There is a love/hate relationship, a turmoil of feelings, between a person and the past. Like everything else, you inherit your social standing—your place in society—from your parents. Some people can embrace what they were raised to be. Some people can comfortably stay where they are. Forget about them. This is not about them. This is about people who cannot separate themselves quickly enough from what they were. This is for people with deep and impractical insecurities about anything that might connect them with their past. I am this sort of person, but I try not to be. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the things that make me cringe most are those things with which I don't care to be associated, more specifically, those things with which I feel I might be associated.
It's funny, though, how quickly I become incensed and defensive when someone from the outside levels criticisms against or mocks people I consider my people. Hate without love, I think, is what's wrong. Unless you have the love, the hate is ugly. When you have the love, when you can understand, when you've been there, your hate means something. The hate can be tragically beautiful.
One vivid picture I have of Louisiana—from the time I spent there—is the species of large tree with great tangles of exposed roots. I'm not sure what sort of tree that was, but I always thought it was lovely and brave. I could never show my roots so openly and proudly as that.
Hello, friends. I hope your year is ending well. Tell me how you're doing.
Love.
