When I Really Knew My Purpose.

I was 4-years old when I decided I wanted to be a writer.

True story, told and retold I don't know how many times.

My father was talking about racism. I think something may have aired on the news that he was talking about. Just so happen, I was the only one in the house who really listened when he got to talking. I probably was awed by whatever had aired on TV too, asking my thousands of questions. Whatever he was telling me, I couldn't wrap my young four-year-old mind around why people treated people mean for no reason. He told me I was too young to understand, which I begged him to tell me, promising I would understand. But nope, he wouldn't give up what sounded like a really good secret.

That's when I told him I was going to be a writer. I don't know where this thought...this desire came from. At four I didn't know of any writers. I wasn't yet in school, but maybe, just perhaps heard the word on TV...or somewhere. I don't know. I just remember this moment, adding how I wanted to write about my family, to let the world know they were not bad people.

But my father told me this was not a good idea. I was floored. "Why? Why not?" I asked.

He said, "because there were things about the family that would hurt them if written about."

Again, I was floored. Did he think I was going to write bad stuff about my family? People I wholeheartedly loved? Why would I do that? And besides, what was so bad about my family that couldn't be written? Had they done something really terrible? Was this what the big secret was about...why people treated them mean for no reason?

It was beyond my comprehension trying to fathom, though I was sure if my father explained this secret, as plainly as he was telling me why writing was a bad idea, I would understand. He totally had my mind spinning when he added, "besides, you are too young to write. And you don't have enough experiences."

This was the moment when the writer in me was truly born.