Abstract
about my father. He died in the winter of 1973; but my dreams of him before were solely about an absence of something I observed, sometimes, in his eyes. My father, near his death, was a gaunt, coffee-colored man, with a fine large nose and immense dark and intelligent eyes. All his life he worked for other people; rough, unpleasant labor that forced him (along with a wife and eight children) to subsist on as little as three hundred dollars a year. My father was then, a poor man, exploited by the rural middle-class rich, like millions of peasant laborers the world over. But as a child I was not aware of any others. I thought it was my father's own peculiar failing that we were poor. My excitement over going finally to
Sign-in/Register to access full text options 
Free) 
Talk to us
Join us for a 30 min session where you can share your feedback and ask us any queries you have
Schedule a call
