MEMORIES IN NEED OF REPRESSING

(not necessarily) My Childhood Memories- #1
Mother was so with it, so hip. And she always knew when I’d done something bad.
Like the evening she came home, fixed herself a shot, and called me into the kitchen.
Caught again, I knew before she started talking what she was going to say, in that slow even voice that bothered me more than a vigorous and loud scolding….
” You stepped on my heroin again, dincha?”
_____&_
(not necessarily) My Childhood Memories #2
Mr. Stepke didn’t seem to mind a talkative seven-year old stopping by his place on my way home near about every day, but my folks sure did!
It was innocent enough, I would hold his hand while telling him about my day at school. I would tell him what I wanted to be when I grew up. Did it amuse him that my goal changed daily? From Spider man to astronaut to GI Joe, never a discouraging word from old Mr Stepke.
But my parents would raise holy hell whenever they found out I had been over there. I was a headstrong child, however, and refused to give up my friend.
I never quite understood their hostility towards Mr. Stepke. Was it because he was an immigrant? Were my grades suffering that much because I spent so much time over there? Was reburying him that much trouble?

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