By the late ‘90’s I had realized things were not what they seemed. There needed to be a change, things had gotten stagnant. Not being very good at self-delusion, I knew there had to be an alternative. Historically, I had been an imperfect student to an imperfect teacher.
My mom was like the mom in “The Glass Menagerie.” As a kid, I resented her alternating perkiness and morosity. Perversely, I guess I resented the perkiness even more. During my teen years, she’d wake us siblings up early on weekend mornings and make breakfast. She’d bop around the apartment singing and uttering silly things. There was disdain in the air, and it was coming only from me, for I thought we should all be depressed. In my mind, we weren’t “successful,” and I felt a hot embarrassment that would flare up hotter the happier she would get. As I’d clamber out of bed I’d often mutter, “I’ll rise but I sure won’t shine.”
