When I turned fifteen, I remember my father gave me a credit card which I was allowed to use for two things: emergencies and books.

I remember having mice in the house and my father taking some newspaper and beating me because mice was running on me while I was asleep.

I don't remember my father reading to me, but I remember him telling me bedtime stories. I got to pick what was in them, and then he'd make them up.

My father never played with me. I can remember my father picking me up - once. I can remember my father telling me behind a closed door that he loved me - once.

My father brought me a box of books once when I was about three and a half or four. I remember the carton they were in and the covers with illustrations by Newell C. Wyeth.

The first job I had was a Pampers commercial. And I used to go with my father whenever he would do a performance. I remember clinging to his legs, saying, 'Please. Take me with you.'

You have to remember that in the microcosm of Cincinnati, Ohio, through northern Kentucky, my father was a big star, still is. So that made my sister and me really visible. Everybody knew us, talked about us.

'Scarface,' I remember going to see that with my father. We didn't know what to expect; we did not know what to expect. I was a kid, and my father took me, and we didn't leave. It was so disturbing, but we loved it.

I remember the bad times as a succession of painful emotional snapshots: Me walking into the library at 24 Sussex, seeing my mother in tears, and hearing her talk about leaving while my father stood facing her, stern and ashen.

I went to school at this log school house. A white woman was my teacher, I do not remember her name. My father had to pay her one dollar a month for me. Us kids that went to school did not have desks, we used slates and set on the hued down logs for seats.

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