In this excerpt from her book, The Cost of Freedom: A Family Memoir of Taiwanese Independence, Kim Liao imagines what her grandmother's childhood in early 1900s Chinatown might have been like.
The Haenyeo took my breath away. I’ve never been to Korea, but the photographs I came upon recently of these bold women transported me to that southern coastline...
An interview with singer Martha Reeves by CBC Radio host Carol Off looks at the life of the late Mary Wilson of the Supremes.
We went back to the University of Iowa, where Bob served a four-year residency in general surgery. I worked as a night supervisor.
Elliott Yoakum reconstructs a recipe for pancakes to explore his relationship with his grandmother.
A gathering of grandmother recipes that will keep on growing...
Now could not be a more important time for the Council of Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg died on Friday. There was expectation, of course, but the reality of her death is truly shocking.
A poem by Alice Walker, from her collection Hard Times Require Furious Dancing, calls on the grandmother spirit and on us to clear the way for wise women today, and tomorrow.
I have fleeting, but specific, memories of my great-grandmother, Edna Hellman, or “Grandy,” as my father and everyone else called her.
The story of my great-grandmother, Rosa Puron Garcia, is really my father Domingo Barros’s story.
Being a mother is something that tears through the skin, leaving deep scars. It means to inhabit one’s own history, while living outside oneself.
“She was really my mother and she loved me to death, and I knew it because she would show me, I used to feel it, and she would give me anything that she had.”
My grandmother, who I called Nana, was the best-dressed woman in all of Berlin, or so my mother used to say.
My grandmother’s family was on the other side of the mountain when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima seventy-five years ago.
I have a grandmother I never got to meet. She was my father’s mother, Jean Hellman.
I never met my grandmother, whose name was Tillie (Chaya Taube) Green; she died when I was just a few weeks old.
A poem about the author's maternal grandmother, Florence Hooton, 1912-1988.
It was a big deal when my grandmother bought the land on Carver Road in the 1970s to build her dream home.
I almost never made it into this world due to China’s notorious one-child policy.