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Zusatztext “The story of how [Harris] overcame the demons of his past is inspirational.”-- Entertainment Weekly “Emotional! heart-pulling . . .an in-depth look into the real world of E. Lynn Harris.” -- QBR! The Black Book Review “Has all the dramatic elelments of a compelling work of fiction. . . . And Harris shares the positive experiences that have helped him become . . . proud! successful! happy.” -- The Advocate Informationen zum Autor E. Lynn Harris Klappentext "In many ways writing saved my life. It's my hope that sharing my experience will give hope to others who are learning to deal with their "difference.” I want them to know they don't have to live their lives in a permanent "don't ask, don't tell” existence. Truth is a powerful tool. "But my hope for this book doesn't stop there. I think there is a message here for anyone who has ever suffered from a lack of self-esteem, felt the pain of loneliness, or sought love in all the wrong places. The lessons I have learned are not limited to race, gender, or sexual orientation. Anyone can learn from my journey. Anyone can overcome a broken heart.”--E. Lynn HarrisBeverly Smith, a chubby ten-year-old, paused. She had forgotten the words again. I wanted to shout out Easter day is here . Why couldn’t she remember her speech? Even I knew her six-line speech. Instead of saying here , Beverly stuck her fingers in her mouth and twirled her thick, uncombed plaits with her free hand. She looked as though she was going to cry, but suddenly she began to giggle, much to the dismay of our Sunday School teacher, Miss Whitfield, and myself. Beverly’s completion of her speech was the only thing that stood in the way of my practicing my Easter speech and then joining my friends for a quick game of kickball before twilight covered the colored section of the east side of Little Rock, Arkansas. It was the early 1960s and we were the only three people left in the Metropolitan Baptist Church, an ash-gray building as big as its name, and the centerpiece of our community of forty-plus families. I was frustrated. All the other children had practiced their speeches and darted out of the church onto the streets to play before their parents called them in. It was not the kind of neighborhood where whole families sat down for dinner together, like Leave It to Beaver , because in the 1960s, many of the black adults worked two jobs. In my neighborhood, if your own parents didn’t tell you to come in, then some other adult would, and you had better obey. I got tired of looking at Beverly, so my eyes moved to the wooden boards with black slip-in numbers listing the hymns from the previous week and the total attendance of Sunday School. I could hear the laughter and shouts filter in through the open windows of the church. From the voices I could tell my peers were playing the popular game of hide-and-seek, where the seeker sang, “Honey . . . honey . . . b . . . bar . . . b . . . bar . . . b. I can’t see you see . . . see you see. Last night, night before, twenty-four robbers were at my door. I got up, let them in, hit ’em in the head with a rolling pin.” Miss Whitfield had saved me for last, because I had the longest speech: twenty-two lines. A speech that long was usually given to kids in the sixth grade, and never to an eight-year-old. I had memorized each line the first day I received the typewritten speech. As Beverly started over and once again struggled for the words to her speech, my thoughts wandered to the upcoming Sunday. As my eyes left the wooden boards and moved toward the empty pulpit, I thought how proud my mama and daddy would be when I stood before the congregation and said my speech in my new Easter coat. Easter Sunday was the one time during the year I could count on Daddy being at church alongside my mother. In my fantasy, church members would marvel...
