In 1985, when “Take on Me,” the New Wave hit performed by a trio of glacially beautiful Norwegians with cheekbones like Viking blades, started getting heavy radio play in my hometown of Spokane, I was a potato-shaped eleven-year-old with a cropped haircut that, on good days, could look a tiiiiiiny bit New Wave-ish, but mostly made me look like someone’s mother. I was arrogant and uncool; I was an unrepentant smartypants who cried a lot. I wore handmade clothes, sewn by my mom out of whatever fabric she had on hand, which was often brown corduroy. I never stopped telling people how smart I was.
In 1985, my parents, whom I loved and still love beyond the ability of language to describe, were alive.Continue reading