One of my favourite pastimes when I was a 7-year-old girl, was to troll the neighbourhood with my little red wagon collecting all the neighbourhood cats. I used to pretend I was an animal rescuer – way before Go, Diego, Go! was even a thought. I brought all the cats to my yard, fed them kibble, water, and made sure they could not escape for the hours I wanted to play dress-up. Our family kitten (he was just a few months old), Tiger, had been hit by a car the 3 rd day we brought him home. I did not think he would survive, but dad took him to the animal hospital and a few days later Tiger came home with pins in his hips and jaw. Yes, apparently it was expensive. Tiger did not like wearing my doll clothes or playing teatime. Usually, once he got a little heavier, he would attack me with his claws when I wanted to play with him.   In retaliation, I used to bend that little shit’s tail until he ran away and the cycle of violence continued. He would dig his claws in my scalp and bite me HA

Daddy got a letter at the post office a few weeks ago from maman, she’s coming to get us for 2 weeks this August 1982. I do not even really remember what she looks like in my mind’s eye. I have not seen maman is what seems like forever. I do not even have a photograph of her. The 2 weeks, waiting, were excruciating. I quickly learned to not act too excited or ask when August would arrive because neither of my current caregivers liked me using the name ‘maman’,   or maybe it was seeing the joy on my face they hated. Finally, Saturday had arrived and maman would be picking us up around lunch. Roxanne and I stayed close to home; I remember drawing pictures for her, kissing my cat Princess excessively, and steering clear of Tiger. I remember she had a maroon coloured K-car or another model Chrysler, later she had a tiny little dark blue car she called a pony. I did not care what happened to me after I got in that back seat. On the way out of town we stopped at a chip stand and in my ex

  I wake up in the morning, I notice ants, and spiders are crawling ON ME! I get up and I start to scream bloody murder. Dad comes running out of his bedroom to see what is wrong and finds me on the mattress, on the floor, having a meltdown over insects crawling on my body. To dad, this is hilarious and he is laughing so hard he almost pees his pants. Apparently, bugs are not a big deal and I should not worry. I definitely do not feel better and I really want him to cover the giant hole in the wall where the bugs are coming in. He said the hole would be covered before bed tonight. My new bedroom, which I share with my sister, used to be the laundry room* and the insects are coming in through the dryer vent. Noticing that my sister is missing, she is not in the bedroom when I was screaming bloody murder; we move around the small apartment and eventually make our way to the store. A regular interior door between our living quarters and the commercial business separates the spaces.