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Memoir of an abusive childhood, sexual abuse and drug abuse, framed by the death of her father and her grieving process.
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strange little girl
“I run down the street screaming and crying,” my sister says.
“Me, too,” I say, “Like a lunatic.” I smile, or try to. What’s wrong with running out your pain under the moon? I rather appreciate the connection between la luna and lunacy. Don’t we all need that cyclic opportunity to shed the old blood, or the bad blood, or whatever else weighs us down, and begin anew?
But Ann imagines her father as she confesses this “crazy” behavior–Mike (hateful syllable), a small, dark-haired harbinger of a man who hocks up and plays with his snot, who laughs when he binds little girls with duct tape, flicks chewing tobacco in their eyes, drops bricks on their toes, pushes them up against the wood stove . . . .
She imagines her father’s brother, Uncle . . . what was his name? David?, imprisoned for bank robbery, his face immortalized on the cover of the newspaper, caught ducking in the backseat of a car. Not such a bad guy, as I recall. Blonde to her father’s black, warm smile to her father’s sneer. Brothers of different fathers.
Sisters of different fathers. Her skin dark, mine light, yet we look so alike in profile.
Excerpt
“I run down the street screaming and crying,” my sister says.
“Me, too,” I say, “Like a lunatic.” I smile, or try to. What’s wrong with running out your pain under the moon? I rather appreciate the connection between la luna and lunacy. Don’t we all need that cyclic opportunity to shed the old blood, or the bad blood, or whatever else weighs us down, and begin anew?
But Ann imagines her father as she confesses this “crazy” behavior–Mike (hateful syllable), a small, dark-haired harbinger of a man who hocks up and plays with his snot, who laughs when he binds little girls with duct tape, flicks chewing tobacco in their eyes, drops bricks on their toes, pushes them up against the wood stove . . . .
She imagines her father’s brother, Uncle . . . what was his name? David?, imprisoned for bank robbery, his face immortalized on the cover of the newspaper, caught ducking in the backseat of a car. Not such a bad guy, as I recall. Blonde to her father’s black, warm smile to her father’s sneer. Brothers of different fathers.
Sisters of different fathers. Her skin dark, mine light, yet we look so alike in profile.
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