I'm going to leave Johnny for a minute after writing about him.
This is where it gets complicated
having Tom here because I began to write about when--
I come from a really large family.
There are nine kids in my family.
And I began to write about when we were kids,
about being boys and girls really, about gender I guess,
and how we tried to manage that.
And so it starts off kind of young and it moves up.
So I'd like to read a couple of these to you guys.
Everybody OK?
Can you hear me and everything?
You're such a warm audience.
You're really great.
This one's called "The Boy."
This happened in the '60s, remember,
when everybody grew their hair long and all the dads got mad.
What was it about that?
[INAUDIBLE] gender thing.
"The Boy."
"My older brother is walking down the sidewalk
into the suburban summer night, white t-shirt, blue jeans,
to the field at the end of the street.
Hangers Hideout, the boys called it,
an undeveloped plot, a pit overgrown with weeds,
some old furniture thrown down there
and some metal hangers clinking in the trees like wind chimes.
He's running away from home because our father
wants to cut his hair.
And in two more days, our father will convince me to go to him--
you know where he is--
and talk to him.
No reprisals, he promised.
A small parade of kids in feet pajamas will accompany me,
their voices like the first peepers in spring.
And my brother will walk ahead of us home.
And my father will shave his head bald.
And my brother will not speak to anyone the next month,
not a word, not "pass the milk," nothing.
What happened in our house taught my brothers how to leave,
how to walk down a sidewalk without looking back.
I was the girl.
What happened taught me to follow him, whoever he was,
calling and calling his name."