I wanted a chocolate birthday cake that had chocolate icing with blue writing for my 10th birthday. My Mom tried to talk me out of it. “Don’t you really want a yellow cake with nice white icing and pretty flowers?” she pleaded. For some reason, at that time and place, having a chocolate cake declared me as one who walked precariously on the edge of some juvenile boundary. Mom wanted her little girl to enjoy what the other girls enjoyed. I had other ideas.
Batman held more interest than Barbie. I’d rather have been zooming through the galaxies with the crew of the Starship Enterprise than be a Princess in my own court. Was I born in the wrong time, a girl on the forefront of distinctiveness in a cosmos of conformity?
I often look at our neighborhood and try to picture it being built up in the city as it was in the 1930s. How did Art Deco land on the shores of the Hudson? The streamlined styling of Rockefeller Center dazzles my imagination. The distinctive, curved pink glamour of our building’s entranceway charms me. What would my 1939 counterpart have dreamed of on her birthday?
Happy Birthday to me!