Grover Wilcox

I was a shadow, the silent child, never spoken to or touched except in anger. No hello. No goodbye. No "I love you." "Bad seed," said my mother. I was Nobody's Boy. We moved more than 100 times by the time I was in my teens. We kids sometimes ate chicken feed, or chewed tar from telephone poles. But I bore the brunt. One Christmas my six siblings all got gifts. Not me. Not a trinket. I was Nobody. First Mom disappeared, then Dad; so the State of California gave me a number: 10114. "Who would want to adopt you?" they said. I learned to hide the tears, the vulnerable child, beneath my warrior mask. Then my parents reappeared and jerked us back into a lower hell. There were glimmers of hope. A class for the gifted. Straight A's. Graduation with honors. But who cared? My dad's parting words: "You'll never be able to hold a job and make a living!" Even as a successful teacher, I was the hollow man. There was no way on earth for heaven to reach me, even if God Himself appeared in the sky. Or so I thought. . .… (altro)