Hillary C. knows how easy it is just to slip, with no effort or awareness at all, into the easy cadences of childhood. (In Hillary’s case, a childhood spent under the hot Mississippi sun, on a small patch of red dirt from which her sharecropper daddy somehow managed to extract a meager living for her and her six siblings, before a life of toil and no access to comprehensive health care, drove him, like so many other African-American men, to an early grave.)
Or, more likely, a childhood spent in a hot station wagon, travelling town to town, playing the hungry waif to gullible rubes as her Traveller papa skinned them of their cash for alluminum siding that never was installed.