Saturday, June 21, 2008
Nothing special ever happened. There was never a specific event or family trauma that occurred to me when I was younger. Nothing that affected me in any unique way to shape the way I am or how I write. I can't say that my father died rescuing fellow soldiers in the Vietnam War or that my mother drank her weight in red wine and, on occasion, found herself in the thralls of a neighborhood man or that my siblings boasted a variety of narcotics that they took and shared and made me ingest against my will. My family was the quintessential cookie cutter household. My mother served the church. My father paid the bills. My grandparents lived normal, God loving lives, surviving the Great Depression, President Nixon, and the hippie movement. They served their country, obeyed the law, and loved their children. Nothing special ever happened.