I had a paradoxical childhood. I can’t remember how old I was when I gained consciousness of my surroundings, at least when it comes to where I was or who I was with. The question about who I am is still a present existential question of its own. But, by the time I gained awareness of the location and people I grew up with, I vividly remember that I shared a house with three other permanent residents: my mother, her youngest sibling (my uncle), and my late grandmother. We also shared the house with other family members from time to time, mostly my grandmother’s five other sons, who usually spent a couple of weeks at the house (even months, for the reason God knows what) but…