Four years old, seated in the gymnasium of the community center where mama, new immigrant, was receiving language lessons.
I was shy (then) because I had trouble communicating in the foreignness of English, so I saucer-eyed-stared rather than spoke.
(Mostly, I watched my small bare legs splayed out ahead of me, ending in white patent leather shoes that I loved dearly shiny and shinier still.)

I sat with my back to the window, my tiny doughy fists always frantically clutching Where The Wild Things Are.
The characters were my safety blanket I understood as they were written in Child.

It remains my favourite book of all.
And every time I see this trailer, I cry.

(Thank you, Mr. Sendak & soon Mr. Jonze.)

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