I have always loved books. My first major memory was of a
book called, “Are You My Mother?” It was read to my class at the
public library in Sarasota, Florida. It spoke to my pain like nothing else; I
cried. The teachers didn’t know what to do with me. They all spoke about me
while I sat nearby. Could you imagine? Why not have a conversation with me?
I remember my first major book that I read from front to back in a weekend. It was “Chariots of Fire.” I couldn’t put it down. I was mesmerized
by the parallels to my own life, and yet it saddened me so entirely. Why was no
one committed to me and my dreams?
My favorite author is Charles Dickens. I may not have read
everything by him, but appreciate his character development. Dickens uses the
dirt of the people as the heroes of his stories; you get a sense that they are
the real heroes of our society as well.
I thought I wanted to be a dancer for as long as I could
remember. But if I really place the origination of that dream, I can see that
was my mother’s.
I always wanted her to be proud of me. But now that I know
that she was one of the major sources of my abuse growing up, I can free myself
of that expectation.