I was 8 years old, splashing in the public pool near my grandmother’s house. A friendly boy swam over and asked me, “What do you lack?”
My puny brain ground to a halt. Shelter? Food? Clothing? Nope. Got all those. What do I lack? Like, what’s missing from my life?
I hadn’t really thought about it before.
The boy glanced around anxiously, likely confused as to why I continued to stare at him, jaw open, without answering.
“What do you lack?” he asked again, this time adding, “I lack Ninja Turtles. Do you lack Ninja Turtles?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I like Ninja Turtles, too.”
That’s when I realized that being born in the Deep South without an accent made me the weird one.