Sabriga Turgon, CA
Sabriga (pronunciation guide:sah-BREE-ga) is a certified ghostwriter, a contented content creator, and a fairly hilarious human. She believes everyone should write a memoir, because inside the most common story is a fascinating person’s struggles and successes. Her day job is breathing, but her other day job is writing and editing for businesses, books, and blogs. She’s the world’s best listener – a rare skill honed from years as a counselor, massage therapist, and doula. From PC to CMT to ESL to HIV, she’s got acronyms down to a science. And she wants to hear your story (or is that, STRY?).
As a Story Terrace writer, Sabriga interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below.
“I just want to be a boy!” she wailed into her pillow.
At 6 years old, my little sister was all things tomboy: athletic, rough-and-tumble, fixated on Matchbox cars, tools, and machines. She might know how to curtsey, but only if forced into a dress for a curtsey-ing occasion.
We couldn’t have been more different. I was lean and skinny; she was broad and buff. I was timid beyond measure; she was everyone’s favorite hilarious kid.
But we loved each other as only sisters can. To the DNA core of us we loved each other like dew loves leaves. In our bedroom were two windows just perfectly placed where our beds could have been parallel, but instead we butted them foot-to-foot so our heads were closer.
At night we often traded back rubs as we talked or sang. Well, I gave back rubs but she usually fell asleep before fulfilling her end of the bargain.
Next door lived her dearest friend — Kevin. They went polly-wogging, built tree houses, and roamed the cemetery. She could see his bedroom light from our windows and often schemed how to crawl out the window, jump off the dining room roof, and run across the yard so she could talk to him in the dark of night.
But this night my beloved sister was bereft. It wasn’t enough to comb her hair like Kevin’s or wear boys’ shirts like Kevin. It wasn’t enough to have a plastic car dashboard with real signal lights that blinked and a horn that honked. Because, at the end of the day when she got home, she was still a girl.
She sobbed and sobbed. Her face was smashed into her wet pillow to muffle her wails, and under my hand her little back heaved with despair.
“Aw, Mews,” I whispered my pet name for her, “I’m sorry you can’t be a boy. But then I wouldn’t have a sister to love.”
“WHY can’t I just be a boy?” She lifted her head for a gasping breath then plunged, tears first, back into the pillow. “Why, why, why?”
“Don’t know…” I scanned the darkness for help. “What if you have a secret boy name and then you’re partly boy?”
“Dunno…” My hand slowed to a stop to let the idea gain traction. “What about Mike? That’s a real boy name.”
“Mike,” she whispered. “Am I like a Mike?”
“I think so,” I said, resuming my stroking, “and it’s a good secret name because it’s easy to whisper.”
“Mike,” she sniffled. “I’m Mike.” Her stuttering sigh said she was exhausted from crying and relieved to be Mike in her dreams tonight.
“So, are you gonna rub my back now, Mike?”
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