Walking around Nantucket yesterday brought up emotions in me that date back to my childhood. My reaction to seeing a certain type of well to do men and women, dressed in elite preppy styles, full of self confidence and sureness, implying a closed exclusive world, is not good. It makes me cringe inside and feel uncomfortable. It also encourages my contempt.
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One of my earliest memories of my aunt was when I was three or four years old. She would tell me stories about a fairy named Matilda that lived in a thimble under her bed. She would talk in a high child like voice as she explained that she would feed Matilda strawberries and cream every morning and they would drink tea from little tiny tea cups and have all kinds of adventures. I believed these stories and thought they were wonderful. Every night before I went to bed I began to imagine stories about Matilda and later my own stories about a fairy kingdom that I, along with Mr. Dog, my beloved stuffed animal, ruled over. My own imaginary world, which helped me to fall asleep every night as a child, began with my aunt’s Matilda stories. Continue reading
