Ellen Kirschman

I am cleaning out my office, My husband carries stacks of books, papers, and photo albums to the recycling bin. Crumbled bits of corsages stick to my fingers like brittle confetti. Boxes of my mother's papers and photographs have been sitting in a closet since her death ten years ago. She was an energetic archivist. I sort through her annotated address books, records of my childhood vaccinations, report cards from elementary school, and individual photos of the hundreds of paintings my father made, one a day for eleven years after his stroke. What was she thinking when she checked off the names of students performing with me in a school play? Why did she request an written evaluation of my adjustment at summer camp? (I am relieved to learn that I am not slowing down with age, my counselors said I was slow getting ready for bed and always brought up the rear on hikes.) (more…)

This is an abbreviated version of a letter I wrote to President Obama in 2007. I never got a reply.

Dear Mr. President:
I’ve been meaning to write to you about my recent trip to India, but I’ve been recovering from a case of “Delhi belly.” Now that I’m no longer afraid to be more than 10 feet from the bathroom, I’m finally getting around to it.

When I told a friend that my husband and I were going back to India for the second time in three years, she looked at me as though I had a large glob of spinach paneer stuck in my teeth. Our friends think we’re nuts to travel so far to a place as well known for poverty, crowding, corruption, and abysmal sanitation as it is for beauty, technological expertise, and democracy. India is a place of contrasts -- anything you can say about it, the opposite is also true. (more…)