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.