I was born at home, in a five room house, the youngest of the three children of a school teacher and a book store manager taking night classes. My parents’ room was in the hall near the back door. My brother slept in what was marketed to my parents as the dining room, and my sister and I shared the front bedroom. When I was seven years old, my sister, ripe in her pubescent distain for everything, decided she wanted her own room. She moved into our parents room, they moved into our room, and I “moved” into the living room. We had a sleeper sofa.
When I was fourteen, living in Memphis with my very own room (and blue and white painted ceiling), I decided I wanted to go to NYU to be a stage actress. I was, after all, starring in most of my middle school skits. How much harder could it be? The world was my oyster, and I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
When I was eighteen, I decided I wanted stay in Memphis and study so that I could get that extra “F” on my transcript. BFA. It just looks more romantic than a plain old B A. Also, I learned that NYU, like many other “reputable” schools, is designed for kids with trust funds. Not me.
I am now twenty years old, and I still believe that the world is my oyster, despite the fact that once again, I am living in my parents’ living room (different house though, slightly different family, and this time, I have a mattress). I guess family is handy like that. They only see the best in you, even when all you can see is the worst.
I am part of a generation of go-getters. We are CPAs and on the fast track for CEO.
We tour in bands and tour foreign countries, and eventually, after we’ve conquered the world and created our 401ks, maybe we’ll marry another rich CPA and have some kids. And we’ll do it all without disturbing our French manicures or missing our spin classes.
That’s all well and good, but what about breathing? I think somewhere along the line, there’s something we forgot…
|The northern Mississippi River peeks out from behind some Minneapolis foliage to say hello to the sun.|