The first memory I have is the combination of musk, nighttime, cool air, and bright lights. I am about three years old, and I am riding in a car for the first time on my first night in America. To this day, when I am walking in a park or coming home from a movie, I sometimes smell that first night.
Other than that first memory, I have others. But I am not sure if they are memories of something that actually happened or if they are memories of dreams. One of them is of Cambodia. It is daytime, but I can’t see the sun. I am about two years old, and I am in a dark jungle, tall old trees looming over me. My grandmother is with me, and someone else I know. There are about three other people with us, but I don’t know them. We are walking as a group until a voice commands us to stop. We stop. Then the man with the voice surfaces from a bush, and he has a long gun in his hand. He orders us to go stand near a stump, and we do so, standing in two rows. I am in the front row, and I am not scared. An old man stands next to me. As I look at the man—Bang! The old man is shot, and he falls over. The man with the gun tells us to leave. We run. I am still not scared. There are many other questions in my life that I haven’t asked for answers to. I hope that soon I will be brave enough to do so.
I grew up in St. Petersburg, Florida, where it is so hot that you can smell the sun on your clothes. In kindergarten, I forced myself to stay awake during nap time because I didn’t know what “nap time” was. Because I didn’t understand English well, I only discovered the meaning on the last day of school. To this day, I enjoy napping very much. In the first grade, I was the fastest kid in P.E. Now, I can’t stand walking, and just the idea of it makes me tired already. In the fifth grade, I am the IT girl. If I could do it again, though, I would be much nicer to ALL the people in my fifth grade class. Middle school stunk. My closest friends had transferred to other schools, and my one remaining BFF from the fifth grade forgot that we had had sleepovers and shared clothes. It seemed that in high school, the seniors and juniors liked me because I was so adorable (meaning I was small and had the voice of a five-year-old). Through miraculous power that I can’t explain, I was no longer a loner. In high school, everyone was a little smarter and more sophisticated than they were in middle school. We cared less about what other people thought and cared more about we thought. As good as those days were, I am glad to be out of high school.
My eight-floor college dorm was very quiet on Friday nights. I know this because I was one of five people who stayed “home” while everyone else went out to party. My side of the small room was very pretty: a bed with flowered comforter, soft pillows, and a bed skirt. Kim Anderson’s posters of little kids in love decorated my wall. A microwave sat on top of my refrigerator. A combo TV/VCR stood six feet from my bed. Even though I don’t want to return to those days, I wouldn’t change any part of it even if someone gave me ten thousand dollars. (I might reconsider if the money was more.)
I started teaching as a full-fledged English teacher when I was twenty years old. My eighth graders thought I was the best. My seventh graders thought I was the…least? Still, I was such an effective teacher that all of my students could plot any story on a Freytag’s Pyramid and write a five-paragraph essay with one eye closed. Being a teacher helped to define who I was. When I got married and moved, I stopped teaching, and I lost part of myself. Some people may tell you that your career doesn’t make up you who you are. I have a feeling that those people are living in la-la land. For a long time, I was jealous of all teachers. I still am, but for a different reason. Good teachers are powerful. I’ve learned so much from the powerful teachers in my life—thank you.
After living in La Jolla, California, with my husband for one and half years, he and I moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We soon bought a house and adopted a dog name Pluto. He is about eighty pounds and insists on sniffing you at the most inappropriate places. What I wanted most as a child was a green yard, so now my husband mows the lawn regularly, and he plants pink roses, purple hydrangeas, and tomatoes for me. I don’t know what a peanut plant looks like, so soon he will plant that. One of my favorite things to do is to stay at home, where I sometimes do nothing. I also like to drink Coke with extra ice (extra ice is very important), and I like to read and write. Through writing, I discover characters—their histories and their futures. And in the process, I am discovering my own. I am blessed.
Some of my favorite books (in no specific order):
- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. I love this book, and if Ms. Smith was still alive I would probably stalk her.
- I am the Messenger by Markus Zusak. Get ready to laugh with a purpose.
- East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Pure classic.
- Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. There’ll be images that you won’t be able to delete from your mind.
- How to Breathe Underwater by Julie Orringer. Short stories that will leave you breathless.
- The Book of Ruth by Jane Hamilton. At the end, your throat will become dry because you’d been reading with your mouth open.
- Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons. Even if you’re too young to be a parent, you’ll want to adopt Ellen.
- A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck. Anytime you question the love of your father, this book will give you the needed answer.
- A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly. Tough decision to make in your life? You’re not alone.
- Waiting by Ha Jin. Simply, a beautiful read.
- Are you there God it’s me Margaret by Judy Blume. Anything by Judy Blume is good.
- She’s Come Undone and I Know this Much is True by Wally Lamb. Warning: you’ll get sad when you’re nearing the end of these books because you don’t want them to end.
What is your favorite book?