*that darn kat*
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"I was born a poor
black child..."
Then again, maybe I was born in Rockville Centre, NY, approximately an hour from the Big Apple, where I lived in peace for eleven years, until my well-meaning parents ripped my brother and me from the golden hand of suburbia and dragged us, kicking and screaming, to the hell that is known as Central New York. Whenever I meet someone here at ND and he or she asks where I'm from, I always say that I am originally from Long Island. Believe me, I've associated with the natives in Cortland County, and I'm sure I'd prefer not to be mistaken for one. Don't get me wrong- there are many nice, non-cow-tipping people in Homer, NY. But after attending a high school where it was customary to drive tractors on the last day of school and for the homecoming queen to wear a Confederate flag as a skirt, about all I can say is, "Hallelujah- free at last!" So here I am at Notre Dame. This place is way Catholic. The past two summers, I've worked at a children's store called The Red Wagon in Boston, Massachusetts. The Red Wagon is located in a particularly snooty area of Boston known as Beacon Hill. I learned a lot of things from working there. For one, many wealthy people are mystifyingly ill-bred. They let their kids do things like taking toys out of boxes and throwing them on the floor, and oh, let's see... pooping their pants while sitting on our chairs and then spreading excrement on our dolls. That just about stopped my biological clock dead in its tracks. Aside from some of the less-than-pleasant younger patrons, The Red Wagon is a wonderful place filled with Lilly Pulitzer, Giesswein, Elefanten, and some great people. |