Born Between a Strike and a Takeoff

Some people enter the world wrapped in silk blankets, welcomed by lullabies and perfect timing. I arrived in a single wide trailer near Love Field Airport in Dallas, Texas, with airplanes roaring overhead and a mother who was barely old enough to rent a car, let alone raise a child.

My grandparents lived in Kerrville. My mom was a freshman at the University of Texas. Dallas was not home. It was a stopover on the way to somewhere else.

She was seventeen and met my father in a bowling alley at the University of Texas. Not exactly the setting of an epic romance, but that is how destiny works. Sometimes love does not stroll in wearing a tuxedo. Sometimes it is in rented shoes, gripping a twelve pound ball, and smelling faintly of nachos.They fell fast, married faster, and nine months later I made my debut. My father went on to write five books about bowling and engineering (Two PhDs) because apparently love can exist in equations. My mother continues her devotion to the lanes, offering prayers that sound more like, “Come on baby, give me a spare.”

That little single wide had paper thin walls, an airport soundtrack, and a gay couple next door who became my mom’s lifeline during pregnancy. They brought her kindness, humor, and humanity when the world felt small. I think about them often, those anonymous angels who taught compassion with casseroles.

So why Dallas? Why Love Field? Maybe because the universe knew I would need a noisy beginning. Dallas had jet fuel and irony in the air. Sometimes I think God looked down and said, “Let’s put this one near an airport. She is going places.”

And maybe He was right. Because when you are born between a strike and a takeoff, standing still never really feels like an option.