It’s not just because he wants better for me. That’s just the script, the lines he’s supposed to say to justify his actions in the never-ending scene of rage. He’s an angry man. He’s angry that all the things he didn’t have and had to fight for come so easily to me. He’s angry at my passive acceptance that this is my life. He’s angry I didn’t inherit his rage, or his soft curls and speckled eyes. He says I have the black eyes of a witch – which many women on his side of the family proudly claim to be. I don’t know what being a witch entails, we only see them once a year at great-uncle Seamus’ house. I don’t believe that life will always be as magical as this summer but for now I trust my mother’s claim that walking softly and smiling brightly will bring its own rewards. I’ll have plenty rage in reserve when I need it.
8 min, March 30, 2014; East Village, NYC
source: The Villager, March 20, 2014
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