It Runs in the Family and There is Nothing to Be Ashamed Of


I should have known my life would resemble tectonic plates not meant to hold still when my first sentence at the age of nine months was “eff routine”. I didn’t say it out loud, of course, or even know the words. But inside I felt their meaning. I couldn’t walk or talk yet, but I threw myself into the part. A restless method actor.

I knew, when at a year and a half, I reached over the top of my net playpen for the scissors my sister left too close to the edge of the dining room table, and cut an escape, only to find myself, in the next frame of the movie of my consciousness, at the bottom of the basement stairs, with new information about how many somersaults it takes to descend 13 stairs.

When, at age five, I played a game of dare with my five-year old neighbor that involved taking turns throwing kitchen knives at each other. Whoever flinched first lost.


When my idol, at nine, was Patty Hearst. That began every little girls’ fascination for trench coats and hot rollers, right? And fantasies of being forced by “bad guys” to rob banks while looking stylish and innocent? A victim, really. That was so cool. A no brainer that there’d be a guaranteed happy ending, based on her family’s wealth. Not like that Charles Manson scenario. That was ugly. Gruesome. Stephen King. Not my genre...[read more HERE]

Amy Kehoe


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