
A girl R & I once knew (who is now an "influencer") posted photos of the most lavish decorations last year with the caption, "All my garland dreams came true!" This year, I couldn't resist sending R a photo of my staircase with the text, "All my garland dreams came true as well! Except my shit's from Walmart, and only $12.95 ."
It's a day early for Thanksgiving, but I'm feeling a rare moment of gratitude to my dad. I was the ONLY female in my class who didn't get an American Girl doll. Felicity, Samantha, Kirstin -- nada. Money was not the divider: even the kids who lived in trailers/apartments got their American Girl doll. I never liked dolls anyway, but man, it burned to not get one. My dad sheepishly came home with a pre-owned copy of "A Time to Kill" one day (after another one of our big blowouts), and I snatched it from his hands and screamed something like, "I hate my life, and I hate you!" What he didn't know was that I ended up devouring the entire book that night, and it (at least in part) kicked off my interest in the law.
"A Time to Kill" depicted an injustice far more severe than a Midwestern girl who didn't get her doll; it reflected the need for individual people to step up and fight to right the wrongs of society. As my young mind learned that night, even people like Jake Brigance and his family members were called to inconvenience themselves for the greater good.
Maybe my dad was onto something. Perhaps I was never meant to play with $200 dolls, or be known for my home decor. Instead, I found a way to be paid as a full-time nerd (i.e. do things I would be doing in my off-time, anyway). His cheapness/poverty forced me to carve another path; his pitiful consolation prize provided the catalyst to my life now -- for that, I actually am grateful.
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