August 12, 1963, was a typically hot, muggy day. Bobby and I were practicing a new tap dance routine for a TV amateur competition show. Mrs. Mauer said we were “pure harmony.” I practiced in front of my mirrored closet until I wore myself out. Mom bragged about my natural talent. And Bobby bragged about his to anyone who would listen. “Look at me! I’m a great dancer too.” He was ten. Later Mom and I were eating lunch. All was quiet. She never spoke while she ate, said it was rude. Bobby and his friend Timmy, who lived two…
[ Read More → ]The day Hurricane Donna blasted the Jersey Shore, a foretelling incident also hit me like a hurricane. Mom had stocked the house with canned goods and jugs of water, but forgot one item. “Nancy, I need you to run to Grant’s and get some candles.” “Now, Mommy?” I said. “Me? Go to the store?” “Yes, Nancy, while there’s a lull,” she said. “What’s a lull, Mommy?” “It means you need to hurry, Nancy.” Handing me my yellow plastic raincoat, Mom pointed to a pair of over-sized black rubber boots. “Put those on too.” Like it or not, I had to…
[ Read More → ]When Mom gave birth to my second brother, Billy, his face had a gaping hole where his upper lip and nostrils should have been. Not one to express emotion, Mom set about the task at hand of caring for my brother. During the first year of his life, Billy underwent several surgeries to correct his cleft palate. Yet a sweeter, happier baby did not exist. Billy brought a unique joy into our lives. My brother, of course, had no awareness of his affliction, and although he suffered obvious pain, he cooed and smiled anyway. Billy remained cheerful until that awful…
[ Read More → ]This is the opening of the first chapter of this book I’m working on. I’m undecided about whether the opening paragraphs in blue work as a good contrast, or whether they focus on “Nancy” then jump disconcertingly to the parents. __________ My mother named me after a song, “Nancy with the Laughing Face.” When I was two, I wandered from my mother in a department store and stumbled into a kind elderly man. He led me back to her and bought me a fluffy stuffed kitten that I treasured for years. I started out so innocent, so friendly. Not so…
[ Read More → ]First Word I might rather have been a slave in the Deep South before the Civil War. The road to slavery might be short or long. Mine was long. It started with parents who hid secrets that lurked in ever-growing shadows, secrets that wounded me whether I knew them or not. Their neglect of me and of what the secrets caused gave an open invitation to rapists, starting with junior high boys. Like a long, winding row of perverse dominoes, that path brutalized me on to graduation into New York City sex trafficking. Shane’s image comes alive. Unlike him it…
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