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224 pages, Paperback
First published May 11, 1993
All the time I’d been in Boston, I felt dumb, because there were so many things I didn’t know. Before, I was cocky and assumed I’d always owned my knowledge: I remembered the lessons but not the teacher. Suddenly, I realized, some things you must be taught. (136, "June")
“People can forget about me,” she said. “If we sit down and talk, people can forget there’s anything different about me at all. It’s what they want to do. I can see it every time I meet somebody. They think: God, let me forget about what’s wrong with this woman.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I said.
My mother shook her head. “They want to forget about me, and I want them to forget.” Her feet were on my calves. “But is that fair?” she said. “Why should I want them to?”
“Because it doesn’t make any difference,” I said.
“Oh yes,” she said. “It does.” (146, "What We Know About The Lost Aztec Children")
Please consider these words: do you remember. They mean everything.
Do you remember is the game sweethearts and friends play, and strangers from the same college who meet at the bus stop. Married people lead a life of it, I guess: do you remember our meeting, our courting, our parting. There is something so personal and lovely and casual in that line. (211, "The Goings-on of the World")
Like all good mothers, she always knew the worst was going to happen and was disappointed and relieved when it finally did.
All she wanted was for me to become miraculously blank.
My mother was wrong. I never felt like a freak because of my height: I felt like a ghost haunting too much space... It's like when you move into a new place, and despite the lease and despite the rent you've paid, the place doesn't feel like home and you're not sure you want to stay... Well, getting a tattoo—it's like hanging drapes, or laying carpet, or driving that first nail into the fresh plaster: it's deciding you've moved in.
...I am not a museum, not yet, I'm a love letter, a love letter.