Person of influence

For the first years of my childhood, I didn't know we were poor. I thought my mom was very strange and a little mean. Why else could I only have one glass of juice with dinner and wear hand me downs from the neighbors? I really thought that having potatoes as a main dish was some hippie, organic thing my mom was into. It didn't occur to me that we couldn't afford meat -- I always thought my mom was making choices. And then school happened. I thought my mom had grown a larger mean streak because I couldn't have the big box of crayons and I couldn't buy hot lunch. I don't know how children become so cruel so soon, but by first grade I was tormented by students for wearing the same clothes twice in a week and having leftover mac and cheese in my lunch. I wish I could say I stood strong and reveled in my strangeness. But that would be a lie. I hid in the library during lunch and recess and lost myself in the simple lives of ducklings and dogs and children playing outside on snowy days.
By third grade, I knew we were poor. I knew a lot of things an eight year old should never, never know. Home was scary, school was a minefield. I longed for Nike sneakers, color television and a Fluff sandwich on white bread. Instead, I was treated to a stay with my grandparents. They were not my favorite set of grandparents. They ate granola, listened to Peter, Paul and Mary, did not own a television and had little time for a prattling child. However, I was allowed to explore my grandfather's study -- only when he wasn't in there. I still remember pushing on the keys of his ancient typewriter wondering if I could create something wonderful. I can still see the VanGogh prints on the wall and trying to trace the swirls of Starry Night. Looming from ceiling to floor were stacks and stacks of books. From the dusty piles of poetry and plays and resource manuals, I discovered To Kill a Mockingbird -- and I read it. It took me long time, but I didn't care! A lonely eight year old has a lot of time on her hands. Sometimes my mom would a chapter aloud to me. She never asked why I was interested in this big book, she just kept reading with me. Looking back, I wonder if she was searching for the same escape and inspiration. In every inch of myself, I wanted to be Scout. She was so brave, so sure of her strength. I didn't know that the book was about racism or unjust laws and practices. I just wanted to bring Scout to school with me to fight my battles. I wanted her in my corner. So I don't know who this entry is about. My mother, who tried her best? My granparents, who showed me great things? My classmates, who showed me their very worst? Or maybe it is Scout, who created a little, strong piece of me.