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This is something I wrote on my 21st birthday (7 years ago now!) It is the only time I've written extensively and honestly about my birth mother. Everything I said then is still true.


Today, or rather yesterday, October 7th, 2006, was my 21st birthday, which has rather arbitrarily been deemed as the final real coming-of-age birthday here in America, and therefore something of a Big Deal. And I had a wonderful day, and tomorrow also will be full of celebration, and I do eventually want to talk about that, and celebrate the fact that I was celebrated. But for me, this birthday is important in a different way, and for a moment I want to talk about that and be a little ( Collapse )
serious.

Twenty-one is the age that my mother was when she died. Two days is how old I was when she died, properly, although it was several days before brain scans confirmed that she was truly gone and her body was allowed to stop operating.

I have often said that there has never been a case of a life that could have been so radically changed had just one person on earth given a damn about someone. My mother was six when my grandmother died, leaving her to the care of my grandfather, a man who was at worst abusive and at best distant, and probably afflicted with some form of mental illness, if I'm any judge. In any case, not an appropriate caregiver for a small child. He made her take the city bus alone when she was eight, made her wear her older brothers' hand-me-downs forever (despite the fact that she was considerably taller than them), and at one point, for reasons I am not aware of, broke her nose....

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Your heart is the compass, your mind is the map.

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I won't go if you won't.

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    A Fake History of Guiseppe the Tailor     There once was a tailor called Guiseppe who was known throughout all Los Angeles for beauty of his quinceanera dresses. They were...

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