![]() I am convinced that most people do not grow up. Parents, siblings, and neighbors, are mysterious apparitions, who come, go, and do strange unfathomable things in and around the child, the region’s only enfranchised citizen. Home is that youthful region where a child is the only real living inhabitant. I believe that one carries the shadows, the dreams, the fears and dragons of home under one’s skin, at the extreme corners of one’s eyes and possibly in the gristle of the earlobe. Thomas Wolfe warned in the title of America’s great novel that ‘You Can’t Go Home Again.’ I enjoyed the book but I never agreed with the title. ![]() ![]() In the first essay, simply titled “Home,” Angelou offers this poignant lens on identity, growing up, and belonging. In 2008, Maya Angelou (April 4, 1928–May 28, 2014) - one of the greatest spirits of the past century - penned Letter to My Daughter ( public library), a collection of 28 short meditations on subjects as varied as violence, humility, Morocco, philanthropy, poetry, and older lovers, addressed to the daughter she never had but really a blueprint to the life of meaning for any human being with a beating heart. ![]()
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