Sitting at Collectivo, trying not to listen to the guy at the table across from me, blathering away on his cell phone. Loudly. My irritated glance is not enough to get through to him. There’s a certain shamelessness to a person who is not self-conscious about being the only person in crowded public space, blathering loudly on his phone. It makes me wonder how he was raised. Maybe the way he was raised was better than the way I was raised. I arose from my raising with an indelible sense of shame that I can shake every now and then, but which is always there, below the surface, waiting for me.

Not that I want to be that guy. The cell phone guy. Or his ilk. But I could probably benefit from a touch of their shamelessness.

That is but one of the ways I was raised that did not bode well for my future. One among many. There are other ways in which I was not raised.

I was not raised to write this sentence.

I was not raised to have a sharp analytical mind in spite of surface appearances.

I was not raised to overcome doubt.

I was not raised to overcome aging.

I was not raised with a shred of confidence.

I was not raised to be fearless or courageous.

I was not raised to fight back, to defend myself.

I was not raised to be liberated from all of my shortcomings.

I was not raised to be completely liberated from my past.

I was not raised to start conversations.

I was not raised to articulate complete sentences.

I was not raised to be good at raising a puppy.

I was not raised to be erased.