Demon Copperhead

by Barbara Kingsolver

First, I got myself born.

Like a little blue prizefighter. Those are the words she’d use later on, being not at all shy to discuss the worst day of my mom’s life. And if that’s how I came across to the first people that laid eyes on me, I’ll take it. To me that says I had a fighting chance. Long odds, yes I know. If a mother is lying in her own piss and pill bottles while they’re slapping the kid she’s shunted out, telling him to look alive: likely the bastard is doomed.

Anybody will tell you the born of this world are marked from the get-out, win or lose.

People love to believe in danger, as long as it’s you in harm’s way, and them saying bless your heart.

The thing about school you don’t realize is, everybody’s moving towards something. Even if you’re one of the screwups, you still participate. Okay kids, let’s get through this lesson, this unit, this grade. In May we’ll take our Standards of Learning tests, maybe our sorry-ass school will do better on the scores this year, the teachers will keep their jobs, and everybody moves on to the next grade. Every kid wants to be older anyway, so there you go, automatic improvement. It’s like the escalator thing at the Knoxville mall. Step on, take your ride. There’s always the chance you might run across something shiny and new on your way up.