Mostly left to my own devices, I retreat into my room, where I play with my dollhouse, escape into books, or arrange my stuffed animals into complex tableaux of domestic strife. When my older sister isn’t riding horses at an equestrian center in the Berkeley Hills, she ignores me or bullies me. My parents, who are both English professors, my father at UC– Berkeley and my mother at a private college in the East Bay, are preoccupied with their careers: teaching classes, grading papers, writing books. Unsure what the correct response is or what I’m being tested on, I hesitate.Īt home, I am invisible. Sensing this is a test, I search the man’s face for the right answer, but it’s a blank slate. It’s been hours since I ate my brown-bag lunch on the playground of the alternative grade school that I attend in the Berkeley flatlands alongside kids who have names like Sunshine and Storm. I eye the bowl of M&M’s on the table between us.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |