I may not be the most agile dancer, or the most exquisite vessel. It’s not a slick story of passions fueling young minds, bad-turned-good-against-all-odds, soldiering on in the wake of disapproval and ridicule, ironic, confessional or whatever the fashion bears and bares.
I came from people who left home. I decided to leave when I was four and I could barely wait the fourteen years. It never occurred to me there was any other way to be. My mother left her home in the gathering clouds of war and desperation. My father left his to go fight [...]
After all those years pushing away my parents, the marks are indelible: love; resentment; avoidance and dismissal. Now at 50 I want to know–How did the world slash that breast, that hand, that heart, that mind and how did those wounds confabulate to mark me?
One group savages another, strips them of their rights, their livelihoods, their safety and sometimes arbitrarily their lives. These things are so basic and their deprivation so unimaginable. It stretches from the beginning of time to tomorrow–what torment and what injustice. It makes me feel sick and powerless. How can a civilized people slip into the abyss and take the world through it with them?
And you, Mom? You knew that loneliness at such an early age. But you’ve never complained about it, not when Grandma was sick, not when you were nursing Dad, or after he died, or when your friends started to move away to go live with their children. Even now you won’t let the word take hold in the room.
I wasn’t at all sure of getting the rules right and (I) relegated myself to a subordinate tier in some popularity system that I sensed and continued to apply to all situations in my life. As uncomfortable as I might have been at school, I treasured my time away from home.