Sensing my frustration, my mother eventually enrolled me in a nursery school down the street for two or three days a week. Although I enjoyed it, I discovered that it didn't provide enough to satisfy my curiosity. I would ask my mother to read me every sign, every paper, every milk carton and package I saw. I insisted she tell me every word and what it meant, nearly driving her crazy in the process, and then I tried to memorize their spellings and meanings. On learning that Europe was a place across the ocean, I asked her if "European" was a real word. She made a joke about going to the bathroom along the lines of "You're peeing" and refused to say whether it was a real word which made me furious with her. She didn't take my intense need to learn about language seriously, and I was desperate for someone who understood my hunger. My dad would have understood, but he was gone much of the time, and during his recent visits home he had become strange, dark, and intensely distracted.
Although I'm not sure why, I didn't go to kindergarten; bored senseless, I began to create imaginary friends, all of whom were adults.
Much later in life, a genial psychiatrist to whom I had confided this fact pointed out how unusual it was for a child to have adult imaginary friends, but it still seems perfectly natural to me. I felt safe with them, and they taught me a great deal. I still think of them fondly and I have a deep superstition about speaking their names aloud. They were my own personal crossing guards.
Reprinted by arrangement with Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., from Composed by Rosanne Cash. Copyright © 2010 by Rosanne Cash