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I shut up early on and let my imagination run wild, or as concentrated as my patch of sick. My body and soul were a sewer, briny and foul with sexiness.Daddy doesn’t like that about me, and I don’t like him, but my body craves him.whenever I open my mouth to speak; consequently, I rarely do. He bites into my ringworm and eats the red, pused-out bits in the way my older sister ate the petals she pulled from red flowers: with relish. Instead he fell in with New York–based feminists, some of whom roamed the Berkshire woods naked with bow and arrow, looking for men to kill, while others stepped on the accelerator when they saw men crossing the road.Daddy turns me on because he doesn’t think I’m cute; he makes me work for his admiration. In this world, SL became a wife, supporting a number of friends’ and lovers’ work while his own work took a backseat; it was the least he could do: He had had a father, and he would have no further truck with that. Perhaps he enjoyed the fact that, in those days, I always looked like an old-school bull dagger, what with my thick neck, little gold earrings, no makeup, and hair cut short and shaved on the sides.He’d spent his adolescence on army bases in England, France, and Germany, while I had no direct experience with white people until I was a teenager.SL’s parents were middle-class American Negroes from the Midwest who went to work in Europe to escape, if it can be done, racism.

Other nails and splinters: the irrefutable sense that he didn’t really know why he was here, in the world, at all. He would not have his maleness because that was a sick and diseased and controlling thing—like his father.

By way of introduction he would shyly offer me things he thought might interest me: postcards, books, photographs.

One of the first postcards he sent me was by the photographer Helen Levitt.

Once, after I’d won some prize in elementary school for writing a poem, my mother encouraged me to hug my visiting father; she knew he could not do it but she also knew I could not write that poem without him on some level; Daddy and his incessant, on-the-phone language was one source for my “art.” While I stood before him, rigid and blank, he took me in his great arms—my father was a big man; I would grow up to be a big man; I wanted a bigger man to hold me so I could feel, as a grown-up, what my father’s embrace made me feel: that I didn’t want to grow up to be a big man—and whispered: When I was your age, I didn’t like my father to hug me, either. Or, rather, what it set up in me: a horror of my I, since that meant being a him—my father.

I loved his entirely adult attire; it relieved me of the responsibility of being an adult; in his company I got smaller and smaller, hungry for his protection.

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