My Patchwork Quilt of Identity
One of my earliest childhood memories is one of feeling unaccounted for and misplaced. I’m standing in a toy store, eyeing the dolls on the shelves – each of them packaged so neatly with their shiny hair, plastic shoes, and dainty dresses. Their painted lips smile back almost begging to be selected, taken home, and lovingly played with by the little girl before them. Some of them resemble my mother . . .