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First Contact I have no memories of my own baptismal. I know that it happened, for there are pictures of it in the scrapbook my mother made of my infant years. A pastor dripping holy water on my forehead, pronouncing me blessed, afraid that, if he dunked me in the water like those who knew how to hold their breath, I would breathe in the still and stone-cold waters and my tiny lungs would drown in search of air.