I ended up dropping out of high school (although now Stuyvesant High claims me as a graduate) and joined the army on my 17th birthday. I wrote well in high school and an English teacher (bless her!) recognized this and advised me to keep on writing no matter what happened to me. Reading pushed me to discover worlds beyond my landscape, especially during dark times when my uncle was murdered and my family became dysfunctional with alcohol and grief. From my comfortable perch on her lap, I would watch as she moved her finger slowly across the page and I’d imagine the characters. My mother read to me from a very young age. I had a speech impediment and often found myself leading with my fists when teased. I was smart (all kids are smart) but didn’t do that well in school. The neighborhood protected me and the church guided me. Walter and his brother Mickey grew up in HarlemĪs a child, my life revolved around my neighborhood and church. They loved me very much and I grew to love Harlem. I was raised in Harlem by Herbert, who was African-American and Florence, who was German and Native American and wonderful. I was about two years old when my mother died and then I was inexplicably given to Florence and Herbert Dean. My name at birth was Walter Milton Myers. “I was born on a Thursday, the 12th of August, 1937, in Martinsburg, West Virginia.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |