Amber Terrell
Stories (1/0)
A Tragedy Treasured
The high-pitched chime of the thrift store's entryway sensor marked the start of my typical Saturday morning. Row after row of beautiful clothing stretched before me, donated by LA's upper class after being worn just once or twice. Typical of Pavlov conditioning, I felt a surge of dopamine as I entered one of the few places in LA that didn’t require me to create a façade. Ironic, since the treasures I found here played a major role in my ability to maintain said façade. None of my daddy's-money peers at Los Angeles' Escuela de Arte had figured out that I was a scholarship-dependent kid from poverty-stricken Mendota. Spending $10 here each weekend had allowed me to maintain the desired persona of a vintage-loving wall flower: looking the part while not interacting with anyone enough to let my secret slip. I was careful to keep most conversations focused on critiquing my oil paintings, redirecting anytime personal details began surfacing. The last thing I wanted was for someone to find out about my sob story- a druggie dad who walked out when I was 10 and left my mother and I to scrape by in our 1-bedroom condo resembling Rio de Genaro shanties. Artists had to reach a certain level of fame before tragic back stories were considered interesting.
By Amber Terrell3 years ago in Wander