Yesterday found me running late for church. Don’t ask me why; I woke up in plenty of time. It seems the fine art of time suckage has followed me even to this stage in my life.
Anyway, at 10:00 a.m., I realize that I am not going to make church on time, so I decide to pick a church that has an 11:00 a.m. service. It will be an adventure. I drive to the Blue Roof (Presbyterian), where we attend an AA meeting on Thursdays. Just as I remembered, the service starts at 11:00 a.m. Except on the 5th Sunday of the month, when services start at 10:00 am. I peer into the window of the sanctuary (from afar, of course), and services have already started. It is 10:20 a.m. Damn 5th Sunday.
So I drive over to the humongous Lutheran church on Dale Mabry. The big sign in front of the building proclaims that services start at 11:00 a.m. I stroll up to the door, notice that I am the only one outside, and hear the faint sounds of … preaching. I eye the usher warily. “What time does the service start?,” I inquire. “At 11:00. Except on the fifth Sunday. Then it starts at 10:00.” It is 10:30. Shit.
Oh, but I have more churches in my arsenal. Don’t forget that, through AA, I have completed the tour of Carrollwood churches. Ah, the joys of the fellowship. Off to another Presbyterian church, located conveniently close to the AA meeting my beloved is attending on this fine Sunday morn. Yeah, except services started at 10:30 a.m. It is now 10:45. Surely God is playing a practical joke. Ha. Ha. Funny, God.
With a sigh, I turn my car around and head toward the Methodist church that I just drove by. The sign said services start at 11:00. But now I find myself skeptical of the sign’s knowledge of what the hell is going on.
I pull in, which is not a problem because there is no one there. Okay, okay. I exaggerate. But really, only a handful of cars. Good Lord, these folks need to pull something out for me. And they do… all 30 of them, many of them octogenarians. It might have been a little Blood of the Lamb for me, but at least I made it to church. Finally.
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?
* Title paraphrased from a billboard on I-75. Seriously. Gotta love the Bible Belt.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saucy
Today, I decided to provide a boost to our economy by .... wait for it... shopping. Okay, okay. It wasn't some sort of altruistic decision to help our country as much as it was a craving for new clothes. I mean, the clothes make the man...er, woman... right?
The feeling of buying new clothes was nothing short of intoxicating. During this current phase of self-exploration, I have unearthed a desire to be alternately flirty and bold. I desire, with all of the longing that that word conjures, to feel sexy. Sometimes that means sexy-coy; sometimes it means sexy-funky. Primarily, though, I want to be saucy... in my words, my dress, my attitude. I am finding a new level of self-assuredness, and I want my style to reflect my discovery.
Plus, you know, there is that whole boosting the economy bit... Just doing my part.
The feeling of buying new clothes was nothing short of intoxicating. During this current phase of self-exploration, I have unearthed a desire to be alternately flirty and bold. I desire, with all of the longing that that word conjures, to feel sexy. Sometimes that means sexy-coy; sometimes it means sexy-funky. Primarily, though, I want to be saucy... in my words, my dress, my attitude. I am finding a new level of self-assuredness, and I want my style to reflect my discovery.
Plus, you know, there is that whole boosting the economy bit... Just doing my part.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Keep Coming Back
As I sat in the AA meeting tonight, I realized that sometimes people become attached to the persona that they typically project... and sometimes that persona doesn't really do them justice. Every group needs a smart ass. But the when wisecracks and insults grossly overshadow the message, then each share just becomes a mini-theater of ego. Which is unfortunate, when really, behind the shadow play of barbed words and caustic wit, there lies a sensitive, wise person who genuinely loves the people that are around him.
Would it be too much to ask to let that persona come to the meeting every once in a while? We would like that persona to keep coming back.
Would it be too much to ask to let that persona come to the meeting every once in a while? We would like that persona to keep coming back.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
In Which I Grumble...
My students rock. Usually.
Even though 15 years separates my world from theirs, I still readily relate to them. College was my first real venture into figuring out who I was and who I wanted to be. Each experience crackled with intensity... every moment seemed somehow significant. I see that same passion in most of my students. I gravitate toward it. I try to mirror their enthusiasm, albeit my enthusiasm is for writing and theirs is for, well, living. My perspective on life as a journey makes me more of a co-traveler than an authority figure, which works pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.
Except when I get fed up.
Next week is conference week with my students. I will spend 20 minutes with each of them. I have 88 students. Go on. Do the math. That is over 29 hours of conferencing next week. Even though conferences completely drain me, I look forward this one-on-one time with my students, to volley ideas and to collaborate on their work. This passes as fun for me (I know I am lame, but see above: My students rock).
Back to the Lashout of 2009: One of my students complained that none of the remaining conference times were times that he was on campus. So sad. That looks like an extra trip to school for him. Then he said, "Why would I want to drive 30 minutes for a 20 minute conference?"
Oh no. No sir, you did not. You did NOT just tell me that my time is not as valuable as your time. So, I told him to skip the conference... then I could have back that 20 minutes of my life, and he could go on with his day. He piped up again. Fuming, I was fuming. And, in the middle of the classroom buzzing with 18 year olds working on group projects, I told him he was really pissing me off and he needed to stop right then. And I meant it. RIGHT THEN.
I am willing to go to great lengths to make sure my students learn something, to help build their self-confidence, to develop their lackluster writing skills. And I don't expect them to name their firstborn after me or even to bake me cupcakes on the last day of school (although that would be nice). But I do expect to be respected. And in no way is it wise for them to imply that their time is more valuable than mine.
I may seem small and friendly, but so does a chihuahua, right before it clamps down on your hand. That's all I am saying.
Even though 15 years separates my world from theirs, I still readily relate to them. College was my first real venture into figuring out who I was and who I wanted to be. Each experience crackled with intensity... every moment seemed somehow significant. I see that same passion in most of my students. I gravitate toward it. I try to mirror their enthusiasm, albeit my enthusiasm is for writing and theirs is for, well, living. My perspective on life as a journey makes me more of a co-traveler than an authority figure, which works pretty darn well, if I do say so myself.
Except when I get fed up.
Next week is conference week with my students. I will spend 20 minutes with each of them. I have 88 students. Go on. Do the math. That is over 29 hours of conferencing next week. Even though conferences completely drain me, I look forward this one-on-one time with my students, to volley ideas and to collaborate on their work. This passes as fun for me (I know I am lame, but see above: My students rock).
Back to the Lashout of 2009: One of my students complained that none of the remaining conference times were times that he was on campus. So sad. That looks like an extra trip to school for him. Then he said, "Why would I want to drive 30 minutes for a 20 minute conference?"
Oh no. No sir, you did not. You did NOT just tell me that my time is not as valuable as your time. So, I told him to skip the conference... then I could have back that 20 minutes of my life, and he could go on with his day. He piped up again. Fuming, I was fuming. And, in the middle of the classroom buzzing with 18 year olds working on group projects, I told him he was really pissing me off and he needed to stop right then. And I meant it. RIGHT THEN.
I am willing to go to great lengths to make sure my students learn something, to help build their self-confidence, to develop their lackluster writing skills. And I don't expect them to name their firstborn after me or even to bake me cupcakes on the last day of school (although that would be nice). But I do expect to be respected. And in no way is it wise for them to imply that their time is more valuable than mine.
I may seem small and friendly, but so does a chihuahua, right before it clamps down on your hand. That's all I am saying.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Truth Be Told...
I remember when I was first introduced to the idea that everyone is a little bit racist. At first, I was indignant and appalled. But, once I stopped being defensive, I realized that some of the stereotypes that I had been exposed to had, in fact, seeped into my subconscious. I never spoke them aloud... but they were there nonetheless, allowing me to subtly identify people as "other" and guiding my perceptions of people and my subsequent interactions with them. Once I admitted that I had bought into some of these stereotypes, then I could work on dismissing them or dismantling them to get at the fear of difference that almost always drives stereotypes.
As a teacher, I have had to confront my own prejudice repeatedly, to see the ugliness that lurks around in the dark recesses of my mind. And while at times I am horrified at thoughts that will flit through my mind, I am mostly grateful that I am not afraid to let those prejudices go, once I have identified them. I am thankful to have a job where I can't just allow my prejudices to quietly garner strength; they must be identified and destroyed. I have to constantly be willing to grow and to admit that I am not always as accepting as I would like to believe myself to be.
So, why the confessional? Because I have been guilty of ignoring my students' use of the word "retard" as an insult in my classroom. Because I am guilty of throwing the word around in banter. And because I had convinced myself that it is harmless, that I meant nothing by it. But, truth be told, when someone is throwing around the word "dyke," I bristle. Because, even if they say they mean nothing by it, I know there is a tinge of hate somewhere in there. And I know the same is true when I cavalierly use the word "retarded." I am identifying someone as "other," as lesser than me. I don't want to be that person. I believe every life is valuable, that everyone deserves respect. It is time that my use of language reflect those beliefs.
As a teacher, I have had to confront my own prejudice repeatedly, to see the ugliness that lurks around in the dark recesses of my mind. And while at times I am horrified at thoughts that will flit through my mind, I am mostly grateful that I am not afraid to let those prejudices go, once I have identified them. I am thankful to have a job where I can't just allow my prejudices to quietly garner strength; they must be identified and destroyed. I have to constantly be willing to grow and to admit that I am not always as accepting as I would like to believe myself to be.
So, why the confessional? Because I have been guilty of ignoring my students' use of the word "retard" as an insult in my classroom. Because I am guilty of throwing the word around in banter. And because I had convinced myself that it is harmless, that I meant nothing by it. But, truth be told, when someone is throwing around the word "dyke," I bristle. Because, even if they say they mean nothing by it, I know there is a tinge of hate somewhere in there. And I know the same is true when I cavalierly use the word "retarded." I am identifying someone as "other," as lesser than me. I don't want to be that person. I believe every life is valuable, that everyone deserves respect. It is time that my use of language reflect those beliefs.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Atlanta (brought to you by ASICS)
I took my first run in Atlanta today. Holy hills. Every time I rounded a corner, I was facing either a steep incline or some sort of rolling hill that shouldn't have been too intimidating... but after the first two miles or so, all hills look daunting. Trust me.
But then there were the glorious downhill jaunts, where running is a bit like just skimming the surface of the path effortlessly. And, suddenly, I would look up and there would be (you guessed it) another hill.
All of this hill business is a drastic change from Tampa, where everything is flat. At home, I run at the same pace consistently. But, here, I had to slow it down on the inclines, lest I run out of fuel mid-hill. And on the downward slopes, I had to center my body so that inertia didn't completely take over and send me cascading head over heels down the hill. I couldn't really look ahead, because what was ahead was inconsequential. All that mattered was how I was going to navigate the terrain I was on right then. And I didn't know how I would feel after the next hill or around the next corner, because it was all uncharted territory for me.
This run, this run mirrored my life right now... concentrating on the moment, uncertain what is ahead, but still pushing forward and finding that I am really digging the scenery.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Know-It-All
I hate to admit that I don't know. I want to have all the answers, to have my life figured out. It is difficult for me to ask for help because that means weakness, vulnerability.
This is a stupid outlook on life. Seriously.
Clearly, I don't know everything. It surely was not good decision-making and incredible coping skills that landed me in AA at 33. So, I am going to take this opportunity to admit what has probably been obvious all along: I don't know everything.
(But I do know most things.)
Another fascinating tidbit that I have recently discovered about myself: I seem to find something glamorous about being slightly damaged. If I am no longer drinking, I no longer have the obvious tragic flaw. Now I am forced to actually be complex, to have ideas and thoughts to present to the world, instead of presenting my flaw and demanding that people be intrigued.
I feel relatively certain that my closest friends did not find my drinking darkly mysterious or tragically endearing. But self-perception is often a long way from reality. And when Step 6 says, "Became entirely ready for God to remove all of these defects of character" this clinging to familiar, albeit destructive, behaviors is exactly the hesitation that they thought this step might run up against.
I don't need to be tragic, or dark and complex, to be interesting. Hell, I'd probably do fine just being myself... once I figure out who that really is.
This is a stupid outlook on life. Seriously.
Clearly, I don't know everything. It surely was not good decision-making and incredible coping skills that landed me in AA at 33. So, I am going to take this opportunity to admit what has probably been obvious all along: I don't know everything.
(But I do know most things.)
Another fascinating tidbit that I have recently discovered about myself: I seem to find something glamorous about being slightly damaged. If I am no longer drinking, I no longer have the obvious tragic flaw. Now I am forced to actually be complex, to have ideas and thoughts to present to the world, instead of presenting my flaw and demanding that people be intrigued.
I feel relatively certain that my closest friends did not find my drinking darkly mysterious or tragically endearing. But self-perception is often a long way from reality. And when Step 6 says, "Became entirely ready for God to remove all of these defects of character" this clinging to familiar, albeit destructive, behaviors is exactly the hesitation that they thought this step might run up against.
I don't need to be tragic, or dark and complex, to be interesting. Hell, I'd probably do fine just being myself... once I figure out who that really is.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Gender Play
No one questions whether I am male or female. I may have been mistaken for a guy once when my head was shaved... a 12 year old boy, perhaps. I would find such a mistake laughable, simply because I am very comfortable with my identity as a female. I have never had to battle to be seen as a girl. I get the rights and the discrimination that comes with the "girl" label. Any gender play has always been a choice on my part. That choice is precisely what makes it "play."
I also know that, for some, there is nothing playful about their gender presentation. It is a battle each and every day to present the way that they feel most comfortable in their soul, which often then makes them an object of scorn, or at least a curiosity, in the rest of the "correctly" gendered world. People can be cruel. They want others to fit neatly inside their categories, to play by their rules. Those who can't, or won't, are highly suspect, as they destabilize gender for everyone else.
And why, exactly, is that so scary? Why do we demand to know if someone is "really" a man or a woman? What difference does it make? And what makes someone a real man? Genitals? Because I consider trans-men to be men, whether they have had genital reconstruction or not. Where is that line? Where is the shift from play to reality?
I also know that, for some, there is nothing playful about their gender presentation. It is a battle each and every day to present the way that they feel most comfortable in their soul, which often then makes them an object of scorn, or at least a curiosity, in the rest of the "correctly" gendered world. People can be cruel. They want others to fit neatly inside their categories, to play by their rules. Those who can't, or won't, are highly suspect, as they destabilize gender for everyone else.
And why, exactly, is that so scary? Why do we demand to know if someone is "really" a man or a woman? What difference does it make? And what makes someone a real man? Genitals? Because I consider trans-men to be men, whether they have had genital reconstruction or not. Where is that line? Where is the shift from play to reality?
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Dogma? I Sneeze at Your Dogma.
I realized, in reading some of my students' blog writings (yes, I really do read them), that quite a number of them are Christians. I guess that isn't too surprising. What really caught me off guard is how much their open profession of faith bothered me.
As a Christian, shouldn't I be pleased that these kids have found their faith so early in life? It took me a decade of searching to come back to the faith in which I was raised. But I think their lack of searching is precisely what bothers me. Many of the entries I read were of the "Jesus-Christ-is-Lord-of-All-and-I-Submit-Unquestioningly-to-His-Authority" variety. A few problems there: 1) If they believe that Christianity is true, to the exclusion of truth in other religions, that often leads them to believe that they should be only nominally tolerant of the sinners belonging to other religions that are inevitably hell bound. 2) I wonder who is telling them what God's/Jesus' authority and will should look like.
The world desperately needs an inter-faith approach to global issues of poverty, social injustice and oppression. We can't approach inter-faith solutions until we stop trying to convert each other. I doubt God is keeping tally of each religion's converts and conquests. And, truth be told, salvation/reunification/communion with God can only be understood by the soul it touches. It simply is not my right or my business to judge someone else's relationship with God. What do I know of such things?
I am incredibly skeptical of organized religion. I don't want someone telling me what to think. I love church--the ritual, the meditative contemplation, dwelling with God in the quiet of a Sunday morning. But dogma doesn't touch my heart nor does it positively transform my life. I seek God. And I believe that God quietly guides me, if I am willing to listen. At the same time, I do not believe that the Bible is infallible or that all of it is the inspired Word of God. Hearing God requires common sense and the willingness to question my own motives. It requires questioning the authority figures and wrestling with my own doubts until I come up with the answer that is right for me, that reflects my relationship with my higher power.
In my most fervent following of Christianity, I totally lost sight of Christ. I just hope these kids can see the difference between dogmatic beliefs and a relationship with God.
As a Christian, shouldn't I be pleased that these kids have found their faith so early in life? It took me a decade of searching to come back to the faith in which I was raised. But I think their lack of searching is precisely what bothers me. Many of the entries I read were of the "Jesus-Christ-is-Lord-of-All-and-I-Submit-Unquestioningly-to-His-Authority" variety. A few problems there: 1) If they believe that Christianity is true, to the exclusion of truth in other religions, that often leads them to believe that they should be only nominally tolerant of the sinners belonging to other religions that are inevitably hell bound. 2) I wonder who is telling them what God's/Jesus' authority and will should look like.
The world desperately needs an inter-faith approach to global issues of poverty, social injustice and oppression. We can't approach inter-faith solutions until we stop trying to convert each other. I doubt God is keeping tally of each religion's converts and conquests. And, truth be told, salvation/reunification/communion with God can only be understood by the soul it touches. It simply is not my right or my business to judge someone else's relationship with God. What do I know of such things?
I am incredibly skeptical of organized religion. I don't want someone telling me what to think. I love church--the ritual, the meditative contemplation, dwelling with God in the quiet of a Sunday morning. But dogma doesn't touch my heart nor does it positively transform my life. I seek God. And I believe that God quietly guides me, if I am willing to listen. At the same time, I do not believe that the Bible is infallible or that all of it is the inspired Word of God. Hearing God requires common sense and the willingness to question my own motives. It requires questioning the authority figures and wrestling with my own doubts until I come up with the answer that is right for me, that reflects my relationship with my higher power.
In my most fervent following of Christianity, I totally lost sight of Christ. I just hope these kids can see the difference between dogmatic beliefs and a relationship with God.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Replacing Addictions with Sheep
Long ago (5 years or so), when my friend got sober, I remember saying, "Well, isn't she just replacing one addiction with another?," in response to her attendance at AA meetings.
Good God, how asinine. Maybe I feared her addiction and wanted to write her solution off as trivial. Or maybe I was just shooting off bullshit, as I am wont to do on occasion. But going to meetings on a daily basis does not qualify as an "addiction." And AA doesn't disconnect your synapses the way that chronic drinking does.
But, I do have to admit that, at points, I have been afraid that AA would make me dumb. I mean, what if I start speaking in platitudes and declaring that everything is "God's will." Or, God forbid, I just quote directly from the Big Book all the time. But I figure if Christianity hasn't killed my free will or my ability to think for myself, then AA doesn't stand a chance at making me into a sheep.
And, while some of the AA slogans can get on my last nerve, the 12 Steps require real thought and effort. It is a struggle to constantly be accountable, to be led by unselfish desires, to look at my motivations for every action and reaction. This is not for the faint of heart.
Neither is real Christianity, but most folks would rather be sheep.
Good God, how asinine. Maybe I feared her addiction and wanted to write her solution off as trivial. Or maybe I was just shooting off bullshit, as I am wont to do on occasion. But going to meetings on a daily basis does not qualify as an "addiction." And AA doesn't disconnect your synapses the way that chronic drinking does.
But, I do have to admit that, at points, I have been afraid that AA would make me dumb. I mean, what if I start speaking in platitudes and declaring that everything is "God's will." Or, God forbid, I just quote directly from the Big Book all the time. But I figure if Christianity hasn't killed my free will or my ability to think for myself, then AA doesn't stand a chance at making me into a sheep.
And, while some of the AA slogans can get on my last nerve, the 12 Steps require real thought and effort. It is a struggle to constantly be accountable, to be led by unselfish desires, to look at my motivations for every action and reaction. This is not for the faint of heart.
Neither is real Christianity, but most folks would rather be sheep.
Friday, March 06, 2009
To recreate as I choose...
Just returned from Anything But Safe (a conference on gender and sex), which was awesome. Way too much time has lapsed since I gave sex much of a thought. I have sex. But I have not considered recently what I want sex to be, what it can be once I release my preconceived notions of propriety and acceptable desire.
Moreover, gender fluidity isn't something I consider... primarily because I identify as a "woman" and then move on to the next topic. But there is no binary "male" and "female." I am a queer, and as such I already defy the binary. But do I cling to certain behaviors, certain thoughts because I believe they mirror the "female" instead of being concerned about whether or not they mirror who I am? Interesting thoughts to consider, to deconstruct...
But what I truly walked away with is the desire, no... the need, to speak my truth. When I get real, when all of the pretense is stripped away, who am I? What does my voice offer to the discourse on religion, politics, gender, and sexuality that can truly reach people, that can offer alternative ways of seeing and experiencing the world?
I am a lesbian. I am a Christian with Buddhist leanings. I am an alcoholic. None of these labels define me completely. But they are pieces of me. They are truths. They are mine to embrace or discard as I choose. I am mine to recreate as I will.*
*These thoughts and ideas were inspired by the fabulous Kate Bornstein, who spoke tonight at Anything But Safe.
Moreover, gender fluidity isn't something I consider... primarily because I identify as a "woman" and then move on to the next topic. But there is no binary "male" and "female." I am a queer, and as such I already defy the binary. But do I cling to certain behaviors, certain thoughts because I believe they mirror the "female" instead of being concerned about whether or not they mirror who I am? Interesting thoughts to consider, to deconstruct...
But what I truly walked away with is the desire, no... the need, to speak my truth. When I get real, when all of the pretense is stripped away, who am I? What does my voice offer to the discourse on religion, politics, gender, and sexuality that can truly reach people, that can offer alternative ways of seeing and experiencing the world?
I am a lesbian. I am a Christian with Buddhist leanings. I am an alcoholic. None of these labels define me completely. But they are pieces of me. They are truths. They are mine to embrace or discard as I choose. I am mine to recreate as I will.*
*These thoughts and ideas were inspired by the fabulous Kate Bornstein, who spoke tonight at Anything But Safe.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Bits and pieces...
After a year of sobriety, the AAs usually ask you to share your story with the group. I have been thinking a lot about this lately, formulating what I might say... what insight I might be able to provide. As a writer, I think every person's story has value. So, here are pieces of my story to be woven together at a later date.
In one of my earliest memories, I am having a meltdown at preschool. I am inconsolable. My parents had enrolled me in preschool shortly after my sister's birth. They wanted me to develop social skills, to interact with my peers. I had other plans. My mother had dropped me off that morning, and I cried relentlessly until the teachers broke down and asked my mother to come pick me up. What I can still remember, though, is that as I was screaming and sobbing for my mom, I was eyeing the Big Wheels and trikes, watching the other kids have fun. And it did look like fun. I wanted to play too. But I had already chosen the crying path. Even then, I didn't know how to redirect. So I went home with my mom. My parents never sent me back to preschool.
I was always a melodramatic kid. I remember watching Annie when I was six or seven and really identifying with her longing for parents, her wish to be loved... the problem with that was that my parents had always been right there and had alwasy loved me. My penchant for melancholy got ramped up a bit when my dad got transfered from Gainesville to Ft. Lauderdale, and we had to stay behind to sell the house. I remember my friends coming over to play and me just standing by the window, gazing out, clutching my Annie locket willing myself into sadness above the racket of my friends' make-believe, until one of them whispered to the other, "Kendra must be sad because her dad is away right not. I think she might cry." And I did. I shed one, single tear... just enough to express my sadness, yet still remain vaguely mysterious. Seems I was on the road to being a master manipulator at the age of six.
In one of my earliest memories, I am having a meltdown at preschool. I am inconsolable. My parents had enrolled me in preschool shortly after my sister's birth. They wanted me to develop social skills, to interact with my peers. I had other plans. My mother had dropped me off that morning, and I cried relentlessly until the teachers broke down and asked my mother to come pick me up. What I can still remember, though, is that as I was screaming and sobbing for my mom, I was eyeing the Big Wheels and trikes, watching the other kids have fun. And it did look like fun. I wanted to play too. But I had already chosen the crying path. Even then, I didn't know how to redirect. So I went home with my mom. My parents never sent me back to preschool.
I was always a melodramatic kid. I remember watching Annie when I was six or seven and really identifying with her longing for parents, her wish to be loved... the problem with that was that my parents had always been right there and had alwasy loved me. My penchant for melancholy got ramped up a bit when my dad got transfered from Gainesville to Ft. Lauderdale, and we had to stay behind to sell the house. I remember my friends coming over to play and me just standing by the window, gazing out, clutching my Annie locket willing myself into sadness above the racket of my friends' make-believe, until one of them whispered to the other, "Kendra must be sad because her dad is away right not. I think she might cry." And I did. I shed one, single tear... just enough to express my sadness, yet still remain vaguely mysterious. Seems I was on the road to being a master manipulator at the age of six.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)