Thursday, June 5, 2008
Ever since the day I was born, I feel that my parents and others noticed there was something "different," about me. Not exactly "not quite right," but a little "off center," like the natural part in my hair. I recall myself as a vague little girl without much ambition except to be outside in the back yard and "look at the clouds and the sky," as my father used to say. The bright yellow dandelions on the spring green grass, as well. On my first day of school in Kindergarten, I reached for crayons or colored pencils and just started drawing. When I would bring my drawings home to show Mom, she would always ask, "What's that?" about the different shapes and girlygigs I would draw. I would always fabricate an answer because I actually had no idea what the things were which I drew. I just wanted to please my mother with an answer. In second grade, it became obvious that I would be a writer. "You sure are long-winded," the teacher once told me, upon reading my true story of an outing with my grandmother, Memere. She had taken my sister Kelley and me on an outing and bought us each two brightly colored balls, bouncing balls. I had filled up two sides of one piece of lined paper, writing about this "adventure." By fourth grade, I won almost all of the spelling bees we had in class, rapidly becoming known as "the smartest girl in the class," a reputation I would carry until about eighth grade when Sally McDonnell stole that title from me.