remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 1
What follows is a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.
I was the American Dream in progress. I was the second daughter of immigrant parents. A surprising child, I was cute, bilingual, articulate, and charming. I had an abundance of friends and the teachers were wild about me. I was an I.G.C., which was New York City public school-speak for smarty-pants. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge, and my penmanship was excellent. All signs screamed “THIS CHILD IS SOMEONE!”
Even my artwork, lovingly attached to the refrigerator by a rainbow of magnetic letters, suggested that my future held great promise. So with all of this before me, I can’t help but acknowledge that things have not turned out as well as they could have.
It wasn’t that my parents didn’t encourage me. On the contrary, they believed not only that all of my dreams could come true, but that indeed, they would come true. Further, they stressed that by my choice, I can make things happen. While they were not nearly as optimistic about my sister’s prospects, they wholeheartedly believed that everything in life was mine for the taking. And why wouldn’t they?
I had a game plan.
By the age of six, I decided that I wanted to be President. First, I needed a very big house.
By the age of eight, I realized that to make this happen, I must learn how to fight crime. Also, I should probably go to an Ivy League School.
By the age of nine, I understood that I should probably major in History, or as I called it, Social Studies. Oh, and it is very important to learn to pick a lock.
By the age of ten, I was certain that it was absolutely necessary to become proficient in a musical instrument, as all spies and academics were skilled in that way.
All of these thoughts were not the product of enthusiastic parents, but of my own precocious mind. As I knew it, these dreams were well within my grasp.
So where did I go wrong?