“We Owned the
Dirt”
My biological father, Scott, who I haven’t lived with
since I was two, made a remark the other day about the time in my childhood
when my mom and step-dad, who I refer to as my dad, moved my sister, Jesse, my
new baby sister, Emily, and me into a situation that he considered abusive.
He’s referring to when they moved us out of our horrible North Minneapolis
neighborhood and into the county, where they slowly and painstakingly built us
a house by hand.
I
always become real defensive when he does this. As he looks at Jesse and me
with a half-smile on his face, he’ll lean forward and say, “You know that could
have been considered child abuse!” He says this as we sit in the very kitchen
he sat in while all this was happening nearly thirty years ago. Oh, it’s a nice
kitchen, too: granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. All you have
to do is turn around and you couldn’t possibly take in all the artifacts he and
his wife have collected from all their years of world traveling.
