By the time I’m 7 or 8 years old, I have a daunting list of survival rules. Later they backfire in every part of my life. In the meantime, they have the virtue of seeming to get me through. Here they are, Read the rest of this entry »
“O sinners let’s go down, Down in the river to pray. ” The lyrics of this haunting song echo in my head when I think about my life on the river.* An eerie juxtaposition of natural beauty and heavy-laden humanity. Read the rest of this entry »
Until the last two weeks, this question never crossed my mind. Now I can’t leave it alone. If the answer is Yes, how can that be? As noted in Unpacking My Suitcase, I’m not yet sexually aware. But I’m carrying an unwelcome load of something in my female body and spirit. Read the rest of this entry »
Moving from California to the Deep South marked the end of my early childhood. Though I wasn’t yet sexually aware, I was already carrying a heavy load in my 7-year-old female body and spirit. Because we didn’t have room in the car for extra luggage, I left behind more than I wanted to. I also brought things I didn’t want or need. Here’s what I’ve unpacked from my suitcase as of today. I have no doubt there’s more. Read the rest of this entry »
Summer 1951
I’ve been wanting to write you a private letter for a long time. Mother and Daddy won’t let me send you letters they haven’t read first. They don’t want me to tell you anything sad or anything about money. But I’m not going to show them this letter. It’s just for you. Read the rest of this entry »
Is there a better question? This past week I searched for an answer to ‘Where is my Mother?’ But I couldn’t find one; I kept getting mired in unfathomable complexity. Yes, Mother was a complex person, especially in contrast to my father. But I needed to find another approach. Read the rest of this entry »
A Note to Mother
I still wonder where you were when I needed an advocate, a safe listening ear, a cheerleader and a comforter. I also wonder why you thought I would be able to deal with my father without any help from you.
Since you’re not here anymore, Read the rest of this entry »
I wish I knew. As a child I asked her to tell me her story. Sometimes she gave me bits and pieces, but she didn’t seem to think her story was very important. Especially if that meant talking about how she felt when she was growing up. Besides, there was always another baby in her arms needing attention. Read the rest of this entry »
she sits silent
focused and determined
not to eat
A Short Story
Suppertime, early in the 1950s
Sister #3 sits in her high chair Read the rest of this entry »
I feel awkward making observations about being beaten. I don’t remember anyone talking with me about them, commiserating with me, comforting me or asking how I felt. After each beating I simply walked out of the room and right back into life. Read the rest of this entry »
Telling the Truth 