Holly Golightly: I’m like cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don’t even belong to each other.
I was born to bright swirls of yellows and greens in the sky, blue bright waves crashing by, Brasil.
My mother remarried and we moved to the States for a safer place to live. When we did, I wanted to be everything American too, like our new grandmother Patsy. A beloved nurse, a wife to a war hero, she was just like the movies.
My sister and I didn’t speak much English then, and we’d sit quietly on the bed watching Patsy put on her drop earrings last. When they came, we were ready.
I’ll never forget our summers spent with her in Texas at the lake. Red hot American days spent eating ice cream and renting VHS tapes from Patsy’s favorite place, the local library.
I remember rushing home to watch Hepburn, Taylor, Vivien Leigh say things and feel things we couldn’t possibly understand.
The only thing that quenched our thirst more then, were Patsy’s famous ice cold, pink lemonades.
The title of this blog is a tribute to her, to American film and the stories of our lives.
Image from Pleasantville