I’ve had a lot of reasons to think about the concept of memory this year. First disclaimer: my memory isn’t perfect. Nobody’s is. And especially short-term memory as we get older—what did I have for dinner last night; what was the name of that actress who was so compelling in that film? Second disclaimer: my long-term memory isn’t always perfect …
First spoiler: he didn’t actually rape me. Although a ‘virgin,’ I gave myself to him willingly, as I describe in my book Our Song: a Memoir of Love and Race. Second spoiler: what he did could be considered worse. I met Curtis (a pseudonym) at a teen nightclub after high school ended, and he later pursued me at a summer …
When I got up this morning, there was a pot of hot coffee ready. That’s all. End of story. Oh, except for the part about how I live alone. And I did not make that coffee. Oh, and guess what: It’s Halloween! O-o-o-o-o-h! And I just happen to live in The Last House on the Left. O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h! Coincidence? I think not. …
No, not sex! I’ve spoiled you, my faithful readers. 😊