Posted on May 21, 2012 by Hobart Fowlkes

I’m Dorothy.  My surname is of no consequence, but its Davis.  In fact, Dorothy Davis is now officially dead.  In my town, the one where I grew up in Arkansas, everyone is named Lisa, Amy, Britney or Tiffany.  I never knew those girls.  I never cared to.  I just watched in fascination from the bus stop as they each screeched off shrieking from the passenger seats of the TransAm or Camaro belonging to some random Kevin, Brad, Brian or Kyle.  I was invisible to them, but at least my name had character.  My mother had named me after Dorothy Parker whose literary prowess, sharp tongue and stinging sense of irony she admired.  My mother loved to read.  When I was young, we’d sit in the backyard while I dug holes and tunnels in the dirt while she reclined on a blanket deeply immersed in some important looking volume.  “Someday Dorothy,” she used to say to me, ” you are going to do something important and everyone will know you! I can feel it in my bones.  You’ll leave this pathetic town, and you’ll be someone.” Continue Reading →