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Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant Ramey had a big name and an even larger presence.
She weighed just 89 pounds when she got married; a diminutive beauty, with tiny bones, delicate features, and blazing green eyes. My father, his hand wrapped tight around her waist, beams with pride in their wedding photo.
I look at this picture for hours as a girl trying to decipher what happened between the promise of that time and the realities of mine.
My mother is a complicated blend of waif and warrior, princess and martyr- a southern belle whose white glove masks an iron fist. Prone to screaming fits, spanking and combustibility, my mother is loved but not trusted. I watch in awe as she applies her makeup, believing her to be the most beautiful mother on earth—yet shrink in fear when she suddenly yanks the television cord from the wall, yelling “You watch too much tv!”
I try harder to be good, but a tight bud of longing takes root until I become a shapeshifter, too, never sure of my center.
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