The Vineyard & The Engine: An Architect’s Guide to Making Grape Juice from the RubbleBy ElaineFaye Star Hamm
Chapter 1: The Blueprint Was Not My Own I am an architect now. But I did not begin as one. I began as a child living in a structure I did not design, did not consent to, and could not escape. The walls were not built to hold warmth; they were built to hold secrets. The foundation was not laid with stone; it was laid with incest, poured thick and silent before I even knew to ask what a foundation should be. The roof was not for shelter; it was for keeping the noise in, keeping the terror contained, keeping me small beneath its weight. When I look back now with architect eyes, I see the blueprint for what it was: a prison dressed as a family. The rooms were wired with the wrong kind of electricity—fear, obligation, confusion. The doors locked from the outside. The windows were painted shut. And in the center of it all hummed the engine. This is what I call it now. The internal combustion engine. It was the force that ran that house. An engine needs fuel, and in that house, I was the fuel...
