If You Teach Kids How To Tell

Last September 16th, I Was Walking In Downtown Seattle When This Pick-up Truck Pulls Up In Front Of Me. Guy Leans Out The Window And Yells, "go Back To Your Own Country," And I Was Laughing So Hard Because It Wasn't So Much A Hate Crime As A Crime Of Irony.

Humor Was An Antiseptic That Cleaned The Deepest Of Personal Wounds.

Yes, I Am Irish And Indian, Which Would Be The Coolest Blend In The World If My Parents Were Around To Teach Me How To Be Irish And Indian. But They're Not Here And Haven't Been For Years, So I'm Not Really Irish Or Indian. I Am A Blank Sky, A Human Solar Eclipse.

In A Sense, You're Always Mythologizing Your Life; It's Always An Effort To Make Yourself Epic. At Least In Fiction You Can Lie And Sort Of Justify Your Delusion About Your "epicness." But When You're Writing A Memoir, You're Trying To Make Your Life Epic And It's Not - Nobody's Life Is.

She Was In Pain And I Loved Her, Sort Of Loved Her, I Guess, So I Kind Of Had To Love Her Pain, Too.