A “Yay-Boo” From an Anonymous Writer Who Attended Ann Randolph’s Writing Workshop

I was born to parents who wanted a reason to pursue a life they thought made sense. Some call this The American Dream. But children of Depression Era parents have a desperate outlook of the future that leaves them clinging to others in order to compete for the status bar of success.

Thus, my birth was novel, but the novelty wore off. I was cared for but ignored, occasionally a topic of conversation, mostly an inconvenience. And when the marriage saw its own collapse, a child became a shifting thorn, a chore to gain empathy and a tie to pain and anger.

As newness pervaded in the march of time, I became a solo being moving toward adulthood despite the lack of propulsion from those that bore me.

I learned about what it means to: be a girl; fall in love; have a body; the beauty of nature; the fear of death, from the books that covered the would-be empty spaces in my life.

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