SCHOOL DAYS: LIFE AT CES

Photo: Michelle, Nancy, and Skitch

Seventh Grade Graduation

THEN:

My fondest school years were spent at CES. My sister, Sandi, convinced me to give school more effort (though she fell short of the "give school your all" goal that she was hoping for) and I fell back into the "good girl" lifestyle, which was a considerably easier way to live, to be quite honest. Also, the atmosphere at CES was much improved and the attitudes were nearly perfect, at least in the grade I landed. Bullying was not completely dead there, but so many of the kids were quick to stick up for the underdogs. The halls were brightly lit and rules were much more strictly followed. We marched everywhere in a straight line and only dared to whisper under the most exciting circumstances. I thrived in the environment that was more structured. Life seemed more under control; I felt safer. The "rich kids" did hang out primarily with each other, but I don't remember ever hearing any of them say anything that was "snotty," or "snobby," or just downright rude to the middle class or poorer kids, and I can recall many times they were encouraging and kind. I was almost immediately befriended by, Stuart, one of the middle class students that was very kind and funny. He was mature for his age, but still knew how to relax and be a kid. He brought Stretch Armstrong to school on the day toys were allowed and his mom colored his hair green for Halloween. When I eventually confided in him that my family got food stamps (in the sixth grade, I believe) he said he would never have imagined it and what did it matter anyway? I was no longer "filthy" or "poor", and thus, the next three years were somewhat heavenly in a peer group sort of way.

On my first day at CES, I was trying to talk to Stuart, because we'd started a conversation in the classroom that was interrupted by the teacher when class started. One of our guy classmates, a fellow named Brent with curly dark hair and laughing eyes, became frustrated because I was distracting Stu from their game of touch of touch football. Brent smilingly pushed Stuart toward me and said, "F*&% her, Stuart!" I was shocked and appalled. I'd heard that word, of course, but only out of the mouths of tactless and rowdy high school boys. I had thought my classmates would be "youngsters" (three years younger than me.) They weren't even supposed to know such language! Stuart became immediately angry with Brent for using that word in front of a "lady". The dressing down he gave Brent endeared Stu to me for life. Brent was funny and half wild and I learned to like him pretty well despite this initial shock, but I was immediately thick as thieves with Stuart. 

Also, on that first day, I was befriended by the outgoing Shan and her quieter but very pretty friend Stephanie. Both were blond and radiant and probably from families that I would have considered well to do, but they treated me like a total peer. I was actually quite shocked when they started talking to me, and I was leery as well. I waited for one of them to decide I was beneath them, but they never did. On the playground, Shan raised my long blond hair off my chest and exclaimed, "Wow! Your boobs might even be bigger than Stephanie's. Look here, Steph!" And I, laughingly, tried to draw my hair out of her fingers and hide my boobs with it again. I'd grown accustomed to the idea that I was stuck with them, but I was still very uncomfortable when anyone pointed them out. While outside, they informally introduced me to a short, vivacious brunette named Nancy, and soon she and I were fast friends as well. Nancy looked exotic. Her eyes were cat-like and her complexion a flawless creamy color. It turned out that she lived right up the road from me and rode my bus. She wasn't a sissy girl (though she was much more in touch with her femininity than I was.) She had a sense of adventure and a great sense of humor. She quickly became my best school friend, and her friend Michelle and I clicked just as happily. Michelle was taller, her brunette hair was longer. She was slightly freckled and kind and quiet, but with a hidden and sometimes mischievous sense of humor. Soon we three were a trio and were often seen together. Shan and Stephanie remained dear friends, and so did many other groups of girls. Sometimes we hung with a quite, sweet girl named Tammy. Often we would be seen with Rita and Sherry, or April. Brenda and Rhonda were also part of the unofficial girl gang. Sometimes there was a whole gaggle of us, laughing and talking about boys or music. We had our own small groups but were part of a much larger group as well, one that included any female in my entire grade that cared to hang around us. Even the more well to do girls would join in some games, or contests that someone would start. We would share laughs and jokes now and then, and when push came to shove we were there for each other -- the whole classroom. I'd never experienced such a wide support group of friends and I loved it!

As far as guys were considered, crushes came and went, of course. I mooned over the dark and brooding Mike S. and the quiet-and-deep as-still-waters Warren, but did not tell either of them about my crush. I "dated" Smiling Brian and the tough yet kind Mike G. And I had lots of really awesome guy friends. Quite honestly, there was only one or two boys in the entire grade that I avoided to any degree. They leaned toward being bullies pretty frequently, and I did not want to get into any fights, so I steered clear of them. I truly loved most of the guys in my grade, and I would have loyally defended them if I'd overheard anyone say an unkind word about them. Still, a few boys stood out as guys I would have come to blows over: they were the above mentioned Stuart, a rather reckless freckled kid named Jimmy that treated me like a queen (and still does to this day) and a very kind and funny boy named Shane that was a grade above me (now that I'd failed repeatedly) but was not out of my radar as I'd learned that he was my type of person. Also on the list of "worth fighting over" were Kenneth, Scott O., David, Brian, Joey, Clint, and Luther. Many of these guys stood up for me as well. Stuart, on more than one occasion, took my part against the boys that tried now and then to bully me. So did Joey and Clint, who were both smaller than me but never let their size slow them down. (Joey grew to be enormously tall! lol) I was blessed with both girl and guy friends that I loved very much. 

Despite the great classmates, it was not all smooth sailing. Just a few days into the new school I was sent to the principal's office. I was refusing to shower at school. At LFE, we'd never been required to get naked in front of our classmates and I thought if this new school was going to ask that of me, it was just asking too much. I was modest to the extreme and never even allowed my own mother in the bathroom when I was naked. The principal, Mr. Baker, listened as I told him just that and then he spoke to let me know where he was coming from. Gym was hot and sweaty, classrooms were small, and some kids did not get proper hygiene at home. He felt he could not allow one kid, who would bathe at home, to be excused from gym because there were some that would not bathe at home. He thought about it a moment and then conceded that he was asking a lot of me, but that in the long run it was for the best for my class and my school. He said he was not opposed to giving me a "time of adjustment" since this idea had been sprung on me so unexpectedly. He said he would write me an excuse from showering for one week if I would agree to shower from then on. He pointed out that the showers did have curtains and that I could wrap in a towel going into and out of the shower. Only Mr. Dotson (my favorite teacher ever) had treated me so much like a human being with feelings that counted. I promised Mr. B that I would somehow work up the courage to shower in a week if he would give me that time to get used to the idea. He wrote the excuse and sent me back gym. In a week I tiptoed my bashful way to the showers wrapped in a big towel and tried to dress back into my street clothes under that towel when I got back to my locker. I soon noticed that no one really looked at anyone else. No one noticed my older body. No one remarked about the girl's that still had flat chests and no pubic hair. I grew more used to the locker room experience, though never comfortable with it. Still, I kept my deal with Mr. B. and thanked the Lord above for a principal that was so understanding. 

Most of my teachers were also decent folk, but I did not escape the bad experiences that sometimes peppered into my school career. I can say that, of the nine teachers I had in my classrooms and countless instructors for music, art, library, gym etc, only one of them truly hurt me. He decided I was "that kind of girl" and told me I needed a paddling once a week, whether I'd done anything wrong or not. It took me years to wonder if it was some sexual kick for him to spank a girl that had failed three times and was a bit more developed than most of the girls in class. But it did not take me long to realize that I preferred physical punishment over mental and emotional punishment, so I did not dare complain, though that teacher gave me 24 paddlings in one school year, usually three licks per spanking, and he died over the summer vacation. When we went back to school, the kids joked that I had killed him, which smarted my soul even though the words weren't meant to be cruel. I had also seen someone murdered over the summer, and was petrified I would be asked about that, so I grinned (quite literally) and considered these words the lesser of the expected evils. Still, I did not take any deep breaths until the joke died away. 

In the sixth grade I had a tough as nails teacher we'll just call Mrs. M. She was known for setting you on fire with a paddle, and it was rumored that she had shoved one boy up against the black board until his feet were no longer touching the floor. I never made it to her good side, but I managed to stay off her bad side most of the year. I think I got three paddlings from her, one of which sent me stumbling down several steps. Mrs. M. said, "What are you doing?! Get back up here! You still have two licks left!" But she was wise enough to point me up the stairs for the next two licks so I did not accidentally bound away again. 

Just as always, books were listed among my closest friends. I volunteered in the school library when I could and visited the town library often. Like many of my peers I read the wildly popular "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" by Judy Blume. Unlike most of them, I also read many other books by that author. I moved from the Ramona and the Ralph Mouse books to ones like "Fifteen" by Beverly Cleary. I also hovered gladly over: "Witch of the Cumberlands" by Mary Jo Stephens, The Witch Series by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. (Yes, I've always been fascinated by witches. I blame it on Samantha from Bewitched and Sabrina from the Archie comics.) I discovered The Magic series and the Gryphon series by Andre Norton, Ursula K. Le Guin's "Tombs of Atuan", Mary Norton's "The Borrowers" series and "All the Children Were Sent Away" by Sheila Garrigue. I flew through "The Ups And Downs Of Jorie Jenkins" by Betty Bates and everything I could find by Jane Langton. I also buried myself in "The Day The World Went Away" by Anne E. Schraff, many of George McDonald's books, (especially the Princess books) and The Time series by Madeleine L'Engle. "The Year of Janie's Diary" by Donna Balcomb made me so proud to be someone that loved to learn! 

The last year of elementary school for us was seventh grade, and it was the best of three great years! We, as privileged "seniors," were allowed a couple of field trips, many soc hops, and other parties. They taught us square dancing which, despite how un-cool it might have seemed to many of my classmates, I loved! We had Seventh Grade Graduation to practice for and, too quickly, it was there and over. I wore a new and favorite purple dress that was way less "spectacular" than most of my friend's dresses, but in true kind form, no one pointed that out. And I loved that dress anyway. I thought it made me look mature and feminine. I felt like such a lady in it. The last day of school at CES it hit me that it was really over. I started crying and could not stop. I was ashamed of my tears, and it was near the end of the last day, so how much trouble could I get in if I just got up and left? I escaped and began making my way outside where my dad would soon be pulling up to take me home. The farther I walked the more difficult it was to take the next step and the harder I cried. I wished for a time machine so I could live the last three years over again, 24 paddlings in one year and all! I wanted to stop the clock and never have to walk out of that school. I felt like this was Riverdale High and I was Betty Cooper, but I was being kicked out of the comic book forever. Kenneth, one of the aforementioned "boys worth fighting over," found me sobbing in the hall. He was a tall and muscular guy with a heart of gold. He was a sweet, big teddy bear. He was confounded over my tears and kept telling me high school was going to be okay, that we'd all still be together, that not much was going to change. He told me high school would be fun! But I shook my head and sobbed, trying to tell him that I knew everything was going to change, that I was going to miss the clean wide halls and kids that (usually) obeyed rules. I told him I'd be with the LFE kids again and they didn't like me. That got his attention. He scoffed, "Not like you? How could anyone not like you? You're one of the nicest and prettiest girls in the whole world!" I was so touched by his kind words. I knew he could not relate to the life I'd been privy to at LFE. He put one arm around me and loaned me his strength so that I could walk out of my school, my haven, and away from the three happiest years of my school days. And just like that, my last day at CES was as memorable and special as the first had been, and as most of the ones in the middle had been. That school had strengthened me, buffered me, taught me, and entertained me. I knew I would always be grateful for the days I spent there and the people that made those days worthwhile. 

Photo by Skitch: Smiling Brian, Stuart, and Rita 

SCHOOL DAYS: LIFE AT LFE

Photo: Mrs. Stanley and Skitch
First Grade
Pioneer Days 

THEN:

When it was time for me to start first grade, my mother told me that I had no choice but to go to school. She said that she would surely keep me home if she could, but if I did not go the "Welfare People" would come and take me away from my family. Even though I felt a lot like keeping my sons home as well (when it was their turn) I made a point of being positive and excited for them. I told them about all the fun they were going to have when they started school. The idea that I MUST go or be removed from my family had frightened me more than a little, so I hoped to spare them that and to give them a more optimistic viewpoint on life. If you must go anyway, best to look on the bright side, I figured, and see that cup half full. I sent them to school and cried my heart out with fear for their tough encounters and with loneliness for their little hands in mine and their voices ringing in my ears. But they did not know about these tears until they were adults. They did know, however, that I loved summer vacation, weekends, and snow days every bit as much as they did. They did know that I was never one of those mothers that was excited about school starting back simply because she was sick of her own kids. I never craved school just to "get the kids out of my hair." My kids were largely a joy to be around. Even when they were sick, or whiny, or being particularly difficult I loved having them with me. If I simply must have some me time I found family to keep up with them. I was blessed to have that option, I know. 

In my own first grade days, I was happy to find that I had a marvelous, and fairly trustworthy teacher named Mrs. Stanley. This classroom smelled as good as the kindergarten room had, and my life was suddenly ablaze with crayons and blunt end scissors, abacuses, and glue, paint and markers, tracing and learning numbers and letters, connect the dots, and find the ones that are alike or different. My mind burned with happiness over all this gladful learning. I made friends with a girl named Camillia Michelle. She was a beautiful dark haired child that rode the bus with me. My mother praised me when she found out we were friends. She told me that Michelle, as we called her at school, had found her father dead in the bedroom one morning and now she had no daddy, so I was to be as kind to her as I could be. Again, I was petrified, but this time I think my mother was right to not cushion me from the realities of life. I think I appreciated my parents more once I realized they might not always be there.

At first, I was too little to open the doors of the schoolhouse. My family was full of short people anyway and my health had slowed my growth. I was six and looked about four years old. I had to wait until a bigger kid opened the door and then dash in behind them. These were the days before they served breakfast at school, although they started doing that when I was in fifth grade at my second elementary school. Some mornings though, they would have hot chocolate ready, and when we got off the bus we would all line up in the cafeteria to get some of that thick, warm, chocolaty goodness. A classmate, Lisa C, walked by me one morning and wiped her hot chocolate off of her mouth and onto her dress hem. In the process she showed her panties to the whole cafeteria. I don't think I had ever been more shocked in my life. Wasn't she much too old for that kind of mistake?! 

One day, the school custodian decided to pull my tooth. I had told her (the only handy grown up) that I could not eat my lunch because my loose tooth was hurting. She said, "Let me see." And reached into my mouth and wiggled the tooth. "Yep, it's lose alright." And before I knew it, she had pulled that tooth right out of my head and was showing the bloody end to me. It was the first baby tooth I lost. I don't remember if it was the pain or the shock, but a blackness slid up the world, and I woke up in the nurses station. I could hear the principal, the nurse, and the custodian arguing about silly things like angry parents and something called "lawsuits". I sat up and asked if I could go back to my classroom now. The nurse came over and checked on me. The custodian told me I was a good strong girl and she was sorry she had scared me. After a bit, the principal walked me back to my room, and never another word was said about the incident. 

My second grade homeroom teacher liked me just fine. Somewhere during second grade, I gave her a hound puppy and for years after that she thanked me for that dog and kept me abreast on how he was doing. She was Mrs. Vicey Mullins, and she was a sometimes blustery but very kind lady that I remember fondly. The students traded rooms in the second grade and the other teacher disliked me much more than Mrs. Mullins liked me. I figured out how to deal with that as best I could for a seven year old, and I carried on. I was still friends with Michelle, and I made two new friends named Annette and Tonya. We four would hold hands when we walked around on the playground. Lots of girls did. But the boys did not. I wondered why the boys did not like each other well enough to hold hands. What funny creatures they were! Annette met my parents after school one day and begged them to let me stay the night with her that weekend. That was one of many rejected ideas of being away from home, but at that time I was more relieved than disappointed. The world was a big and scary place. What if Annette's mother liked me about as much as that one second grade teacher did? My family did not have a telephone, so I could not call my parents and be rescued. No, I was not ready yet to stay away from home overnight with a friend. I could have stayed with my sister, but even that was not allowed. In second grade, I was also good friends with a guy cousin named Earl who looked at our class photo and laughed before telling me, "Dee Dee your knees look like footballs!" I thought about slugging him quickly while no one was looking, but I did not want to get in trouble. In the end I just shook my head while he giggled at my funny knees. I also started hanging around with Rosalee and Betty now and then. They were both sweet and funny. They were poor girls like me and we stuck together when the rich kids started in on either of us. I remember once (in fourth grade) Betty said the rich girls were just jealous of Rosalee and me because we had bigger boobs than they did. She paused a moment and then added, "I don't know WHY they hate me!" And we all laughed. 

I talked the librarian into allowing me to assist her that year, and I continued doing so all throughout my days at LEF. Thus, I found a sweet refuge from the bullying. In that quiet room with so many books, many that were already like dear friends, I could breathe. I would run my hands over "Billy and Blaze," "Harold and the Purple Crayon," "Frog and Toad," and "Amelia Bedilia" reverently as I passed them. The librarian loved me, and in there I could pretend that everyone did. I plowed my way through a tough year and into the third grade, which at first was scheduled to be with the same teacher, but she complained about having me in her room two years in a row, saying it was, "Too much to ask of any teacher!" The bemused principal put me in the only other third grade class, and my learning was nourished all year by a lovely lady name Mrs. Rose who read us Bible stories at the end of every class day, if we behaved. We most often did. That year we did not trade classes, and I was happy to be with the kind Mrs. Rose all day every day. In third grade, Annette and Tonya made friends with other girls that had more in common with them. They were healthier and fairly well off compared to Michelle and me. I did not mind though. I met a girl named Jutannia (Tanny) and made another friend named Angie. Jutannia was my sister Lila's relative by marriage, and Lila had asked me to be friends with the tall skinny little girl that was the same age as me. Jutannia and Angie were a tad more rambunctious than my friends had been before, but I managed to just stand by and be amused by their exploits and stay out of trouble myself. Jutannia once told me to call her a "turkey", which was the insult of the day. When I did, she replied back with, "Well, if I'm a turkey you can just eat me pilgrim!" She and Angie laughed and laughed, but it was the strangest come back I had ever heard. Why would you want someone to cook and eat you? How could that even be funny? But she and Angie sure seemed to think it was! The sexual innuendo went over my short little head with ease. 

Fourth grade landed me in Mrs. French's room and though she did not hate me nearly as much as the second grade teacher, she did not seem to like me very much either. I was back on the "bad kid" list even though I had always done everything in my power to be liked by my teachers and to stay out of trouble.

One particular day, I wore one of my dad's white t-shirts to school because mother had fallen behind on the laundry and I loved daddy's Ts. I slept in them often, and didn't see a reason one why I should not wear them to school if I wanted. While in line outside, gathering to go back in after recess, I noticed one of the more popular and monied girls looking pointedly at my t-shirt.

"Don't you just love t-shirts?" I asked her.

She sneered at me, "Not if they are just stupid white t-shirts with no words or pictures on them!"

Her friends laughed and I heard one say, "I bet that's her dad's shirt!" And they laughed some more. I wondered what they thought was wrong with wearing my dad's shirt. I felt out of place and disliked often at LFE, so my skin was rather tough by that point. Later in life, I ran into the very girl that had made fun of my t-shirt. I hadn't seen her since I'd made a point of avoiding her in 8th grade. We both now had kids that were on the same T ball team. As she walked my way, my gut automatically braced itself for a confrontation and my mind began having all the preparatory conversations with my son about bullies. You could have "pushed me over with a broom straw," as country folk say, when she walked over and treated me like a peer. She had grown up. I was just another "mom" and she was as nice to me as I could have ever hoped. People grow. People learn. People change, for the better and for the worse. This time, Thank goodness, it was for the better! I still had those conversations with my sons about bullies. They are everywhere.

In the fourth grade, I'd been on my own a lot. Jutannia and Angie, Earl, and Michelle were all in other classrooms (Michelle had been held back a year) and so I buddied up with a cool guy named Paul. The teacher did not like him very much either, so we sat in the back of the room and talked quietly to each other. For the first time, I deserved some of the trouble I got into. I decided to have fun and to not stress myself out too much trying to please people that were not going to like me. Paul was fantastic to talk to and, when I showed up (I was out sick a lot that year) we bent our heads over comic books and motorcycle magazines. We whispered about horses, and farm animals. We talked of legends and ghost stories. I learned a lot that year, but very little of it was from the schoolbooks. Still, my grades were fine and they passed me to the fifth grade. 

In the fifth grade I had my first male teacher, Mr. Branham and also had Mrs. V. Mullins again, the nice teacher from second grade. Mr. Branham was a very kind man, and of course I was familiar with and liked Mrs. Mullins, but that year, I had decided not to do homework, and not to pay much attention in class either. I am afraid, I gave them no recourse but to fail me, and so they did. I was hanging around with Jutannia and Angie most of that year, but they passed on to the sixth grade when I did not.

The next year, I had fifth grade again with Mr. Dotson, who turned out to be my favorite teacher of all time. Mr. Dotson went above and beyond like no teacher I had before or after. He taught the required subjects, and still made time for many new and exciting topics as well. We studied current events, photography, art, creative writing, vocabulary, and more. Many days found us at the craft tables making our own holiday decorations for our seasonal bulletin boards. (My favorite thing to do at school was volunteer in the library, my second favorite thing to do was decorate the bulletin boards, and my third favorite thing was music class.) We also made the props for the Halloween play we did that year. My friends in that grade were Andrea and Jennifer, but we hardly got to know each other as they passed on to the next grade and I (again) was held back. 

Disappointing Mr. Dotson was horrible, and a very mean thing to do, since he did teach me so much. I realize now that my failure must have hurt him, at least a bit. He must have felt that it reflected on his ability to teach, or to reach a troubled child. I can only say that not all children are reachable, and that these days I am very sorry I ever disappointed him. But disappoint him I did. I earned a failure in his room once more and would take fifth grade for the third time! Next time though, I would be in a brand new school! LFE had toughened me, entertained me, taught me, and shaped me all it would. My family was moving to town, and I was off to a new school and brand new adventures!

Photo: Second Grade Class

Skitch in red, middle row, far left
Earl France is in the front row, far left
Annette is the middle row, far right & Tonya is beside her
Rosalee (stripes) & Betty (pink) are beside Tonya
Mrs. V. Mullins is on the right in black and white

CONFESSION # 2: I STRUGGLE WITH ANDROPHOBIA

Artwork: Androphobia
By Skitch

THEN:


In 1990 I was working for the big corporation that sells cheap crap from overseas put together by the exhausted and underpaid workers in countries that don't have a minimum wage or even child labor laws. You know the company. My son-in-law, X, calls it "The Big Blue Devil". 

I started out as a cashier, but within just a month or so they figured out that I was capable of smiling and helping older folks get a buggy, so I was designated "door greeter." The problem with that position was that all six assistant managers (or was it seven) thought they were in charge of it, and they all had their own ideas about how the duties of "greeting" and "theft prevention" should be carried out. Each day as they arrived they gave me pointers and how-tos that almost always contradicted with what one or more of their peers had told me. I had to keep up with the various managers and their preferences, and if two of them that had conflicting ideas worked on the same day, well, I just had to mix it up and hope I was doing things they way they approved of when they walked around the corner. It was a little like playing the lottery except there was no money and no fun involved.  A few months of that nonsense and I managed to get myself transferred to the ladies wear department where I hung up new clothing and hung up old clothing that some insensitive person threw in the floor or on top of the pop display. I let people into and out of the dressing rooms, and I answered the phones. I liked that a lot better than the other two positions I'd held there, but I still had to occasionally deal with conflicting ideas from the assistant managers.

During this flipping and flopping all over the store, I got to know most of the employees. My favorite cousin worked there with me and a girl I had gone to school with that had been a grade or two above me, but mostly the faces were new. If someone had asked me about my favorite new face, I wouldn't have hesitated. There was a talkative fellow named Don that worked there, and I was not alone in thinking he was one great guy. He always had a smile and a funny story ready, and you got the idea that he knew, really knew, what kindness was all about.

After a while, Don began to talk to me about his plans to open his own business. He and his bride wanted to open a photography business, and he asked me if I would like to assist them. I'm not sure if this was because we had talked about a shared love of photography or if he simply liked the fact that I could be friendly and show up every day. I loved the idea of working for two human beings instead of The Big Blue Devil and all it's assistant manager heads, and I loved the idea of working with something artistic that pulled at my mind and soul the way photography did. But something kept me from saying yes to his offer. That something, though I liked to kid myself about how brave and strong I was, was fear.

I had a very dear friend that had been raped by an employer and it had scarred both of us. She threatened to go to the police and her boss said, "Yeah, and I'll tell them you agreed to it at the time. Who are they going to believe, me or a little whore like you?"

My friend was not a whore, but the man that had raped her owned half the town he lived in. He knocked her down, (causing her head to crash into a shelf behind her) pulled off her jeans while she still could not think straight, and raped her while she cried and begged him to stop. Outside that room where he did this evil deed, he was a business man, a husband, a father, and a respected member of society. She didn't feel confident that she could survive the disbelief that so many people would have, let alone the prosecuting attorney's questions, or the shame of everyone simply knowing that she had "let this man get the best of her". So, she went home and showered away all the evidence while she sobbed her eyes dry. She vowed to put it all behind her, but to this day it is not behind either of us and that was over 30 years ago.

In 1990, I talked to her about wanting to work as a photographer's assistant. I told her how nice this fellow seemed and how much and how happily he talked about his bride. I told her I wanted to work for humans instead of a corporation. I talked of creativity and making something beautiful that might even outlive me. I told her that the only thing stopping me was the idea that this man might be like the one she used to work for. That he might be like the guy that treated her kindly when people were looking and then damaged her inside and out when they weren't. How could you ever know?

She understood all of this and I could see that she wanted to encourage me to take the chance, but I could also see my own fears mirrored in her eyes. She suggested that I take the job but carry mace with me at all times. I thought it over, but I was not even brave enough to do that. 

When I met my current husband he was working now and then for his best friend Don who had a successful photography business. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be the same Don! I told my future husband how much I had looked up to Don when we worked together and that I had turned down the offer to help out when he first started the business. I even mentioned it to Don when I saw him again, but he did not seem to remember. Maybe he offered the position to several people and forgot that I was one of them. Maybe I thought he was offering me a job when he was just planning out loud. I don't know. I do know that, looking back, I wish I had said, "I'd love to help you out with that!" Looking back, I wish I had taken many chances that I did not have the courage for at the time. Don and his wife Melissa are some of the dearest friends we have, and now I can say that I would trust him to never hurt me. Not only have I come to realize that men are often as gentle and trustworthy as women (as a child I thought my daddy was the only one!) but I've gotten to know Don better, and I truly believe anyone would be safe in his presence, under any circumstances. He is a true gentleman and I was right: he knows, really knows, what kindness is all about.

My fears are not as intense now, but I still have to face them now and then. My husband struggles to understand them. I have attempted to explain to him what it feels like to know that this other person you are alone with would win in a physical confrontation 99 out of 100 times. I tried to explain what it is like to know that you are largely at their mercy, that only their "civilization" keeps you safe. 

When I was a teen, several boys delighted in showing me they were bigger and badder than I was. The ones that came to blows with me lost because they were not my friends, and I was filled with rage at the injustice of my small stature, so rageful that I held nothing back. Add to that, the fact that they did not want to be known as someone that would hit a girl, or they were kinder than I knew, or they were too shocked to properly fight back. Who knows for sure why I won those confrontations? Rarely, did they hit me after the first blow or assault that set me off. Mostly, I pummeled their shocked faces and then stomped away. The ones that won in these confrontations were my "friends" and my relatives. They made a joke of it; they won laughingly. They held me down just to show me they could. They pinched me or fondled me when I did not want them to. They pushed me up against walls and shoved their knee between my legs. They seemed to scream, "See? I could have whatever I wanted." They made of my safety both a gift and a joke. They left me hating the fact that I was female.

One of them, a cousin, forced me to hold his hand for what seemed like ages, his palm sweaty against my skin that never grew damp. (My hands have no sweat glands or oil glands.) I pleaded and reasoned, but to no avail. He held my hand captive until I was on the verge of bringing things to blows myself because I felt so overpowered, so trapped, so insignificant that it boiled my blood into a near-fury. He told me, "I'm doing this for your own good because you shouldn't be so jumpy about people touching you." And added, "I'll let you go as soon as you stop pitching a fit about it!" I had been pulling hard at my hand until it hurt. I had been reasoning, threatening, pleading with him in a loud whisper. So, I tried to remain calm, but it was all an act. Inside my blood was alive with indignation, and I wanted to cut him as I had so often cut myself. We were in my home and my family was sleeping. I could have called my dad and he would have given his nephew hell just for pissing me off. I threatened to wake the house, but my cousin called my bluff, and deep down, I loved him and I pitied him. He seemed so lost in the world. He did not have a dad like mine. Because of that, I managed to pretend to be calm until he let go of my hand, but there is to this day a small flame of indignation and pain that flickers inside me when I remember that night. 

The guys that instilled this fear in me were my relatives and my friends and many of them I loved, but the guys I eventually felt safe with were the ones that never deemed it necessary to prove they could hold me down, or pinch me on the breasts or hips despite my objections, or hang onto my hand when I wanted them to let go of me. Still, many guys paid the price for what I had been shown by others, and I am sure that I neglected even getting to know some very nice fellows because the ones I knew and loved had already made me so insecure. The "bad" males made me afraid of the "good" ones.

And then my dear friend was raped. When she told me about it, I cried for days.

I have struggled all my life to come to terms with the reality that I am not only female but small, and to come to grips with this fear I carry of men. For so many years, I envied males very much! It took becoming the mother of sons to finally begin to understand the opposite sex. Without the right guidance, I see how easily a boy could think they were "just goofing off" and that "no harm was done." And in the physical world, which is where they live, they were largely right. My friends and family did no, or very little, harm to me physically, but inside my soul they wounded me. They scarred me deeply. They hurt me and they continue to hurt me to this day. 

Still, these days I find it easy to forgive them. I see now that they live in that physical world so boldly that it causes them to struggle harder, I think, than females do to understand the other worlds we live in. They thrive in the physical and struggle with practically everything else. They are daunted by the emotional, the social, the spiritual, and even the intellectual realms more than women are. The physical world clouds all else for them. I see how uncomfortable they are with same sex affection, with their own pain and fears, with social skills, and even with focusing on their studies. I see how easily the physical world distracts them. I understand that my sons could have made similar mistakes on top of similar mistakes. I forgive my offenders because of that, and because I now suspect that I was mistaken in thinking that life would have been so much easier if I had been born male. Sure, they have the power and they make the money. In a test of physical strength they will win 99 out of 100 times. But they pay a price for those boons. They struggle so much more just to know who they are, to be in touch with each other, with God, with their own soul. They lack the sense of community and union that females share. They make war on each other and they cannot ever be mothers. They puch when they want to hug. They name call when they want to say sweet words to each other. This is sometimes true of my own sons, who were rased as outside of the macho expectations as I could get them. I now suspect that it's just as hard to be a male in this world as it is to be a female, perhaps even harder. I certainly don't envy them anymore.

Just because I forgive them, does not mean I see these past incidents as acceptable or unavoidable. If I had it to do over I would love and pity much less in the face of sexual or physical assault. I would wake my daddy without hesitation, realizing now that my fear of his anger toward my cousin was also a fear of mankind. And that somewhere deep inside my head, I could hear the words of my mother telling me, "You don't want two men to fight over you! Men only fight over whores!" I think I was nine years old when she said that and I adopted the idea. No men every fought over me, and my daddy was not even clued in when I needed his protection. I'm sure that's not what my mother had intended, but to me my father raising a stink over some guy holding my hand was "two men fighting over me." And I avoided it very well. 

There is a wonderful quote, attributed to "unknown" that says: "Make your anger so expensive that no one can afford it, and your happiness so cheap that people get it for free." If I had it to do over again, my anger would be massively expensive in those situations. Whatever it took: a firm talk with them, ostracization, a talk with my dad, or even pressing charges with the local police, they would get the point that I was not to be treated that way and that their actions were unacceptable. They would understand that my anger was indeed expensive.

I write this to appeal to young women to do just that: Make your anger expensive. If mothers and fathers are not going to teach males how to treat you then, by God, you better teach them yourself! Understand that they may not mean to hurt you, but do not let them be in doubt about the fact that they did! 

I share this because I hope it will shed light on the differences between men and women, which exist no matter how equally we should be treated. With our kids, we try to be "good" to all of them. What one wants another may not want. What one needs another may not need. And so it is with men and women, individually and (in general) in groups. We should be treated equally well, but we are not the same. 

I write this in hopes that some young man somewhere might think twice before "just goofing off" with his young female friends and family members. That he might make more of an effort to imagine what it would feel like to be at the mercy of 99 out of 100 women. 

I share this in hopes that I can reach out to others that are going through similar situations and let them know they are not alone. We are all on this big, twirling, flying, mass together, and it's high time we worked on understanding each other and being clear about what we need, what we expect, and what we can and cannot tolerate.