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.