Halloween at Home: My Trauma, Music, and #MeToo

My first memory of my father was “meeting” him as a small child. My mother had driven me and my brother to where he was living at the time. She gently nudged me towards him, explaining that he was my birth father. He gave me a pastel pink and blue light up vanity table. I remember how the toy illuminated his wide eyes as he crouched near it, waiting for me to approach. I remember that I ran my hands over…