March 21, 2009
I was paralyzed with fear, surrounded by people looking down at me asking the same question over and over. “What would you like to be?” I was 8, sitting in the chair of a caricature artist at Knott’s Berry Farm; the last person in my family to have his life cemented by the depiction of my overinflated head and tiny body performing some activity that would represent me forevermore. My parents and siblings all had their caricatures drafted — football players, tennis players, boxers — and I had no idea what I wanted to be. Today, I’m still not sure that I have an answer.