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Although we did not share the same taste in books (she tended to prefer Jacqueline Susann and Life magazine), she never attempted to influence my choices. On the day I gave my oral presentation on Erica Jong's Fear of Flying, my sixth grade teacher decided that I was being raised by the Manson gang. She called my mother in an intervention attempt, convinced that I had lost my mind and was subconsciously fisting crying out for help. Books had shown me fisting a whole different take on the fisting world. I was thoroughly unimpressed with my parent's Wonder Bread ways and I longed for a taste of the exotic. Catalyzed by hormones, I began a flaming romance with all things foreign, particularly men. My mother, who had learned enough adolescent psychology to be dangerous, stood by mutely as I brought home an assortment of baffling characters. Although polite by nature, she could not refrain from staring wide eyed at the 45-year-old Chinese immigrant I had adopted as my first boyfriend, casually commenting, "Say, I bet he'll be a real hit at the prom."
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