Member-only story
I Was Seven Years Old, and I Was a Stranger
The sense of safety in belonging is a precious gift
I was seven years old when I realized how vulnerable my sense of self and my place in the world were.
Suddenly I was thrust from the certainty and safety of home and identity: my house, my street, my school and my friends.
I became a stranger.
Like Dorothy’s famous understatement after her house landed on the Bad Witch, with my new home I had the sinking feeling that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I felt permanently lost, with no prospect of being found.
My parents bought a new house for our growing family. It was 15 miles from my first home. It might as well have been Siberia.
Throughout the move, I compulsively clung to the comfort of my prized pink Barbie wallet. It was my treasured possession, with my personal information slid into the see-through slot with my name, my new address and phone number, and my parents' information written in my best hand.
The conspiracy of the library
It had a 10% coupon for the corner toy store, a family picture, and the most official document, my salmon-colored library card. I used it every week, and it opened a wild imagination that knew no bounds.
