Danusha lameris biography

The thing about beginnings is that there are so many points to choose from along the arc of time.One story begins with me as a girl on Dover Beach, Barbados, walking in the white sand and listening to my grandfather, Gordon Bell, and his friends recite poems aloud as they strolled, men with names like Nealton Seal and Bruce St.

John, men I later found listed in anthologies of Caribbean writers. The sound of their voices lifted on the breeze. Whatever music carried them, I wanted to carry me.

Or maybe it begins in the carpool lane, crossing the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, my mother at the wheel reciting Tennyson as she drove my brother and me in the mustard yellow station wagon, I hated.

       At noon the wild bee hummeth
       About the moss’d headstone: 
       At midnight the moon cometh,
       And looketh down alone.

She might say, stalled in rush hour traffic, evidence of her once photographic memory and British education