Published 1992
ISBN:
Pages: 26
A selection:
I was fifteen. I had wild eyes. I was like my sister who carried her baby like a head of unwashed cabbage.
My mother said to me, “Rosie, my child, you go to America, get rich, then come back.”
I knew I would never come back. I knew shame was permanent like skin.
My mother said to me, “You go to America.” And I said “good” because I meant it.