Monday , August 31st , 19 87 My two younger brothers and I are in the basement of the only home any of us have ever known. In Kansas, the basement is where you go when the sky turns mean. We’d done this drill countless times before. Tornado sirens screaming, the house creaking like it might peel apart. Our mom calmly herding us down the steps while our dad heads outside , as if violent storms were something to witness not fear. And tonight, like so many other nights, there was a storm overhead but it had nothing to do with the weather. Upstairs, our parents who had been married fifteen years, were tearing into each other with words sharp enough to rattle the foundation. The anger in their voices traveled through the floorboards, through the walls and through us. We weren’t just hearing their rage, we were absorbing it. Families fight. I understood that. Parents argue. Totally normal. What wasn’t normal was this . Our parents had never raised their voices at each other. Not o...
I thought coming of age meant growing up. On Monroe Street, it meant giving something away before I knew it was mine.