better, the unspoken bidding that poisoned my nervous system – fashionable content I knew I could never prosper. It taunted me. I spoke the curse under my breath, attempting to let go of its arouse. I hoped that as the words left my mouth, the expectations placed on me would disintegrate too. 

I was fourteen when I moved houses. It seemed the need for independence targeted writer’s will. My self-doubt came in the form of Converse All Stars I no longer wore – my peak years tugged at my hesitance and condensed my outer shield – my adolescence was hungry for creative surge. 

The testimony that solidified everything came from a post. It lacked a synopsis, or any additional clues. Still it conformed with the intention I had already prearranged for my first book – it validated my creative influence. 

An Ode to Her was written cursively on the sticky side of a message pad – I folded it like a brochure to hide the words. The writing felt very unattended and although I didn’t know to whom I intended the message, evidence manifested itself into a verse composition sealed for my mother. That’s how the novel started. 

“My mother, a daughter of a mother, has collected the best in their relationship and gifted it all to me,” read one verse. “With that, my voice was made a melody,” read another. 

I never beat the timer in my head – the one that marked an hour, yet the page preceding me remained bare. Her only daughter, unable to withstand the unbearable pressure of authenticating the life she could have. Her once-cradled condition –  the life her parents plated on silver – now left to be her fate. 

There is no guilt greater than the kind felt by children of immigrant women. 

MOM, 2025 - PHOTO BY ANA LEMA

I committed the book to her resolve. It was the slightest I could do in honor of my mother’s sacrifices. The dedication page read: This book is for those who devote their lives to defending, supporting, and standing by women. My words embrace those who listen and believe women’s stories, and flatter those courageous enough to believe in my stories. I congratulate those who have faith in their own delusions, and those conditioned for the treacherous path to execute them. For those who believe they can make something of their lives, may this book be a token of your hopefulness. Along with them, this book is dedicated to my beloved mother. These stories will be yours forever. In all the beautiful places you choose to find yourself, I will stand with you. 

I began writing a grim version of the book when I was fourteen. My words were often failed attempts in mirroring the mental rubric I shamefully composed for it. 

Attempting to find the true bottom line, I studied my mother and I’s similarities. 

I loathe the unknown – my mother too, hates secrets and liars. I fear I might do more talking than noticing – my mother too, she always makes it a point to be the first in line, was written sloppily in my journal. 

I began to realize that I was not only becoming my mother, but I had been her my entire life. 

The words played like a reeled film in my mind, and in that moment, I’d come up with a consensus. Growing up, I was forced to like certain things about my mother; but, I didn’t need someone in my ear reminding me of my luck. Beyond the societal expectations and the mocking advice, it wasn’t filling my mother’s shoes that mattered to me. 

An Ode to Her. I wrote it on the indent of every page. Those four words screamed: what’s stopping you? As chapters began progressing – An Ode to Her took on the facial composure of my doubts. 

As my realizations became more persuasive, the highlighted concepts of my book generalized. I dismantled the orthodox approach: hyper fixating on a sole topic, and vowing to only one subject. 

The woman, named in my book’s title, morphed into everyone I had ever wanted to be.

The anthology continued. 

2. 

I had Mrs. Dusk's second hour, my eighth-grade language arts class. Her classroom was prehistoric in nature. Northbound to the writing board, eastward lied her desk. Light would only catch on if the sun lingered; and while she was nurturing digitally competent individuals, she drew attention to the chalkboard too. 

I desisted in talking to her, but when I was tasked with the chore of engagement, I noted her movements. Mrs. Dusk was never one to anticipate the next great American novel. Rather, she was watchful and cautious with her disagreement. I think that’s why I liked her. 

Mrs. Dusk was a detester of lying – she was prime and calculating. The poised, pragmatic education she encouraged countered my optimism.

Ahead of algebra and physical sciences, I was blameless. And although insolence was never something I condemned, I never gave full credence to ostracized students. 

First semester, eighth-grade year: humiliate.  

It was an animalized attempt to revert my narrow-mindedness. That year invalidated any traces of oblivion left in me.

Still, the memories of food brawls, and name-calling don’t leave a bad taste in my mouth. For a while, I credited my strength and resilience; but, it wasn’t my will that spared me of a much harder year. 

Mrs. Dusk was like the last light of the setting sun as darkness arose from my childhood bullies. 

She wasn’t at my middle school graduation. Then, I often pondered the idea of her missing it. I caught myself shaming the incident that scarfed her attention.

The graduating class was called by recognition. The nominated names – all unfamiliar – were called at intervals. 

The ceremony’s rink was kissed by spontaneous light. Eastbound, lied the podium. 

“And Mrs. Dusk acknowledges…” the principal had read stealthily. The proceeding four syllables – two names – all belonging to me, were unrecognizable as they were worded through the microphone.  

I was named in a list of future collegiate athletes, vascular surgeons, and famous mathematicians, but it had only meant so much to me because it came from her: the teacher whose advice I lived for.

Like dusk, she left me and created a starry blue, yellow, and orange sky. I no longer knew Mrs. Dusk, and would go on to live many years without processing why. 

Just as darkness chases after dusk, I chased after Mrs. D’s sunlight. I embraced her sympathy when I needed to – swimming in a pool filled with her compliments. 

Through the equally respectable lessons I was taught about syntax and text analysis, I was taught a rather intangible lesson– an introductory presentation to my next creative influences: my hands, mind, and words. 

***

An Ode to Her’s remaining content was limited.

The love I had for certain pieces was strained; ultimately, aiding my decision to drop the concept entirely. The novel of my dreams had been long worn – the chapters becoming increasingly redundant, and my list of muses quickly broadening in size. A possible completion rarely crossed my mind. 

Still, I longed for the answer to one question; a possible telling to why I even wrote An Ode to Her;

What commonality in the female experience causes a person to seek inspiration from other women?