When do we stop crying? When my brother was little, he cried all the time. Sometimes understandably, like when we rode It’s A Small World at Disneyland (those little dolls are scary) and sometimes for reasons I couldn’t wrap my little head around; maybe both of our thick bangs haircuts were creating a barrier. When I was in high school, I cried watching the Grammys, making breakfast, dog sitting, thinking about a boy I thought I liked. When I was 19, I cried missing my mom, when my girlfriend was mean to me, when I felt like a stranger in my own body. I don’t cry much at all anymore. Not because there isn’t anything to cry about (there always is), but because I think that if I started I may not stop. Usually I squeal or talk to myself to keep from crying. After a day of teaching music lessons to little kids, I drive home in my red Jeep and think about how much I love them, how teaching makes me think I could be a mother. Instead of crying, I smile and squeal and listen to my “born to be somebody then somebody comes from me” playlist. When my partner and I have a conflict I don’t need to cry every time because I know we will figure it out. When I miss my friends I call them and make plans. Things are not as life or death as they once felt. 

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When things did feel so dire all the time, I cried at all sorts of art. On a field trip with my French class senior year of high school, I cried in front of the Monet’s. I’d lay on the floor of Lulu’s living room, openly sobbing to pop music that we felt reflected our private journals. I saw Ladybird in theatres 7 times just for the rush of tears. 

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These days, it takes a lot to make me cry. Is this growing up? I don’t want to lose my sensitivity; I want to be delicate and soft forever. Maybe my skin is just thicker. Maybe the art I’m consuming is less emotional. I don’t really know. The upside to this infrequency is that, when I do cry, it’s memorable. In the past year, I’ve cried about the following: my girlfriends incapability to impregnate me, Chappell Roan performing on SNL, when my 8 year old student told me at the end of our lesson that she hates when she has to leave me, and reading Catherine Newman’s We All Want Impossible Things.

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Silly Ella Luna, you may be thinking to yourself, the name of the book you chose is Sandwich! And you are right! My crying was plot driven when reading We All Want Impossible Things, but I fell in love with Newman’s writing. Sandwich is all beauty and emotion, minus the intense grieving. So because I love you all and want to cause no suffering, I chose the ladder for March book club.

Sandwich is set on a summer vacation, with our characters making up a family of Mom, Dad, and “grown up children.” Told from the perspective of Mom, Rocky, this is a story about motherhood and womanhood. It’s about menopause. It’s about feeling like your body is betraying you, about masquerading unconditional love for your daughter as nonchalance as to not scare her away, about offering wisdom and guidance to your son's girlfriend. I read this book in the last few days of 2024 in Los Angeles. I will read it again now. I hope you love it.