Part of a wonderful series of posts by Daniel which it would be great to see in some other formats too.
The following is from a series of musings on trauma, memory, community, and place. The introduction to the series and beginning essay [link] explains the purpose of this month of entries.
I remember the story my father told of his own father’s funeral.
This is a man I never met.
Along with my grandmother and great uncles, he grew up in orphanages in New York City.
Back in the day when “poor orphans” were good for indentured labor and not much else.
Especially not at all an option was adding such children to a family of better “stock”.
This aspect I think most marked his and my father’s lives, in that they both aspired to belong to a class above them.
Just like me.
View original post 2,035 more words