ARCHIVE FOR Ben Berman
Last night, I was brushing my teeth when I noticed a pair of socks in the toilet.
Why are your socks in the toilet, I asked my four-year-old.
Mama told me to put them away in my drawer, she said.
So how did they end up in the toilet, I asked.
March 14, 2018 | Ben Berman
In the first creative writing class I ever took, we workshopped a peer’s story called, Tidal.
I wrote a long review of the piece describing its ebb and flow and how its two references to the sea served as a low-key motif for the stormy relationship between the two main characters.
It wasn’t until I referred to its title – Tidal – aloud in class that I caught onto the joke. I felt duped and thrilled at the same time.
February 14, 2018 | Ben Berman
I like to play with my poems the way I play with my daughters.
We invent elaborate games with ever-shifting rules. We treat familiar objects as if they were not familiar. When we wrestle, it almost looks like we’re dancing.
The problem, though, is that other poems – poems I’ve never even read before – love to run over and join in on the fun, start trying to grab my thumb or pull the glasses off my face and before I know it I’m surrounded by a pack of little rough drafts all wanting to play slappy-slappy.
January 10, 2018 | Ben Berman
When I first started telling friends that my wife and I were pregnant with our older daughter, my wife would shoot me a look to remind me that only one of us, technically, was pregnant.
So I can’t help but feel the pettiest of joys in the fact that my four-year-old happens to believe that while her older sister was born in the most conventional of ways (uterus, birth canal), she somehow managed to emerge out of my stomach.
November 8, 2017 | Ben Berman
For a long time, whenever I would drop my older daughter off at a birthday party, she would cling to my leg and beg me to stay, promise me half her slice of cake if I promised not to leave.
Then one day I brought her to a classmate’s party and before I knew it she was off running around with her friends without even waving goodbye – and I just stood there, with a dull, nameless pang rooting around in my chest.