December 4, 1957, the day I was born, my father looked at me and said: "It would've been better if he died." He hated gingers. During the war in their village were Nazis. Most of them had ginger hair. He never fully got over it. Too bad. Then, six months in, I almost bit my own tongue off, falling down our house porch. "Would have been better if you did, actually"- my mother said later. She wasn't joking, I probably talked a lot. I can feel the tongue scar even now. Further down the line, I didn't go to a nursery, and the street was my playground. With the tough street culture, of course. Damn...