My parents wanted to squeeze me into a too-small box, painted white and tied with a bow of tradition. Anything that went against my father’s wishes or was deemed inappropriate and shameful got kicked to the curb along with any sense of uniqueness and enjoyment. It was how everything in my life went, and my mom never seemed willing to take a stand and defy him, even if it meant giving her daughter something she so desperately wanted. I was so proud, so excited when I made the team, only to have my father tell me dancing like that wasn’t permitted and no daughter of his was going to make a spectacle of herself. I longed for something different, something that would make the day-to-day less agonizing. When I was nine, I convinced my mom to let me try out for a very exclusive dance team. I was meant to be quiet, compliant, and conventional. I was the minister’s daughter, and if that didn’t come with enough inherent expectations, the man who was beloved behind the pulpit but a tyrant in our home heaped them on ever higher. We lived in Loveless, a tiny Texas town with an achingly accurate name. Too many disapproving looks from my father and not enough support or backbone from my mother. I DON’T HAVE A LOT of great memories from my childhood.
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