~<br >In Which I Be~gin by Digging My Hole<br >I have my blue jeans rolled up to reveal the plaid underside<br >and my Tom Corbett Space Cadet T-shirt clings tight to my<br >stomach. Yes， and my white high-topped Keds surround my<br >dancing feet， my red bandanna is tied around my neck， the<br >point tickling my throat. Behind me， in the row house， Freda<br >and Father sit beneath the Norman Rockwell kitchen calendar<br >arguing about budgets. Ahead of me is Craig Avenue. That s<br >where the Hill is， where Baba Looie might be. It is where<br >Gene Autry and Roy Rogers move inside our bodies， take over<br >our speech， stop stuttering in Walter， make Kirk forget his<br >scraped-up knees， turn Shirley Steinberg--who will later get<br >gunned down for real in a tavern fight--into the traveling<br >minstrel girl， charm a man out of his snake ring like it or not.<br >Running down Craig Avenue， I m no fat kid who will have<br >trouble with braces acne marriage. I will not step on a crack.<br >I am Lash LaRue; the bushes shrink from my touch. Me and<br >[1<br >il<br >u<br >)1<br >3A<br >ql<br >oJ<br >L，，<br >qJn<br >1103<br >I.L，，<br >，ald<br >t&，，<br >~qs<br >do9<br >，de9<br >Jaop<br >~!~I，，<br >p "PIP<br >~S f l_，，<br ><br >