My first moment of being was in the back of a car, when I was five, in Ecuador. We were driving to my friend’s house, Karen. She lived in an exclusive area of town, next to the country club. Her house was the stereotypical American dream, and I was jealous. While on our way, I kept thinking, “why couldn’t I be her?”

And then I wasn’t sure of who I was anymore. What makes me, me? What prevented me from being her? What exactly was driving my existence? The force of such questions on a five-year-old body should not be underestimated. I lurched forward, I wanted the car to stop, the world to stop.

The rush left me as abruptly as it had come, and I found myself once again staring out the window to the cloudy Ecuadorian skies and grey landscape. I arrived with a sick taste in my mouth. I couldn’t look at Karen in the eye for the rest of the day.

1 Comment»

  Schmiff wrote @

Ooh quite interesting… kind of reminds me of the time I visited Westchester 🙂

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