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December 6, 2002
I don’t know how many times my poverty (I use “my” instead of “our” to describe poverty because I experienced the rising heat of shame every time we lacked something, every time) made me cringe. Makes me cringe even today. Makes me try to avoid those memories. Makes me avoid thinking about those instances, though they rise with regularity. Makes me buy things to prove to them (to whom? To me?) that I have escaped. That they no longer ensnare me. That that state no longer defines me. That I am no longer there. I am not.

I AM NOT.