WINNING LIKE ELIZABETH BLACKWELL & EVE MERRIAM...

"Skitch Winning"

THEN:

    When I was in the sixth grade I had a teacher, we'll call her Mrs. M.,  that was renowned with the paddle. I lucked out and only wound up with a handful of paddlings from her, but she was fierce. She had once smashed a boy's head against the blackboard, leaving his hair peppered with chalk and a knot on his head. Once she paddled me on a set of stairs and sent me reeling down the steps. I almost fell, but did not. When she saw that I had not fallen she insisted that I come back up for the remainder of the licks she had promised me. I went back up with a smile on my face. She spanked me and I laughed. My strength came in the form of humor. I pretended it was funny that they wanted to hurt me with their little sticks...

    It was not.

    Despite my ability to get in trouble and the hard knocks I'd had from several teachers, I loved to learn and to participate in anything I could. My mother would not allow any after school activities, so I took advantage of all the ones that were held during school hours. I often finished several 4-H projects each year, I participated in the talent shows and the forensics competitions. I tried out for every play, and I won a few nice roles.

    When I was in Mrs. M.'s class I became involved in a forensic competition. I wanted to read a poem written about Elizabeth Blackwell, the first female to go to college and become a doctor. The poem was written by Eve Merriam and was very dear to my heart. It was about a girl that got tired of the world playing that "boy card" and telling her she could not do something because she was a girl. The first time I read it Elizabeth Blackwell and Eve Merriam were instantly added to my mental list of heroes. Inside the poem there was a line that said, "Geneva, Geneva, how sweet the sound; Geneva, Geneva, sweet sanctuary found...." Geneva was where Elizabeth Blackwell, at long last, received a yes to her quest for medical training. It was indeed a sweet sanctuary.

    While instructing me for the reading, Mrs. M. kept going over those words, insisting that I was not giving them the right amount of "feeling." In short, I was saying them and she wanted me to sing them. At one point, I had my feelings hurt because I was doing the very best job I could with those words but Mrs. M. was so unhappy with my efforts. I forgot myself and pointed out that I was supposed to read the words not sing them. I immediately apologized, but to this day I am surprised that I didn't get one of those handful of paddlings right then and there. She was irate from the top of her head to the tip of her heels. I was as frustrated as she was irate. I felt she was making fun of something that, to me, was a serious matter. In the end I compromised. In class I said the words as closely as I could to the way she wanted me to, but when competition time came, I said them, very deliberately and very exactly the way my heart wanted to say them. I wish I could tell you that I won the contest. I did not. But I can tell you that I said the words with the reverence they were due. I said those words just as I felt them. I can tell you that the forensic competition was for me, not Mrs. M. And I can tell you that Elizabeth Blackwell & Eve Merriam changed my life.

    I sat down and my heart won.

    Mrs. M. did not paddle me for my insubordination. She only told me it was no wonder that I didn't win. I did not point out that I had won. Like Elizabeth Blackwell and Eve Merriam, I did exactly what I had set out to do.

   

Here is the poem for your consideration:

Elizabeth Blackwell

Now Elizabeth Blackwell, how about you?

Seamstress, or teacher, which of the two?

You know there's not much else a girl can do.

Don't mumble, Elizabeth. Learn to raise your head.

"I'm not very nimble with a needle or thread.

I could teach music - if I have to," she said.

"But I think I'd rather be a doctor instead."

"Is this some kind of joke?"

asked the proper menfolk.

"A woman be a doctor?

Not in our respectable day!

A doctor? an MD! Did you hear what she said?

She's clearly and indubitably out of her head."

To medical schools she applied.

In vain. And applied again, and again, and again and one rejection offered this plan: why not disguise herself as a man?

If she pulled back her hair, put on boots and pants, she might attend medical lectures in France.

Although she wouldn't earn a degree, they'd let her study anatomy.

Elizabeth refused to hide her feminine pride.

She drew herself up tall

(all five feet one of her!)

And tried again.

And denied again.

The letters answering no

mounted like winter snow.

Until the day when her ramrod will finally had its way.

After the twenty-ninth try,

there came from Geneva, New York

the reply of a blessed Yes!

Geneva, Geneva, how sweet the sound;

Geneva, Geneva, sweet sanctuary found....

...and the ladies of Geneva

passing by her in the street

drew back their hoopskirts

so they wouldn't have to meet.

The perfect happy ending

came to pass:

Elizabeth graduated...

...at the head of her class.

And the ladies of Geneva

all rushed forward now to greet

that clever, dear Elizabeth,

so talented, so sweet!

Wasn't it glorious she'd won first prize?

Elizabeth smiled with cool gray eyes

and she wrapped her shawl against the praise:

how soon there might come more chilling days.

Turned to leave without hesitating.

She was ready now, and the world was waiting.

~ Eve Merriam ~

TEACHER OR NURSE?

"Skitch's Life Plans"
By Skitch

THEN:




    When I was growing up in the 1970s and 80s, deep in the Appalachian Mountains, girls were encouraged to prepare for adult life as a homemaker, except in those days we called it "being a housewife". Daughters were encouraged to marry and have children. You could have one baby or lots of babies, boys or girls, dark or fair, but whatever you do, don't skip the marrying part! Even in the baby-doll-playing age I knew: The "daddy" was off at work while the "mommy" was taking care of the babies, but there was a daddy! If you had babies outside of wedlock then they weren't truly cute little human beings that you show off when you run into family and friends. Those creatures were something less than human, something to be ashamed of, something to hide or even give away and pretend you never saw. And on top of creating something sub-human, you had to live with the fact that you destroyed the family you already had. A baby out of wedlock would drag everyone that lived with you out of the human category. Even your parents are no longer respectable human beings. My father that I adored, my father that adored me, told me more than once when I was a very young teen, "Don't you ever dare come home pregnant. If you get pregnant you have no home!" He also said, "If you ever come home pregnant I will stomp your ass through the floor!" I believed him. I never came home pregnant.

    Today, the stigma of the illegitimate child, thank God, seems greatly lessened, but most daughters are still discouraged from the pursuit of a career and are encouraged to be "homemakers" and mothers. I love my sons. Motherhood is the best thing that ever happened to me, but it did not have to be and will not be the only thing.

    As children, our play reflected what would be socially acceptable for us when we became adults. Most little girls were given dolls and toy trucks were wrested from their fingers. You were encouraged to set up a play kitchen out of cinder blocks and old boards that your father had removed rusty nails from. You might even get to play with your mother's broken iron, if she trusted you to never throw it at a sibling. That play was just fine with me. I had a huge imagination, and I liked babies, and I liked to eat. I fixed my dolls imaginary foods, and designed my kitchen, and did not throw the old iron at the family, or even the dog. I liked my Barbie dolls and I had two baby dolls that I played with, and a dozen that wilted away in the bottom of the closet with matted hair and eyes that were supposed to close but would not because the dolls had passed their prime long before someone had given them to me. Cuddly was also second hand, given to me by a cousin, but I loved and love that doll. I've never been sure why she became so precious to me, but she certainly did. Cuddly was my near constant companion. Later, I was also given a brand new Drowsy doll. I was impressed with her polka dot suit and her pull string that gave her a cute sleepy voice that said, "I want another drink of water!" in much the same way I said it most nights to put off the inevitable boredom of sleep. Those two were my dolls, but I mostly just carried them around wherever I went. I pulled them up trees and pushed them down hillsides. I put them in wheelbarrows and wooden sleds. I propped them comfortably in the passenger's seat of my dad's truck when I pretended we were driving to the Grand Canyon, or that the truck was a spaceship in disguise and we were headed for Jupiter!

    My parents were a bit more tolerable of "boy play" than many of their peers were. I had that huge imagination and I was "tough as a corn cob." I'm not sure if they were going with the flow of energy and choosing their battles or if I played with dolls enough to keep them from being concerned that I might stray outside the norm, but I did get to play with some trucks in the sandbox my dad made for me when I was two years old and, more importantly, I did get to follow my dad around like the son he'd never had.

    The toys I liked best, though, were my plastic animals, especially the horses. I had farm animals and zoo animals. I would pull a drawer out of my mother's sewing machine and turn it on it's side to make a house or a barn. Sometimes my farm animals were in one spot and my zoo animals were in another, and the animals would talk over the matchstick fences telling each other about the farmer and the zookeeper and discussing the other animals. Sometimes I had a nice eclectic farm with everything from cows to monkeys. Cuddly, and Drowsy, and Barbie would often be propped on the couch or chair nearby. I fancied that they liked to watch me play with the animals. We were putting on a show for the dolls. Perhaps my family watched me and thought I would grow up to be a farmer's wife... not a farmer.

    I played with my dolls a little, my animals more, but mostly I rode horses and tromped along behind my dad in oversize boots, milking cows, and plowing fields, and cutting wood. The horses were my joy, though, and so it was that I was six or seven when I decided that I wanted to be a jockey when I grew up. I liked nothing better than riding horses, so why shouldn't I grow up and get paid to ride them? My mother squashed that plan as soon as it fell out of my mouth.

    "Jockeys have to be tiny people, short and skinny."

    I chewed my bottom lip. "I'm tiny."

    "Yes, you are now, but you're not grown up yet."

    "But you and Daddy aren't tall. I probably won't be tall either."

    "You probably won't. But you probably won't be skinny."

    I've often wondered why she said that. At that time, Mom, Dad, Lila, and I were all painfully thin.

    While I pondered that, she added, "Besides, you're a girl and jockeys have to be boys."

    I scowled heavily. The boy card was being played again and I hated that card! "Why? I ride as good as any old boy?"

    "Just because that's the way it is. Jockeys are men."

    I ranted against the idea. I gave up a good front. I told her, "I'm going to do it anyway! Just you wait and see! I'll be the first girl jockey and after me lots of girls will be jockeys too! There will be so many girl jockeys that the boy jockeys will have to quit!" But inside I was broken. I had already accepted that I could not be a jockey. I hated it. I hated myself for being a girl. I hated the world for being unfair to girls.

    Not long after that I learned to read. The very first time I had a reading assignment and I read "Dick and Jane" to my mother at homework time, I had an epiphany. I closed the book reverently and I thought, "That was magic. The only thing better than reading a book would be writing one!" My heart was healing and planning. I wanted to be a writer! But this time, I kept my big mouth shut. I cradled my dream to myself. If no one told me I couldn't do it, then I could! I didn't want anyone telling me I was too female, or too fat, or too poor, or too stupid, or too anything to write. I was going to be a writer and I wasn't going to tell a single soul until I was so grown up they couldn't tell me I was too anything!

    When I was nine years old my beloved cousin, Theresa Kay gave me a diary. Even she, whom I adored and trusted, had never been told that I wanted to write. I was grown and had two sons (inside of wedlock!) before I ever spoke that dream aloud. I had starred blank faced at several teachers when they made comments about how I should consider being a writer. I said, "Thank you," and I walked away with my heart singing. But I never spoke that dream aloud. It was too precious. I protected it.

     "What should I write in it?" I asked Theresa.

    She shrugged. "Whatever you want. You're writing to yourself. Write about what you do every day. Write about your hopes and dreams." She added a question, that I'd heard more than once. She asked it just as it had been asked many times, "What do you want to be when you grow up? Do you want to be a teacher? Or maybe a nurse?" These were the acceptable Appalachian 1970 girl answers. If you must work outside the home, do something respectable like being a nice lady teacher or a nurse... Not a doctor please, that's a boy's job!

    I'd had one teacher that made me think I should get out of school and stay out. School could so easily be a war zone. So I answered hesitantly, almost questioningly, "A nurse." I even wrote it in my diary for her to see. "When I grow up I want to be a nurse." I starred at it a long time. It sure felt funny to lie to yourself.

   

THE FALSE DEATH BED VIGIL

"Sleeping Beauty"By Skitch at age 14

THEN:


    When I was eight years old my mother went to bed and didn't get up until I was 18... Yes, that's a lie but much less of one than you may be imagining.





    My mother had been abused as a child, in every way imaginable. She had been born to alcoholic parents, born early and frail. The doctor told my grandmother not to bother getting attached to her, feeding her, or even naming her. He told my grandmother that the child was so small and unhealthy that "it" was destined to die soon. My grandmother defied him enough to give my mother nourishment and a first name, never a middle. She named the tiny babe Annette and in many ways that frail daughter out lived every other member of her family. Though she went through many a proverbial wringer, she made a life for herself that was far superior to what she was born into and much happier and healthier than the lives her siblings built. My momma defied the odds; she survived and even became a fierce protector of her younger (though mostly bigger) sisters. She had a quick mind and ready hands. She had pale hair and skin but should have been a blazing red head. Sometimes her temper alone sustained her.

    She chose and married my father when she was only fifteen years old. Though, at that time, she thought she was sixteen. Life with him was largely a sweet relief from the abuse of her alcoholic parents, but it was a tough, and poor, and - in the winter - a cold life. She left a Kentucky city and a big family behind and moved deep into the townless dark woods of Virginia. The stars and moon were the only lights at night, save their precious oil lamp, and my dad worked long hours. He left before daylight and returned after dark. Many was the time that no one could have heard her scream if one of the fierce bears or panthers she now had for neighbors decided she looked less like a neighbor and more like a meal. The lifestyle petrified her. Every sound in the woods was unfamiliar to a city girl. Every movement might be a threat.

    Mom's favorite cousin, Nancy, had married my father's younger brother, Leslie, a month before my parents tied the knot, and the two new families lived for a while across the Pound river from each other. Leslie was my father's younger but bigger brother, as Dad too had never been healthy. Pop was short, painfully thin, and carried his head to one side due to a boil that had grown and ruptured on his neck when he had Smallpox as a young child. The skin had not grown back properly and Daddy's neck was crooked ever after. Though no one in our family could afford much in the way of nutrition and comforts, in comparison, my uncle and aunt bloomed with health.

    Both the new families were very poor, but my mother owned a broom and would toss it across the river on a daily basis for her cousin (and new sister-in-law) to use. About a year after they married, both families were blessed with a child, and the babies were females. My parents named their daughter Patricia Gail and my aunt and uncle named their daughter Wanda Lee. Wanda was red haired and vivacious. Pat was a bright eyed blonde with a ready smile. She quickly became the apple of both her parent's eyes.

    Patricia died of pneumonia when she was eleven months old. She died in my uncle Leslie's arms. My parents and my uncle were walking the ten miles to town to take the baby to the doctor. Neither family owned a car. When my dad or mom offered to carry Pat for a while my uncle told them, "No. No. She's very light! Besides she's finally sleeping so well." He knew the child was dead but did not have the strength to tell his brother and sister-in-law that their sweet golden child was gone, so he carried her the ten miles and laid the dead baby in the doctor's arms.

    The childhood abuse combined with the loss of her first child took a heavy toll on my mother. She tells me she probably would not have survived Pat's death at all if she had not been aware that she was already pregnant with her second child. My mother wanted to die with her baby but she would not kill the child inside her. My sister saved Mom's life, and thus my other sister's life and mine. This second daughter was born as dark as the first had been fair. Sandi had black hair and brown eyes. Her looks reflected the Cherokee blood we had in our ancestry. Sandi was indeed beautiful, but broken. One of her legs was significantly shorter than the other and would pivot around and around, as though there were no joint or even bones in her hip socket at all. My father passed out when the doctor demonstrated this fact. Mom and Dad were told that this baby would never walk. It took her longer than the average child, but Sandi defied the odds and did, indeed, learn to get around on her own two legs. Other than the short leg, Sandi was a fairly healthy child.

    The third child was also a girl, brown haired and green eyed. They named her Lila. She looked like a pale fragile fairy and was as beautiful as her name was. But the hard lifestyle and the frail genes were hard on her. Like her mother and father before her, Lila was "poorly". She was too thin. She had frequent sore throats, and fevers, and terrifying nosebleeds. Once her nose would not stop bleeding and my father, in high desperation, broke the ice that was crusting over the top of the river and shoved her head down into the frigid water. The drastic measure worked and the nosebleed finally stopped.

    My parents figured it was all they could do to keep these two children alive and they didn't plan to risk another. I was a "surprise" that came along over a decade later. Sandi was twelve and Lila was ten when I was born. Mom stayed busy with the home and my sisters became my "little mothers". I looked, I am told, almost exactly like Patricia, only with curly hair. I was a firm reminder of that first precious child and of the loss of her. Each time they looked at me they knew how fragile life could be, how quickly it could be snuffed out and gone. And I too was sickly. I battled croup and bronchitis. I copied Lila's gushing nosebleeds, fevers, and sore throats. I had a fever spike so high that I went into convulsions in my mother's arms. Like my father, I was adverse to eating meat and tended to choose breads and vegetables. Very early, it was discovered that I was dangerously anemic. The doctors told my parents they must figure out how to get some protein into me or I would die. Mom and Dad took some of the precious-little money the family had and bought Vienna wienies and Treat meat and hid it back for me. My hungry sisters and my cousins from Aunt Nancy and Uncle Leslie, who ofttimes lived in the same home with us, watched while I was fed what seemed like Heavenly manna to them. It is surprising they don't all hate me to this very day. Some of my cousins still resent the preferential treatment, but I don't think my sister ever did. I think they felt and shared the fear my parents had, believing that I might die and leave them all.

    When I was eight years old my mother went into early menopause and went to bed. She bled so much that she felt weak as a kitten. I suspect that all the pain of the past settled on her now that she could not stay busy to keep her mind occupied. She became so depressed that she went to the doctor and they prescribed "nerve pills". These drugs made mom so sleepy she could barely hold up her head. She was soon in bed all but five to eight hours of the day. She would get up for two or three hours in the late morning. Then she'd take a long nap before getting up for about three to five hours in the evening. Most of my childhood was spent whispering, tiptoeing, worrying. I pretended my mother was Sleeping Beauty. She was beautiful and she was sleeping, so it made perfect sense to me. Now I know that she was healing. She was like a butterfly; she was turning into someone even stronger and more beautiful than the lady that went to bed when I was eight years old.


    But at the time it was hard for both of us. Mother often told me that she was dying. She probably would not be here "Next Christmas" or "Come springtime." I think she believed it and, for years, so did I. I lived in fear of losing her, in fear of being motherless. But, Christmas after Christmas and springtime after springtime, she kept right on living. After I gave up on her predictions being the gospel truth, I worried what if she was a lucky guesser? What if she were right THIS time? I was an adult before I figured out that my mother was a lot of wonderful things, but she was a horrible psychic, and she was stronger than she knew. Just like most of us, she hadn't the faintest idea when she would die.

    My mother developed a strange case of agoraphobia during these years. I say strange because she left the home, but only for religious reasons or to stay near my daddy. He was more her refuge than the house was. She didn't like to leave the bed, let alone her home, but she forced herself to for certain reasons. She would venture outside to see her flowers now and then, often with my father by her side, but she seemed more nervous out of doors so those trips were brief and infrequent. She went to church every time they held a service and she and Daddy could get there, such was her desire to serve God. And once a month, she went to town with the family to pay bills and buy groceries. Dad always drove; no one else in the family could drive in those days and my mother never did learn. On those monthly trips to town, Sandi and I would hit the library for all it was worth while our parents paid bills and bought groceries. We took home as many books as we could carry. Sandi would call and renew them in two weeks and we would bring them all back when the next monthly trip came. Momma forced herself to her doctor's appointments in order to keep the relief of the pills coming in. But even with those in her system, she said that she only rested easily when we were all home. We, especially my father, were her home and Mother needed her home around her. Sandi didn't bother with college or a job. Dad worked odd self-employment type jobs on our own property or on very short shifts. He had been confirmed disabled due to stomach ulcers anyway and so was not able to punch a clock. Mom would latch onto Sandi as her lifeline while Dad hauled an occasional load of coal or lumber.

    One day, I was eight years old and sitting by her bed asking her to read to me or to allow me to read to her. I was still unused to her being in bed so much. She was begging off because she was so tired and wanted to sleep. She told me to go play outside, adding, "Go play in the leaves. It's a beautiful fall day."

    "How do you play in the leaves?" I asked her.

    "You mean to tell me you've never played in fall leaves?"

    I shook my head.

    Mother pulled herself from the bed and took my hand. We went outside and she taught me to make a pile of dried leaves, no sticks! Then she watched, and smiled, and even laughed a little as I jumped into the pile until their was no pile because the leaves were again scattered hither and yon. I asked her to help me gather them back up but she said she could not. She went back to bed. Dutifully, I piled them up and jumped, and jumped, until they were scattered again. Then I sat down and tried to fight off the melancholia. I wondered why anyone would play in leaves all alone. It wasn't much fun by yourself. I didn't play that game again until my sons were born, but I will never forget that Momma dragged herself up from the bed and out of the house to teach me. I know that was not easy for her.

    Sending me to school was also not easy for her. Most children are told how much fun school will be; I was told I would go to school because, "If we don't send you, the welfare people will come out here to take you away from us and put you in a foster home." My mother became extra nervous about school when I was about ten years old. She told me that there were devil worshipers kidnapping blonde young girls and sacrificing them to Satan. I was petrified of strangers for years.

    I was not allowed to participate in anything that would keep me away from home any more than school did. Events and extra circular activities that could be done at school were fine, but nothing more. I had friends at church that bragged about Bible Camp. I learned all the verses that they had to learn to earn their way, but I could not go with them. I had friends at school that talked about all the fun they had at 4H camp and at band camp. They told me about vacations to see the ocean or the Great Smoky Mountains. I was even invited along a time or two, but nothing like that was ever a safe idea in my mother's eyes. It wasn't just the money. The money I understood, but even when that was not an issue I was disallowed. I wasn't allowed to go to swimming pools until I was 16 and started going there on "dates". I only went to the movies with Sandi and we had to see rated "G" films. Eventually, the smothering galled me.

    I tried to be understanding, but I was fiercely independent and could not help wanting things that freedom could bring. When I was twelve, I began to rebel. I would beg for the after school and overnight activities that my friends enjoyed. I wanted to be part of the marching band but she pulled a trump card. "We don't have any money for some expensive musical instrument!" I talked her into letting me "try out" for color guard, which only required a flag on a stick and you didn't have to buy it. I made the color guard team and went to practice for almost a month. I picked it up quickly and really enjoyed it, but one day I came home from practice and Mom said, "You tell them tomorrow that you're quitting. You're not going to any more practices. You can't go away to band camp this summer anyway. It's not fair to let them think you will."

    I begged my way into gymnastics because their was no camp, and no fees, and no expensive equipment to purchase. I made those after school training sessions for a little over a month, long enough to fall in love with gymnastics, long enough to wow my trainers. I was told that I had some of the strongest shoulders they had ever seen, and that I was learning quickly and with a natural ability. Of all my cut-short activities, gymnastics is the biggest regret. Mother said we didn't have the gas to keep picking me up twice a week after school. I would need to drop gymnastics and ride the bus home every day. I begged to stay in the class. I pointed out that we lived approximately two miles from school. I pleaded to be allowed to ask my friend Nancy if I could start riding home with her. After all, they drove right past our house on their way to their own home and Nancy was in gymnastics too. Mother said, "No. Now hush about it! I want you home with me!"

    I begged for softball or baseball but that one died before I even made it to try outs. Sports are dangerous! In high school I tried again. I eventually cajoled my way into the chess club, into being a band assistant (I couldn't be on the field but I could still be part of the band) and into a couple of cheerleading sessions. All of these were allowed and then vetoed so quickly it nearly made my head swim. I stopped asking after that. I wanted to participate in a great program that helped prepare underprivileged kids for college. It was called "Upward Bound". Sandi had gone to Washington DC and had gone to see the ocean with Upward Bound. She'd been taught some skills and made some great friends. I didn't bother asking if I could participate. I already knew the answer.

    One sweet night, I did stay away from home. I was fifteen years old at the time. My sister Lila had been MARRIED at fifteen! I had a friend named Cindy that lived just a block or so up the road from my house. She talked my mother into allowing me to stay the night with her. (I didn't bother asking anymore, but Cindy was less defeated.) I was so surprised when my mother agreed! Cindy and I stayed up really late drinking Coca Cola's, and eating popcorn, and brownies hot out of her oven. I was not allowed to cook at my house, but Cindy did a lot of cooking and baking at her home. Any time I tried to cook, my mother would make me stop. She said I was too clumsy, that I would burn myself or slice off a finger. In school I took Home Economics and Food Service, so I would know how to feed myself once I was not living at home. I won three ribbons and a trophy in Food Service. I didn't burn myself once, and I kept all my fingers.

    That night at Cindy's we talked about books, and boys, and our families. We giggled, and did our nails, and finally fell asleep at about three o'clock a.m. At dawn my parents were outside blowing the truck horn. I stumbled out of bed and threw on my clothes. I hurried out to find out what was wrong, concerned that someone in the family was very ill or hurt. Mom greeted me with, "Get in the truck; you're going home!" I begged to be allowed to go back inside and get my purse and my overnight bag and she conceded that much. When I crawled in the truck beside her a couple of minutes later, I was crying. The tears had started when Cindy had frantically asked me what was wrong. She too had imagined that someone was hurt or sick. I told her I just had to go and I had to go now! I felt humiliated and trapped. If Mom noticed my tears I never knew it. She only said, "I didn't sleep a wink all night. Never again, little girl! Never again! "

    A year or so after I married and left home, my mother threw the pills down. She's still not the most emotionally stable person in the world because she worries way too much and she would never learn to drive. But she's awake more hours than she's asleep, she's got a much more positive attitude, and she actually functions much better than she did when I was a kid.

    Sandi and Lila were allowed so many more freedoms than I was, and I've wondered about that most of my life. Maybe it was simply the menopause and the idleness that brought my mother so low. Perhaps her mental state worsened as she grew older. Maybe the pills left her paranoid, or I looked too much like the daughter she had lost, or too much like she the little girl she had been. Possibly my very presence brought back memories of horrific abuse, memories that crippled her. I've asked her why she was so overly protective and she get's defensive. She was "protective" because I was precious. She was not "overly protective." I've never pinned her down and asked her flat out, "Why me and NOT Sandi and Lila?" But I will. Thank God I still can! I have no doubt that my mother loves my sisters as much as she does me. But for whatever reason, I was the one that was coddled. I held a ten year death bed vigil for someone that is living still. I spent much of my childhood whispering, tiptoeing, worrying. One day I may understand why.

NEVER NOD AT SOMEONE IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY ARE SAYING...

Artwork: "Poodle Joe"
By Skitch

THEN:

When I was 12 years old and still more of tomboy than a teenager I was met with my first aggressive male attention. Unfortunately for me, though I'd prayed to never get them, I had been presented with breasts long before I got an inkling of an interest in sex. At that ripe old age, I'd had one infatuation with a boy in my grade named Billy, but didn't even recognize it as anything other than an interest to find out more about him and some bizarre desire to be good to him. What the heck was up with that, I wondered. But it was undeniable, singing "Oh Where Have you Been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy," in music class made my heart soar.

I usually rode in the back of my dad's pickup. Sometimes it was  crowded in the cab, but mostly I rode in back because I loved being alone to read or daydream. More often than not the camper my dad had was off the truck and I held onto the wooden rails he'd built around the bed, and I let the wind turn my long blond hair into one tangled catastrophic puzzle that my sister would help me solve before bedtime. Life was sublime and childhood was miraculous.

On the day my dad picked up, Poodle Joe, however, we did have the camper on the back of the truck. Poodle was one of the neighbors, or the closest thing we had to neighbors. We lived all alone on a mountain. It was my favorite place that we had ever lived and it keeps that title to this day. My dad had built the house with a little help from some friends, and though it wasn't the straightest house in the world and a couple of the rooms were wallpapered with newsprint, I loved it dearly. We called it "Up on the Hill". Poodle Joe and his family lived in one of the two other homes that were about a mile from us. That day when Dad saw him walking, he naturally picked him up. You don't let a neighbor walk home when you're headed that way yourself. Not if you were born and raised in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia.

Poodle Joe was several years older than me. His name was Eddie but folks called him "Poodle" or "Poodle Joe" because he had a huge head of tight blond curls. He saw that the cab of the truck was too full for him and the next thing I knew my space was being invaded by that head full of crazy curls. He climbed in awkwardly and smiled. Poodle settled himself on the wheel well and he began to talk - a lot! He had a speech impediment and I had long been embarrassed for him because of it. I couldn't help thinking that if I talked that funny I wouldn't say any more than I had to. Now his voice was interrupting my sweet solitude, and I couldn't even follow what he thought he was telling me. It was like being trapped in a small space with a bird that was chirping it's heart out, convinced that you understood every note. I remember thinking that, if I'd wanted to listen to people talk I would have sat up front with my parents and my sister. At least, I knew what they were saying when they said things. Many was the time it was too cold to ride in the back and I had to squeeze in between my Dad and Mom or sit on my sister's lap. I could have been there now, safe and sound from this incessant noise that I did not like and could not follow.

Partly because I didn't want to listen to him and yet didn't want to say so, and partly because I only understood two or three words per sentence anyway, I began to, every now and then, look over and nod at Poodle Joe. Just because I didn't want to be too rude. I couldn't reply after all, since I had no idea what to say. I thought a nice safe "I hear you" type of nod was the best move. After a few moments of that Poodle Joe slid over to sit on the tire that was right beside me. I didn't know what had caused that sudden movement but before I had more than a couple of seconds to ponder it, he put his hand on my upper arm and very un-smoothly moved it quickly up and over my right breast. I shoved his hand away and gave him a stern talking to. Who did he think he was? Who did he think I was?

He appeared immediately contrite and apologized profusely. "I sorry. I so sorry. I -" and here I lost three or four words,"Ou say okay!"

"No! No. I did not say okay!"

"I sorry. I sorry! Don't teh ou daddy!"

After I'd listened to his begging much longer than I wanted to, I accepted his apology, mostly because I thought it would shut him up. I was pretty sure it wasn't polite to shoot The Deathray at my neighbors, so I worked on getting the fire out of my eyes. But really, the nerve!

After I calmed down and stopped looking like I was going to kill him, There was barely a pause between the begging and the talking. Poodle Joe began that damnable chatter again. He was now sitting back on the wheel well, and eventually I was lulled into believing he was surely talking about the weather or the old beat up car that he usually drove. I looked over at him, just once, and nodded. Quick as wink, Poodle Joe slid over close to me again and had his hand traveling up my arm. But this time he didn't make it to the boob. I pushed his hand away and shoved him off the tire, bawled him out again. He kept muttering, "Ou said I could! Ou said I could!"

I considered banging on the cab window and telling my daddy what was going on. Three things stopped me: ONE it would be embarrassing, TWO I was prideful and liked to fix my own problems, and THREE Daddy might actually hurt him. I settled for ordering him to sit back on the wheel well and to shut up until we got to his house. I affixed my fiery gaze on him and every time he opened his mouth I said, "Hush!" Unrepentantly, I shot The Deathray at him until we pulled up in front of his house. As he scrambled out of the back of the truck, Poodle Joe tried one last time, "I sorry. I sorry. Don't teh ou daddy! Don't teh ou daddy!"

Through gritted teeth I told him, "I might not tell my daddy, but if you EVER do anything like that again I WILL tell him and I'll laugh while he stomps you right through the ground!"

By the time we got home, I'd subdued the flames in my eyes enough that my family didn't notice anything was wrong. I went straight to my favorite spot in the universe, my swing. I spent the next hour or so swinging, and praying, and wondering why guys had to be so stupid, and berating myself for being stupid right along with them. Had I really nodded at him AGAIN?!

Finally, I put the experience behind me and went in as the sun started going to bed. I forgot the anger, even at myself. Eventually I began to see the funny side of the situation. And I kept the lessons from that day onward. I now offer them as good advice to you: Don't ever nod at someone if you don't know what they are saying, and never underestimate how many times a guy may try to play with your boobs!

LOSS OF INNOCENCE (poem)

Skitch, at 13
Taken by a dear departed friend

THEN:

Loss of Innocence

In the spring of 1980, she turned thirteen.

She awoke one morning,

In the summer of that year,

A child with eyes that needed rubbing,

Legs that must be stretched,

Blond curls, already sun kissed,

That had to be tamed into a ponytail.

Breakfast went by – just as always.

Biscuits and gravy,

She spent time playing outside in the warm sun.

She hung the laundry on the clothesline.

Lunch, often completely neglected in her impoverished home,

Was a mustard sandwich.

Soon there would be a real treat,

Tomatoes and cucumbers, warm and fresh from the garden,

Sliced up and added to the bread and mustard or bread and mayonnaise.

She brought the laundry inside and put it away.

Then settled down to read on the porch,

Relishing the wind in her hair,

And the streaks of sunlight on her legs.

When thoughts of supper occurred to the adults,

Her father called her over and sent her to the store.

Crackers and milk.

She watched her toes as she walked.

Her flip flops reminded her.

“Crackers and milk.”

“Crackers and milk.”

Her mother made the best soup.

It would be tasty.

She had been to the store dozens of times,

Sometimes for bread,

Sometimes for bouillon cubes,

Or a carton of eggs.

This time, she mustn’t forget,

It was crackers and milk.

She stepped inside the store, and it was hard to see.

The bright sun outside had made her blind in the dim building.

She walked past Norma.

Norma had the largest eyes,

Always looking a little frightened.

“Crackers and milk,”

Her shoes reminded her.

She headed for the dairy isle.

A loud sound filled the air.

What was that?

Did someone pop a big balloon?

She had not seen a balloon.

Did Norma drop something?

Did Norma climb up on a ladder and fall?

The child went to see.

What she saw was not a balloon.

It was not a fallen ladder.

She saw Norma in the floor with her eyes wide –

Just as always.

She saw that cherry kool-aid gushed from somewhere near Norma’s face.

From a spot close to Norma’s right cheek.

But where was it coming from?

Where was the tube that had broken?

The cherry kool-aid splattered on the shelf,

All over the gum.

The cherry kool-aid looked thicker than water,

Thicker than cherry kool-aid would ever be.

Was… it… blood?

Two women were at the door.

One was pushing the other,

Trying to get her to leave.

“I’m going to be sick,”

Said the pusher.

The other woman stood like a rock.

She had a gaze of supreme satisfaction on her face,

And a dark pistol in her hand.

It… was… blood.

The girl turned and fled.

Would they kill her now?

Were they behind her as she ran?

Crying she took the back way out of the store.

She knew the route well.

She ran into the manager.

And told him that Norma was hurt.

That was all her tongue could manage.

She went home and buried herself in her safe bed.

Her parents weren’t sure how to comfort her.

No one had ever told them that their child would face this.

The sheriff came and asked her questions.

The killers had waited on the police.

There would be no need to go to trial.

That night she kissed her mother goodnight – just like always.

Her father brought a drink of cool water to her bed – just like always.

Her sister told her a story, and explained how elevators worked – just like always.

The lights went out.

And she closed her eyes.

But each time she closed them, she saw Norma’s face.

And for the first time, she was afraid of the dark.

For the first time, she shivered in the warm summer night.

Nothing was – just as always.

For years she would fear death lurking in the shadows.

In the store.

In the library.

In the clinic.

At her school.

She never again went to the store for crackers and milk.

She never again drank cherry kool-aid.

At home, they did not talk of the dark day.

And many times, throughout her life, she would close her eyes and see Norma’s face, 

and the vile look of satisfaction staring over a dark pistol, 

and the blood on gum.

FILTHY GIRL

Skitch as "Filthy Girl"

Photo: "Filthy Girl"

THEN AND NOW:

Filthy Girl


When I started school I was six and looked like I was four. I had poor eating habits, poor health, and came from a family of undersized people. I was so little I couldn't open the heavy front doors to the school, but instead had to wait in the cold until a bigger kid opened the door. I would then act quickly and slip through with them. My oldest sister was in her last year of high school and each morning she would ask some of the bigger kids that got off at my school to help me inside. She worried that I would be stuck outside in the cold even though I told her the door was opened a lot during the morning.

I also got turned around rather easily. I lost myself and found myself a few times each week, and I had no idea how to deal with bullies yet. So, that first year, I found school to be challenging and sometimes even a little frightning, but my first grade teacher was a very nice younger lady named Mrs. Stanley. She seemed to love all her students and so, despite the challenges, I loved school while I was in her class.

When I was a little older and could open the doors on my own, I had two teachers in the same grade and one of them did not like me as much as Mrs. Stanley had. As a matter of fact, it was soon apparent that this teacher hated me! Mrs. Stanley had taught us to finish our work and then turn our sheets of paper over, waiting quietly for the other kids to finish, so the class could move on as a unit. This made sense to me, and I was good at finishing up and waiting. While we waited, we were allowed to color, draw, read (once we learned how to read) or work on other school papers as long as we did so quietly. On the very first day of school with this different teacher, I finished my work quickly and turned my paper over to wait. I didn't color or draw because I wasn't certain the teacher would approve. I simply sat quietly and daydreamed, which I was also quite good at. The teacher was walking the classroom aisles with a paddle in her hand. I'd never seen a paddle in Mrs. Stanley's hand, and I was a little worried about this one. But I told myself that I was a "good kid" and therefore had nothing to fear from the weapon.

When the teacher walked by my desk and noticed my paper was turned over, she whacked the paddle against the desk and ordered me to get to work. The crack of the paddle shocked me so that my voice quavered when I told her I had already finished. She accused me of lying, but when she turned my paper over and saw that the work was indeed done, her face turned a shiny shade of pink. She picked my paper up and looked it over carefully. I didn't know then that she was checking for mistakes, but now I am sure that is what she was doing. Apparently, she couldn't find any errors because a hard look overcame her face. She slapped the paper back on my desk and walked away angrily.

She seemed to hate me from that day on.

Teacher then started encouraging my classmates to ostracize me. I had been well-liked before, but suddenly she labeled me as "poor" and the other kids joined in with her cruel taunts. Timmy  was Teacher's pet. He was often allowed to hold the water fountain spigot on while each person in the line took a quick drink. (Why we couldn't be trusted to hold our own spigot I do not know.) He soon realized that there were brownie points for him when he was mean to me. So when my turn came, he would quickly flip the water off and on, not allowing me to get even one decent swallow. When I tried to sharpen my pencil, he would push me out of line. If I dared complain to Teacher, she would accuse me of lying and getting in the line twice. I was puzzled about why anyone would get in the line twice, but I soon leanred that she thought I was just trying to stay out of my seat.

Being a poor farmer's kid, I was pretty good at solving problems. I learned to get a big drink of water and to sharpen several pencils before Teacher's class began. I also made certain I used the bathroom because it had quickly became apparent that going to the bathroom, when allowed, left me dealing with an irate grown up. I didn't even get out of my seat when my fellow classmates went to the pencil sharpener or the water fountain. I did not raise my hand to go to the restrom. Problems solved.

One evening, in my homeroom class, I remembered that I had forgotten my coat in Teacher's classroom. As soon as I remembered, I went flying back to get it. The bell for the end of the day had already rung and I was afraid that the other kids would be gone and I would have to go into that room all alone with Teacher. I hustled down the hall, and to my great surprise, I saw Teacher making long strides in my direction, holding out my coat in one hand as though it were offensive. As she came nearer, she tossed the coat over my head. I was suddenly terrified that she might hit me while I couldn't see her, so I fought to take it off.

She pointed a long finger at me and said, "Don't you EVER leave your FILTHY things in my room again!"

I can only hope that you will believe me when I tell you that I was not a filthy kid. I knew I was not a dirty child. I was one of those kids who liked being clean, and my mother, who was still in charge of my overall hygiene, was fastidious. Every night she bathed me and I went to bed as fresh as a daisy. Sometimes she gave me a pan bath and sometimes an "all over" bath, but every night I went to bed clean. Even though I knew I wasn't filthy, Teacher's words still crushed me. I couldn't understand why anyone would tell such a lie about me, or about anyone on Earth for that matter!

Instead of returning to homeroom to get my bookbag, books, and homework, like a "good kid", I ran straight outside. I knew my parents would be there to pick me up, so I ran as fast as I could to the safety of their truck. I was crying hard and could only blubber Teacher's name. But that was all my mother needed. She marched straight inside and called Teacher a few choice names before, quite literally, chasing her around the desk. After all these years, I can now laugh at that.

The next day, Teacher told the class, "Dee Dee went crybabying to her mommy because Dee Dee is a crybaby." My eyes filled with tears, and I dropped my head so no one could see them. I did not want to prove her wrong. Teacher continued, "You're gonna be real sorry you went crybabying to your mommy, Dee Dee." She was right. I was sorry already, but I became even more regretful as time drew on.

The remainder of the year seemed like a game of cat and mouse. I was the mouse. During those long months, my classmates learned to carry and to borrow. They learned what a long "O" sounded like and how to spell "happiness".  I learned all of that as well, plus how to keep my head down and pretend to be working long after I had finished an assignment. I would work very slowly, and if I had not worked slowly enough, I would scrub out my answers and put the same numbers or letters back in the same spot. It was a stressful tightrope I walked. If I finished too soon I had to make busy work, too slow and I was in even more trouble. I also learned how to ignore my peers when they called me "nasty", "dirty", "filthy" or "poor". And like a Boy Scout, I learned how to always be prepared with my school supplies. I learned how to hold my water between long bathroom breaks, when to drink, and when not to drink. I learned to handle my own problems in any way that I could. I learned how to endure, and how to survive a bullying adult when I was still a very young child.

The next year, I congratulated myself on making it to a different grade. I hoped that I'd have another kind teacher who would know that I was a "good kid", a clean kid. I hoped for a teacher who loved all her students. But when I went to school on the first day of the year, I learned to my utter horror that Teacher was now teaching a new grade. And my name was on her door. She was now to be my homeroom teacher. With heavy feet and a heaver heart, I walked in and chose a seat near the back of the classroom, knowing that the less she looked at me, the less I would suffer. She soon entered the room and sat down. I fought tears as she began to call the roll.  She got to my name and read it alound with a long pause between the first and last name. Her head snapped up and she glarred at me. She then marched down the aisle and grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out of the room and down the hall to the principal's office. I was certain I was in big trouble already and her grip was painful. She told the principal, "I don't want this student in my classroom. She is nothing but trouble and her mother is crazy! She was my problem last year and she is going to be someone else's problem this year."

The principal moved me into another teacher's room. I now was in the classroom of Mrs. Rose, who loved all of her students and read to us on lazy afternoons. I felt like I had been saved by a sinner! Teacher had unknowingly and uncaringly done something really kind for me in the end.

Many years later, when my own kids were in school, Teacher, who was still working in the school system, was transfered to their school. I visited the principal and calmly explained that my sons were not to be put in her room -- ever! I told him I realized that most kids loved her, but that love was far from what I experienced as her student. I explained to him that I would move if necessary, just to be sure that they were never under her control. I explained that the first time this teacher mistreated them in the halls, or the lunchroom, or anywhere, the school would be under a lawsuit (for a minor offense on her part) or I would be in jail (if it were a larger issue.) If I were put in jail, I told him, my parents would have custody of my sons, and they would then be moved outside his school's district at that time.

I had finally, as an adult, told my parents about that hard year and I knew there was no chance my mother and father would allow this woman to do to my sons what she did to me. The principal was a kind man and I'd never been a problem to him or the school. He assured me that I would not have to move. I sat my young boys down and told them, in a nutshell, how she had treated me when I was a small child. I instructed them that if she were ever mean to them, even a little bit, that they were to tell me so I could take care of it for them. I promised them I would not embarrass them and I would not allow her to be mean to them. I was fully ready to keep both those promises, but she never spoke a word to either of my sons.

One day however, she did make a pitiful attempt to intimidate me as I was picking them up for a dentist appointment. I was searching for a pen or pencil to sign my kids out of class for the day. She reached around me, standing very close to my back, and slammed a pencil down on the counter in front of me. And though I was surprised and insulted, I also felt sad to see that she was still so full of hatred. I had honestly began to wonder if the years and my youth had exaggerated her hatred for me. Now I knew. She still hated me with ten kinds of passion. I double checked with my boys again that day and they said she'd never spoken to either of them. I asked them often over the next few weeks. No, she had not approached them ever. I felt liberated to know they had not felt her anger, and somehow that made me see that she no longer had any power over me, and would not have power over my children. They were never in her room, and even as adult men, they still tell me she never spoke to them and certainly never mistreated them in any way.

Today a group of people came into the cultural center I work in. I am one part information desk attendant and one part docent. This group looked familiar to me somehow, so I asked them if they were from my hometown, which is about two hours away.  They said they were and one lady introduced everyone. One of the women was Teacher.

For a moment, I found myself at a loss for words. After I took a deep breath to compose myself, I looked at Teacher saw that she did not even recognize me. I said, "I was a student of yours."

"Oh really? What's your name?"

I told her my name and then added my maiden name. I told her, "It was a long time ago." For just a moment I wanted to add, "And I am not a little girl any more."

Her eyes immediately looked wary. She had not recognized my face but she did recognize my name. I don't know if she was finally feeling some regret, or if she was concerned that I might embarrass her in front of her friends and family but she looked concerned. Maybe she even thought I might strike her. Her eyes seemed very nervous and she, after all these years, dropped her gaze.

"That was a long time ago. I'm surprised you remembered me."

I wanted to say, "How could I ever forget all those painful lessons?" But I spoke another truth instead. Sometimes we can speak a kinder truth. I said, "I remember every teacher I've  had."

"I do too." She looked at me briefly and with surprise. "But you'd be surprised how many kids forget you."

I just smiled and showed her family around . At one point, Teacher actually rubbed my back as we walked to the counter where she signed the guest sheet. Her touch both unnerved and saddened me. How nice it would have been had she not considered me too unclean to touch when I was a little child. As she signed, I could see the pencil being slammed down again. I saw the paddle being cracked on my desk. And I sighed with relief, knowing those days were gone. When she looked up, I saw again the discomfort in her eyes. It seemed ringed with regret, and I actually felt sorry for her. I tried hard to think of one good thing I could say about those days, but short of, "You sure showed me how tough the world could be," I could not think of a single positive thing to tell her. I am unaccustomed to being at a loss for words.

After her party looked around the cultural center, I asked them what they thought of the place. I invited them to come back later for our grand opening celebration and wished them well as they headed out the door. But I felt sad. This time though, I believed I was possibly sad for HER! That thought blindsided me.

I took a break to reflect on my feelings. I knew I had moved on from the pain that she must have felt back then and had shared freely with me. But I was not so sure that she had moved on.

I found myself wishing she had not been cruel to me because it was hard on both of us. She should have been better to me and to herself. What sort of life had she been living while she tormented a small child? Not a very happy one, surely. I felt free of her anger, a millions smiles beyond her hatred. I understood that in making my own sons safe from her, my heart had been healed. That simple act had taken back the power she had once wrested from a quiet little girl. Protecting my children had put the pain behind me. It had brought me closure and flooded my heart with forgivness. Who knew that keeping two sweet little boys safe could erase the pain in the heart of a mother, a mother that had once been a little girl that was unsafe?


When I look back on those hard days now, it is with a measure of pride. I feel proud of that little girl for learning how to keep things as quite and as pain-free as she could keep them. I'm amazed at her for learning to sharpen her pencils, hold her bladder, and keep her head down. I feel glad that she plowed right through that year and held on to her sanity and her humanity until she'd found the sweet relief of a new, kind teacher. I'm even more proud of the young mother that basically said,  "Okay. You did what you did, and there is nothing we can do about that, but you are not going to treat my children the way you treated me, you simply are not!"  Once again, I find that motherhood has brought me something I needed. Many of the good things in my world, so much of my peace, has slipped in from that surprising corner of my life. I was given two precious lives, and in caring for them, I have learned to care for myself.


If you are under someone's control and they are not kind, remember "This too shall pass." If you are being abused or have been abused, don't let it break you - let it make you. Let it make you stronger and smarter. Pull the good things out of it and throw away the bad. Learn from it, bend with it, find some silver lining to that cloud and hold onto it for dear life. You can turn pain into lessons. Take the steps you can and must in order to survive with your sanity and your humanity. As Theodore Roosevelt said, "Do what you can with what you have where you are." You can survive it until you escape it or outgrow it. No pain lasts forever, but the lessons you learn from it are yours for keeps. I have long outdistanced the pain of her abuse, but the lessons I learned are gifts she unintentionally gave me and cannot take back. She taught me: stand strong, be independent, look when you should, look away when you must, be prepared, watch what you say, watch what you do, don't trust blindly, be stubborn, hold to the truths you know even if you cannot speak of them, be tricky when you must, don't give up, plow on, learn, and grow, and find ways to lessen the pain and the stress until you can escape it, know who you are, press the essence of your secret self deep inside you and protect it with your thoughts and your actions, with all you have and all you are, outgrow pain, escape it, outlive it, move on. WIN!


These are the lessons she taught me, and I'm keeping them. They are mine. They are what matters.