I consider myself to be a true Southern girl. Having grown up in Savannah, Ga., and living in different parts of Virginia for my 16 years of married life have given me different perspectives on what it means to be Southern.
On my desk, in a small oval frame, there is a black-and-white photograph of my grandmother, one of only a few pictures I have of her. She died of the Spanish flu in February 1919 after seeing her four little girls safely through it; the oldest of them, my mother, was 7 at the time.
The recently announced closing of Southside Virginia Training Center and three other centers that treat those with intellectual disabilities has been justified, even cheered by some. An advocate for the closing mentioned that facilities had been "warehousing" people for many years.
Lately, I've been thinking about all the "shoes" I have worn during my life and how with each new chapter, they have helped mold me into the person I am today.
I hear a voice in my head telling me what to do. It has a heavy New York accent, curses a lot and sounds just like my first boss, he-who-shall-not-be-named.