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I blamed almost all of it on the Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I mean, the fucking insanity of having a brother-in-law or uncle spank me because I supposedly violated some obscure rule of the Witnesses.
There are snapshots tucked away in the back of my mind, memories of sitting on Dad’s lap, watching TV, feeling the razor stubble on his cheeks, smelling booze on his breath.
There were two families, really: my sisters Michelle and Suzanne were eighteen and fifteen years old, respectively, by the time I came along (I often thought of them as aunts rather than sisters); my sister Debbie was three.
That’s where I was born, although it’s possible I was conceived in Texas, where my parents had lived during the latter stages of their tumultuous marriage.
My first recorded photograph with my father and sister Debbie. The journey began in La Mesa, California, in the summer of 1961.
” Flip through a stack of school yearbooks from my childhood or adolescence, and more often than not you’ll find one of those gray silhouettes, or maybe even a big question mark—the great scarlet letter of yearbooks! Like a lot of kids who bounce around from school to school, town to town, I was frequently absent and thus became something of a phantom, a sullen, red-haired mystery to classmates and teachers alike.