The miracle of Facebook has brought me this incriminating flash from my past (courtesy Laura Berry Cooke, no relation despite the name. I'll get you back, dearie.). This is me at, oh, thirteen or so, at a summer Girls' Camp near Buffalo, NY. Note the jaunty thrust of the chin, the cool, haughty sneer from underneath the mascara'd eyebrow. I ooze machismo, if an Anglo-Saxon like me possibly can. I made a hot Latin as a thirteen year old girl.
People were always telling me how much I looked like my brother, a hot ticket himself. I never saw it then, but I see it now.
This is the author as a child, thinking her deep, inspired, creative, authory thoughts. Like how many frogs might crawl into her underpants if she jumped into the pond at camp.
(And incidentally, I really enjoyed Joyce's Portrait Of ... . Does that make me weird? Then again, with photo evidence like this, does that point need further establishment?)