Most children grow up in ‘phases’ – I was given no time for that. I took on the mental weight of an adult the moment I stepped out of that tiny TACA airplane… and into the rest of my life. In fact, the only evidence that I even had a childhood exists in a black 32×17 Rubbermaid trunk. I bought the trunk to protect my books, CDs, and photo albums from the Honduran heat and humidity. Today, I keep the trunk in my closet. It contains stacks of letters from my 8th grade Sunday school class… wishing me well, wishing me luck. It contains letters I wrote to myself… promising myself I would get out alive. It contains the jewelry I wore the day I was kidnapped… the photographs that were taken minutes before it happened, photographs of a dear friend who gave his life so that I could live. It contains fragments of a life that I shut away until now…
When I began writing for this album, I opened the trunk for the first time in years. The overwhelming smell of dark mahogany, coffee, and burning sugarcane (the smell of Honduras) hit me like a wall, and I knew that all the memories I’d stifled were begging to be brought to life. I also knew that I was being presented with a choice: I could let these memories, and the experiences that they represent, cuff me, paralyze me, and make me bitter… or I could turn them into something beautiful… something that other people could relate to and, hopefully, find comfort in. This is my gift.
Edited by audrey_marshall on 7 Apr 2011, 22:45
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