“my story grew heftier, full of confusion and grief. It became second nature for me to practice and recite my lines for my dramatic sob story. My fishbowl was filled with murky water and I had become so accustomed to it that my clarity was absolutely distorted.”
“The summer before ninth grade my mom decided she didn’t want to be a parent anymore, even though I had two younger siblings that were six and four years old.”
“My concept of racism was that it had ended years before and that in the 1980s it didn’t exist. Anger for the ignorance overwhelmed me.”
“That was the biggest statement I ever made to that pedophile. His jaunty step went absent, his face was taut, and his hands were whitish pink as he gripped the red handle of the shopping cart. Thrilled, I skipped with glee to my mom in the bread aisle.”
