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267 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1998
I looked triumphantly at Father, who was in his shirtsleeves drinking black coffee and reading the Työkansan Sanomat newspaper.Prompted by her father's passing, a grown-up Pirkko is flooded with early memories of navigating and making sense of her life as an only child in a working-class Communist family in 1950s Finland. The world of adults – with their 48 volumes of the collected works of Lenin and Stalin, their strawberry juice that tastes like mould, and their hushed conversations about a place called Pikkatilly and a man called Hitler – is confusing, and dark-haired Pirkko, yearning to be a boy but training to be a docile, if also dark-haired and therefore 'inherently bad' girl, feels like an outsider. That is, until she discovers and seeks refuge in language.
Mother stood by the entryway mirror spreading a touch of rouge from her lips to her cheeks as has hummed "Harbor Nights."
Neither of them noticed that I had become she, the one always under observation.
She's forced to open her secret gate more often than she would like because she isn't seen no matter how much she yearns to be.Moving elliptically between the then and now – between an I balancing her life as a mother and daughter in crisis and a she learning to see and write herself on her own terms, a secret only she will know about until this book is published – the narrative serves up a touching and disarmingly funny portrait of the writer as a young child and the young child as a writer weaving the stories, experiences and expectations of those whose lives, traumas, histories, and relationships touch hers into the fabric of her own. In doing so, however, she refuses to water herself down to appeal to their sensibilities; she will not be the lowest common denominator.
The first time it happened I was eight years old
It was a November morning.
The street was black and shiny, swollen behind the windows wet with sleet.
I saw myself in the window: a chubby, bad-tempered child.
I pulled on wool socks too tight for my feet.
A button was missing from my vest. Mother took a five-mark bill out of her purse.
I stuffed it in my sock.
And that's when it happened.
Neither of them noticed that I had become 'she', the one always under observation