If you were the thirteenth of fifteen children
And the tenth of twelve daughters
In a house during the depression
Living in squalor
With a mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown
And a drunken unemployed father
And creepy uncles you and your sisters avoided at all costs

If you were quiet and bookish brought up in this
With no money
Reliant on the charity of the Methodist church for food
With only hand-me-downs for clothes

If you were hit by a car at age five
By an elderly couple in 1937
Who felt so bad they sent you Christmas presents every year
Which made your envious sisters and brothers angry every year

If you were left only reading in public libraries and singing
To help you forget your abject poverty

If you were this person

And if, in spite of all this, you maintained a sense of humor

You would probably be my mother