![]() Internationally renowned, instantly recognizable, our everyday activities headlines in the making.įame is a strange thing. In the years after, I’d learn just how different my family is. It was the first inkling I’d had that I was-that we were-different. “Nicholas! Nicholas, this way, smile now! Look up, lad! Nicholas, over here!” They were drowned out by the roar of snapping shutters and the shouts of photographers calling my name. I remember my mother’s voice, soothing and constant as I clung to her hand, but I couldn’t make out her words. Lining every inch of the sidewalk and the streets, and clustered together at the entrance of my school like a sea of one-eyed monsters, waiting to pounce. I should’ve been used to it-and I think I was. I planned to smear finger paint on the outfit the first chance I got.īut that’s not what stands out most in my mind.īy then, spotting a camera lens pointed my way was as common as seeing a bird in the sky. For some reason, my mother ignored the fact that I was actually a boy and dressed me in God-awful overalls, a frilly cuffed shirt and patent-leather brogues. ![]() I was three years old and it was my first day of preschool. ![]() MY VERY FIRST MEMORY isn’t all that different from anyone else’s. ![]()
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