ABSTRACT
One of my earliest memories is that of my father teaching me to write my name. I must have been three, since my parents divorced when I was four. I still remember sitting on his lap, bending over the paper on his desk while he traced out the letters: L-E-D-A. “That’s you,” he said, looking at me and pointing to the squiggles on the page. “That’s your name.” He passed me the pencil and I labored to construct the letters just under his. “You!” he said triumphantly. And I felt a heady joy and recognition throughout my body – I am seen! I am me!
