1981.
The only thing I really know about the year I was born is that I almost didn’t make it.
My dad told me the doctor said it was a 50–50 chance.
Closer to dying than living.
They told him to pray. To call a priest. To prepare.
I don’t remember any of that, obviously.
But my body does.
Everything else I know about 1981 is secondary.
The 80s. The music. The Lakers winning championships.
But the first thing that ever happened to me was survival.
I didn’t arrive with a clean slate.
I arrived already fighting.
And maybe that explains a lot.
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