SISTERS: ON SANDI

Photo: Sweet Sandi

Kind brown eyes and shiny, dark hair like the Cherokee princess that came before us, she inherited the Native in our America. Yet, she is one of a kind. She carries joy around in her arms and eyes and shares with all she meets. She loves so deeply that her heart has been broken a thousand times for herself, a million for her sisters. But those broken pieces grow back stronger for all their wear and tear. Her heart is solid and golden. She is able to love, and love, and love again. 

Her superpower is her mighty voice box. She can read aloud until most people's tongues would drop off and she's proved it. She was genuinely thrilled by good grades and gently disappointed by bad ones.

She taught me to daydream myself to sleep. Next thing she knew, I was daydreaming night and day, so she taught me to write. "You," She insisted, "Can do anything you set your mind to." 

She taught me to look for the unusual, to accept and even appreciate the odd, to believe in more than I could see. 

She taught me joy, and cooperation, and how to stay on my own dad blammed side of the bed!

I watched her type like her fingers were on fire. They had a mind of their own. She believed that one day I could type just as well, just as fast.

She values me. She has always listened to every word that fell from my lips and rolled in her direction. She was and is my sounding board.

She taught me how to teach myself. "Want to learn ballet? Well, let's just take a trip to the library. The library is the guru at the top of the mountain. All questions can find answers there."

Her heart is as tender as a kitten, her joy is peace, and yet I know... So much war she would wage for my sake!

She is a rocking chair ride on the porch during a raging thunderstorm, and the comfort and safety of a warm quilt. She is the peace and knowledge of a good book in your hands while the snowflakes whisper all around outside my window. She is birdsong in the morning and a full moon at night. She is the sharing of more books than we could count and the sound of a box fan lulling me to sleep. She is a hot cup of coffee when you need one and the meatloaf someone slaved over, arms aching up to the elbows from the icy cold. She is the Christmas turkey you can't imagine doing without. She is the solid and steady rocks on the banks of Pound river. She is love that you can always count on.  

Photo: My Lovely Sis

SCHOOL DAYS: LIFE AT CHS

Photos of Skitch at Food Service Contest 

and while a member of CHS color guard
(called Flag Corps, in those days)

Life at CHS Or How I Skipped High School Entirely 

I don't know if it was self prophecy or realism but, as I had predicted, everything truly was different in 8th grade, and I largely hated it. I missed my sweet little elementary school so much! In our back woods town, 8th graders were shuffled off to the high school, though "technically" high school is 9th through 12th grades. I went to classes from August to December and dropped out of school altogether after Christmas break. Later, I came back and finished the 8th grade with a different group of kids, but I did not go to one day in the 9th grade so, formally, I did not attend high school at all.

That first year of 8th, I enjoyed being able to see the kids that were a grade or more above me. I had some really great friends (Cindy D., and Jutannia, and Angie especially) that were in higher grades than I was. So, though it had been nice to be top of the heap in elementary, I preferred being able to see them. 

I liked Home Economics and finally learned how to boil an egg and a few other domestic chores that my mother would not allow me to practice at home. I had been taught how to mix up the cornbread and that was it! I was not allowed to pour the mix into the hot pan or remove the pan from the oven. I was not even allowed to slice up vegetables or make a grilled cheese sandwich.  My family had nicknamed me "The Spiller" and I am still occasionally called that today. It was true then (and now) that I earned that nickname. In fact, I made "clumsy" look uncoordinated, and Mother was taking no chances that I would burn or cut my awkward self. I pointed out that inept people had to eat too, and I was not always going to be where someone else could cook for me, but she was adamant. I was not allowed near anything hot or sharp until I figured out that they allowed it in Home Economics class and that my mother would be at home while I played with fire and serrated tools. To my surprise and delight, I found that I truly enjoyed cooking. I discovered that there was a certain art to whipping up a snow white frosting or sprinkling paprika over deviled eggs. Cooking was not only a necessary skill if you wanted to eat decently but it was creative too! Home Economics class also taught me to use a sewing machine, but that knowledge has since left me. I own a broken sewing machine. I hope to get it up and going (and to figure out how to use it) because I still sew crafty and necessary things rather often, only I do so by hand. Using the machine would have to be easier, as a rule, and possibly be a lot of fun!

I loved not only my combined English and Literature class but also my teacher, Miss Brooks. (The next year she would become Mrs. Meade.) She encouraged my love of reading and writing and once penned on one of my papers, "You write well and express yourself beautifully!" I was so thrilled with her compliment that I kept that paper for decades after she wrote it. At the time, though, I just smiled at her, thanked her, and looked away. I took that paper home and locked it away in my private tool box. Now and then I would pull it out and stare at the words with a secret thrill coursing through my brain. She saw some hint of the writer in me! Bob Dylan would later say "Destiny is a feeling you have that you know something about yourself nobody else does. The picture you have in your mind of what you're about will come true! It's a kind of a thing you... have to keep to your own self, because it's a fragile feeling, and (if) you put it out there, then someone will kill it. It's best to keep that all inside." I watched and listened carefully as he struggled to put that idea into words in a video I saw recently. It was not easy for him, but he did it. In the 8th grade, I did not "express myself beautifully" enough to put that deep protective instinct into any words, but when B.D. said that, I knew exactly what he meant. I had wanted to be a writer since first stringing words together well enough to read, perhaps even before that. I think that may be why I held desperately onto so many childhood memories, because I wanted to write about them later. But I held that dream deep inside my heart, like a precious but fragile flower. I believed that I could see myself for who I truly was better than those outside could see me, and I protected that belief vigilantly.

Miss Brooks was full of optimism. She was kind and funny when dealing with me and my classmates. On pretty days, she would take us outside on the steps to soak up the sunshine as long as we behaved and stayed on task with our work. She was a genius and an angel. She was young and fresh, but sadly, most of my teachers were jaded before the first day of the school year was over. Their enthusiasm (or lack thereof) for teaching reflected their high levels of apathy for their chosen career. It was not important to them that you like their class or even that you learn while there. Just sit down and shut up; sink or swim, but for God's sake do so quietly! That's the message many of them sent out with their droning voices and their annoyance over questions or interruptions of any kind. 

In many classes I complied and I sank. It seemed I could not fail Literature and English if I tried, and who wanted to? Health, and Science, and History could be interesting, and were breezy classes if I put the least amount of effort into actually turning in my homework and paying just a little attention in class. I had loved all those subjects at C.E.S. Indeed, I had loved everything that involved words at C.E.S., but largely these subjects were now simply time periods to sit morosely in the back of the room and listen to the teacher complain. Math, the anti-word class and my Kryptonite, was by turns dull and torturous, and I dreaded it every day. P.E. was sometimes painful (my lungs would feel like they were on fire) and largely embarrassing. I found myself writing notes and signing my mother's name to them to get myself out of structured tennis or arduous runs. I felt justified in doing so. I played some sports and games outside of gym. (I loved to skate and I played basketball, baseball, volleyball, even tennis with people that did not take the game too seriously.) I walked all over town on a near daily basis. I did not feel that I needed to humiliate myself in public in order to get some exercise. What were they exercising? My inner wince? I cheered up some for Home Economics and Literature/English, but in most of my classes I sat in the back of the room, reading a book of my own choosing while the teacher droned on in a monotone voice. Often they left the subject we were supposed to be studying far behind and told anecdotes from their own life. Though I suppose some of them might have qualified as "History" if you forgive the fact that it happened only last year and to an obscure small town teacher.

As far as books of my own choosing went, I was inclined toward romance books as well as young adult books. I loved everything by Lavryle Spencer, Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, Johanna Lindsey, Jude Deveraux, Karen Robards, and more. Once or twice, teachers shamed me for reading those and even sent me to the office. I told Mr, Mullins, the assistant principal, that it was a free country and I could read whatever I wanted to, and he gave me a lecture about paying attention in class and sent me on my way. I avoided any future lectures by hiding my romance books inside other books from that day on. Teachers did not seem to care if I read in class as long as I did not read romance books in class. I flew through "5 Minute Mysteries" by Michael Avallone and "My First Love and Other Disasters" by Francine Pascal. Though I picked up one briefly, I ever after avoided her Sweet Valley High collection. I was not impressed. I gladly bent over "Mr. and Mrs. Bo Jo Jones" by Ann Head, "Arriving at a Place You Never Left" by Lois Ruby, "Dear Bill, Remember Me? and Other Stories" by Norma Fox Mazer, and the Pigman books and most books by Paul Zindel. I loved Paula Danziger's "Can you Sue Your Parents for Malpractice?" and Marilyn Sachs' "Class Pictures". And these are only the ones that stuck in my brain. I read at least dozens of others that I did not like well enough to add to the running "must read more than once" list in my head.

I was also sent to the office for "violating dress code." I had worn a half shirt to school, which was technically against the rules, but I was so short waisted that it reached past the waist of my jeans, even when I raised my arms. I wore it thinking they could not complain of a half shirt if it pretty much made a full shirt on me. I was not sent to the office because it was a half shirt. I was sent because of what it said and because of the image on it. It had a pregnant cricket on it and the words said, "Katy did. Katy did, and look what happened to Katy!" Mr. Mullins informed me that my teacher found the shirt obscene. I argued that it was a public service announcement, no different than a shirt with Smokey the Bear on it saying, "Only you can prevent forest fires." I pointed out if my super religious parents did not mind it then it could hardly be obscene. He said he agreed with me, in theory, but requested that I not wear the shirt again since apparently not everyone would agree with either of us on that point. I sighed and began wearing the shirt only on weekends, school breaks, and after school. 

I was still close to many of the friends I'd had throughout my life. I hung out with Jutannia and Angie, who had been wonderful friends since third grade. Nancy was my near constant companion at school. We had a couple of classes together, shared a locker, and hung out before and after classes. I had lunch with Cindy and she and I would hang out on weekends and after school even more than Nancy and I did, though both of them lived very close to me. I even spent some time catching back up with Randal who had been my friend when I was six and he was four. We had been thick as thieves when my family was living in a trailer in the bottom next to his house and now we were chemistry partners and determined to stick together and survive a very strict but funny teacher named (no joke) Wise Deel. I still loved all these friends and they loved me, but the comradery my classmates from C.E.S. and I had shared was largely lost in the frantic hustle and bustle we now endured. I would sit by Stuart in one class, but we barely knew many of our classmates and they would monopolize the time and conversations to the point that I was never really able to ask him how things were going in his life. I would speak briefly to April in the hallway while all these disconcerting strangers jostled us up against our lockers. I was floundering. I was not loving the crowds and the chaos, and I felt like I was back at L.F.E. where life had been so hard, so uncivilized. Add to that the fact that every time I had a stomach bug or nearly passed out in gym class (which was almost every time they made me run anything longer than a "dash") rumors spread all over school that I was (GASP!) pregnant! I'd never even had sex, but I was apparently going to experience the world's next immaculate conception! And here I thought Christ was coming through the clouds when he returned!

Our football games were now infinitely more exciting since we knew all the guys on the team, and the entire school was pumped up to a vivid green and white frenzy, especially every Friday before a game. Nancy and I wore matching green jerseys (complete with our names on the back) to school every Friday and screamed ourselves hoarse in the pep rallies and at the games. We actually attempted to make the football team early in the school year, but the coach would not even let us tryout. Nancy and I begged for an opportunity to show him what we could do. We told him we had played touch football five days a week for the last three years and we were good! We admitted it had been touch, not tackle, football. We admitted we were small, and if anyone caught us they would throw us to the ground, but our point was that we were extremely hard to catch! We were not only fast we were squirmy, people did not often catch us. We also pointed out that he had some quick little guys on last years team that would fit the same description. He was unimpressed and pointed us and our vaginas in the direction of cheer leading tryouts. Though we were full of verbal support at the games, neither of us gave a fig about organized cheer leading, so we resigned ourselves to being spectators. 

As a plan B, I attempted to be an assistant for our marching band. The position was laughingly called "band aids". Mom went along with it for a while and then nixed that plan when I started going to away games. She was barely comfortable enough to allow me to go to the home games, she told me. I tried the chess club, but even though I could now walk home after school, she asked me to drop that club because it made her nervous when I did not come straight home after school, even though it was only one set day a week. Wasn't it enough that I was gone over 8 hours a day? Did I really have to make this harder on her? So, I quit chess club almost as quickly as I started it. I looked longingly at the debate club and the school newspaper, but both of those required an after school commitment now and then, so I did not even bring them up to my mother. I think if I had been allowed to try out and had made the football team I would have fought with my parents in order to participate. Even if I lost that battle, it would have paved the way for other girls to play.

I did get into some activities I should have avoided, though I was never caught and therefore never "in trouble". (When my kids were teens I took a much more approving approach, hoping that constructive events might keep them out of trouble. As far as I can tell, it worked beautifully.) My grades reflected all the resentment I felt about the classes that disinterested me, the teachers that did not seem to care, the humiliation and downright pain of P.E., the crowds full of hurried and harried strangers, not being allowed to even try out for the football team, and being yanked out of band and chess club. I channeled all my frustration into, once again, not giving a rat's butt about my grades. I was completely oblivious to the fact that the only people I was hurting were me and any future progeny that might have to live off of food stamps when I was between minimum wage jobs. 

Jutannia and I would hide in the bathrooms and smoke while we complained about school, parents, life in general. I spent several math periods sitting on an overturned bucket in the pitch black darkness of the warm boiler room, surrounded by the scent of coal and staring at the soothing, red tips of other classmate's cigarettes. I sat and envied those bright tips. They were burning away at their own slow rate, uncaring about the jaded math teacher I was avoiding and the numbers that honestly gave me headaches. Luckily, I didn't actually LIKE smoking, though I liked watching others smoke, so I did not inhale. Still, the motion of the cigarette to the mouth, the bright, red tip glowing intensely when I dragged the smoke carefully into my mouth, the feeling of rebellion, the comradery of people that were as lost as I was, the quite voices in the dark, and the fact that time seemed as far away as math class -- all this seemed to console me and all those at the other ends of those red tips peppered around the room. "Misery," I thought, "Surely does love company." 

Scott, one of the guys I sat in the boiler room with, was the very same fellow I'd assaulted on the school bus a few years earlier when he had repeatedly pulled my niece Tanya's hair. He tugged me onto his lap one afternoon when there were no overturned buckets left for me to use as a makeshift chair. He had forgiven the fact that I had pulled him nearly bald just as soon as he realized I would sit in the pitch black and smoke cigarettes with him. I perched tensely on his leg and waited for a reason to slug him! When he did not give me one, I forgave him for needing to be pulled bald. He'd grown up some, I hoped. Even though his eyes, by the light of a cigarette lighter, showed an interest and his words were sometimes coy, he never tried to take an advantage with me. I appreciated that more than words could have expressed, and thus the boiler room and Scott's quiet voice became a balm in the hectic days of school life. But that was as far as it went. Had he asked me out I would have said yes, but I had no intentions of falling in love or lust in the boiler room!

I made a new friend, several grades above me, named Dreama. She had a love of fine things that was so extreme that she felt compelled to have those things even is she had to snitch them. I laid out of classes with her one day and for the first time I stole something other than food. Store security was not very good in that day and age and in our small town, so I easily walked out of a store with three pair of pants and four shirts on under my coat. My fountain drink had more jewelry in it than Coke, and I had make up and miscellaneous brick-a-brack crammed in all my pockets. Dreama had about the same amount of loot on her person. While we removed all the packaging and tags in the bathroom back at school, Dreama said, "If your parents notice anything new just tell them you're borrowing that from me and then if they ask again later just tell them that I said you could keep it because I have two, and I'll tell my parents I borrowed my stuff from you." Dreama and I wore the same size pants and we had often switched clothes at school for no good reason, so the story would not raise many eyebrows. I did not shoplift many times though, before my cousins, Barb and Ramona, put me in my place and ended those days for ever. 

As the year grew colder I spent more time skipping school and less time attending classes. I abhorred 8th grade! I would slip over to the motel that was next door to CHS and go into one of their unlocked rooms and hang out in blissful solitude. If you timed it just right, you could enter a room the maid had already cleaned but had not locked back up yet. Then you could sit there for the re-runs of Love Boat and Fantasy Island and even watch most of The Price is Right before she started rattling back down the rows of rooms and locking all the doors. When I heard her coming, I would switch off the T.V., hide behind the shower curtain in the bathroom until she locked my room up, then I would turn the T.V. back on, volume low, and spend the rest of the day spread out on the top of the bed instead of listening to my math teacher drone on and the P.E. coach tell everyone what a loser I was. When I left the room in the afternoon to head home, I would be sure to straighten the bed and lock the door behind me, so that no one would grow suspicious and start locking the rooms constantly. By that method, I got by with the same trick again and again. 

Late in the year, my cousin Wesley said he could get me a job if I quit school and I hated it so much I went to my dad and told him I wanted to quit. He went to the school board and told the superintendent, right in front of me, that I needed to be allowed to quit as I was mentally slow and school had never been my thing anyway. The superintendent signed the papers for me to quit and suddenly I was free from that rat race, but the job did not pan out. And my Pop calling me slow haunted me for years. I wondered: Do slow people know they are slow? Is there something wrong with me and I don't even know it? 

While not attending school, I met Greg, my future husband, and dated him for over a year before decided to enroll in classes again. I did this for two very selfish reasons: I wanted to learn more about cooking (so he and I would not starve when we moved out on our own) and I wanted to be with him more. He had told me once that he had more doubts about our relationship when he was at school all alone and missing me. So, it was mostly a very un-cool and un-healthy insecurity that drove me back to CHS. Still, I did learn to cook well, and I made some good friends that year. And I got my Cozy and my Liam out of the association that I continued with Greg, so it's one of those mistakes I'd make all over again on purpose. I can't imagine life (and don't want to!) without my sons!

I went to see Mr. Mullins again, only this time on my own terms. I told him I'd like to come back to school, and I assured him I would make decent grades this time, but that I was not coming back unless they would bend a rule for me and allow me to attend vocational school. Vo-Tech was officially only offered to kids in the 10th grade or higher. I watched as he pulled the strings necessary to get me into food service, and Bob's your uncle - I was an 8th grader again. Mr. Mullins rocked! 

The only kids I really got to know from CHS, the second time I took 8th grade, were twins called Tammy and Pam. Their sister, Teresa had been in my original 8th grade class (two years prior) and had been part of my close knit group from C.E.S., so I was already slightly fond of them before taking History class with them. 

I did not become the victim of so much drama this time around. I think that was probably because I was a respectable "taken" girlfriend now, thus I was less of a threat to the females. Also, I mostly hung out with Greg, even on the bus to vocational school, so it's possible I just missed hearing the rumors. Often on the bus to Vo-Tech, just like on the regular bus rides to and from school, a few rowdy boys would get out of hand and start threatening to "hair" someone. Sometimes they would follow through with those threats and really would hair someone. This was a barbaric and gruesome bullying method in which they pulled out other kids pubic hair. Although, I was threatened with this several times, I was never haired. The athlete type of guys thought the practice was funny. I was so firmly against the idea that I gave death threats in response to threats of being haired, but it was probably not the death threats that stopped them. Probably what saved me was my assurance that I would tell not only the bus driver, but the teachers, Mr. Smith (the principal) Mr. Mullins (the assistant principal) the school superintendent, my over protective daddy, my church pastor, any of my attacker's parents, and the local newspaper about the attack. Usually I was not a "nark" or a "tattle tale" but I made it clear that everyone would pay, and pay as much as possible, no matter how much I had to sing, if they ever laid one finger on my crotch! My threats kept them at bay for myself and a few fortunate others that I took under my wing including (once) Greg. I am amazed and gratified when I talk to kids about that practice these days and they react in shock and disgust. Bullying still exists, for sure, but they might have been even better at it in my day.

At the vocational technical school, I made a new and very good friend named Sherry Neece and also hung out sometimes with a sweet girl named Sonya Wolford. Years later, Sonya married a guy I'd had a miserable year-long crush on in my third year of the 5th grade, Mike S. My teacher in Food Service was a wonderful lady named Mrs. Moore. She taught and she cared. I learned a lot about cooking and some about life from her. She gave me the best marital advice: "Don't marry him to change him because if he changes at all it's more likely to be for the worse than for the better." 

We had a regional food service contest and I made a dessert cart that featured my favorite flavor, chocolate. I walked away with a blue ribbon, a rosette for Best in Class, and even the trophy for Best in Show! I suppose the only one more surprised than me was the judge we brought with us. (Each area contributed a judge.) She said something like, "Honey, I watched that cake fall apart on you this morning and I'd never felt sorrier for anyone in my life! But you didn't let it slow you down, let alone stop you. And look where you ended up! Good for you!" While I am rather tenacious, I have to admit that the kudos belonged to my teacher that time. The chocolate cake had gotten slippery. The layers were sliding off, and the first piece I cut ended up in the floor. I looked at Mrs. Moore for a cue. "Is it time to panic?" my eyes clearly asked her. "Clean it up, cut another small slice to display, and grab some long toothpicks to stabilize those shifting layers!" Not time to panic, time to act! So, I fixed it as best I could and walked away with Best in Show. As a winner, I was supposed to represent my area in the state contest, but I told Greg, "Mother will never let me go. She has only allowed me to stay away from home one night, and she threw a fit about that. Besides, that weekend is your Senior prom!" 

He shook his head. "I didn't enjoy my Junior prom all that much, and besides, you won this! If you don't go then no one will represent our region in that category! No.You gotta go!"

He had a conversation with my mom about how he was willing to miss his Senior prom in order to allow me to have this opportunity and, to my great surprise, she caved and let me to go to Richmond VA for the state contest. The trip was exciting and fun. I only received second place at state, but Mrs. Moore said the winner for my category had broken several rules that should have disqualified her entry. She said, "In my opinion, you're the blue ribbon winner at state too." I smiled because, by that point, that lovely lady's opinion was way more important to me than some lousy ribbon!

In my second year of 8th grade, I took home honor roll grades several times, and proudly showed them to my sister (who greatly cared) before getting my parents (who largely did not see the importance of grades) to sign the report cards. I had an over all good time with school that year too, though I truly missed the friends that had gone on to higher grades without me. But that spring I turned 18, and a month later I married the man that would give me Cozy and Liam, my sons. When school started back that fall I heard through the grapevine that rumor had it I was pregnant and HAD to get married. When no baby showed up, the rumors turned from a quiet, "I hear she's pregnant," to a whispered, "I think she had an abortion," though I most certainly did not. When Cozy (Cory) was born, almost three years later, I was thrilled! I did go on to get many college credits and I never stopped learning, but that was the end of the good and the bad of my pseudo high school years.  

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.

BLOOD ON GUM

Artwork: "Blood on Gum"
By Skitch

THEN:


     In the summer just after I had turned 13, my pop had asked me to go to the Paylo Supermarket, right in front of our home, and get some crackers and milk. I loved wearing summer dresses and flip flops, and my flip flops would sometimes remind me of the items I was walking to the store to purchase. My shoes kept saying, "Crack-ers-and-milk," all the way to the store.
     Once I stepped inside the store my eyesight went dim. The bright light of the sun made the store's interior light seem almost nonexistent. I glanced at the store clerk and felt a certain disappointment that it was Norma. A couple of the girls at the store doted on me but she did not. These others sometimes gave me pieces of the individual candy we called "penny candy". They'd bothered to notice that I bought green apple bubble gum and chocolate Kits when I had a little change left after purchasing whatever my parents needed, and they would sometimes buy me a couple of pieces of candy out of their own pocket if I had not been given permission to spend the coins. Better yet, they talked to me like I was a human being that mattered. They looked me right in the eye, asked me about school or made me blush with talk of a boyfriend before I had ever found the courage to actually flirt with a boy. Norma was not mean to me, but she didn't meet my eyes much and when she did her wide eyed look always left me wondering what she was so surprised about or scared of. That fateful day, she looked me in the eye and I noticed nothing unusual. Two women were standing there, and I assumed they were just ringing up purchases or were friends of hers and had stopped by just to talk. I smiled a luke warm smile at Norma and walked on into the store. I noticed there was a ladder standing near her.
     I had not made it far up the back isle, where the milk was, when I heard a loud crack. It was so loud and so unusual that I stopped in my tracks. What on Earth was that? It sounded like a huge balloon had popped. Had Norma knocked the ladder over? Had she climbed it and fallen off? I started to go on, but my concern for her turned me around and I retraced my steps. When I rounded the isle, I could see one of the women covering her face and the other one looking satisfied. Unfortunately, my eyes were working just fine in the dim light now. As I neared the register I could see Norma lying in the floor behind it. Her eyes were open so wide, like they almost always were, and some red fluid was streaming from somewhere near her face. My confused brain told me it was kool aid, cherry kool aid in a see through plastic tube, but somewhere the tube must be broken off because the cherry kool aid was splasing all over the packages of gum. One of the women began pushing the other one, telling her she was going to be sick. That is when I saw the gun in the other woman's hand, and the smug look of satisfaction.
     I looked back at Norma, and now I could see that there was no plastic tube; there was no balloon,  and no fall from a ladder. I could see that Norma's eyes were opened in death, that the red fluid was blood streaming from a small hole under her eye. I could see that she had been shot. I knew that she had been murdered. I looked back at the women as the one pushed the other one through the door. I glanced at the gun again and it occurred to me to be afraid. I turned and ran toward the back of the store. Sometimes I went home by sneaking out the back of the store where they kept the stock, and today I headed for that door in a blind panic.
     Larry, the store's co-manager and co-owner stepped out of the butcher's room, or the storage area, or the office. I did not know which because I did not really see him until I had ran into him. I was obviously upset and he tried to soothe me. I would have none of it though. I needed my Daddy and my Mommy. I needed my home. I stepped back and shook my head. I tried to form the words to answer him when he kept asking me what was wrong. Finally, my brain brought the words, "It's Norma," to my lips, but they rejected the word dead even though I knew it to be true. I heard myself say, "She's hurt." He headed up toward the register and my brain told me. They went outside. He will be okay.
     I made it home to my parents and crying, told them what I had seen. Later that day, the town sheriff came up to get a statement from me. Pop sat him in a ladder back chair in the yard and brought me out to him. Daddy stayed right with me while the sheriff asked me questions in a calm and quiet voice. Yes, I saw the women. Yes, I saw that Norma had been shot. I told him of going back to find the gruesome sight and then running away. He told me that he had to get my statement but I would not need to testify. The women had both waited there on the police and were not claiming to be innocent. I was relieved.
     That night my insomnia was worse than it had ever been because every time I closed my eyes I saw Norma's open ones, staring at the ceiling they could never really see. I contemplated how easily you could stop being a human and how easily some people could insist on that. I wondered what would happen if the women changed their mind about telling the truth and going obligingly to jail. I wondered if they would come after me if they ever broke out of jail and decided to claim innocence. Could they claim their own confession was a result of some temporary insanity, get rid of the only real witness, and live free for the rest of their lives? I thought maybe they could.
     For at least five years I feared them and knew what I was afraid of, but the panic had somehow erased their faces from my memory and all I knew was that they were taller than me and had brown hair. So many people were taller than me and had brown hair. I thought the lady pursuing the books on the shelves in the library was really trying to catch me alone, the woman walking through my school to pick up her child was really the murderess looking for me, the new "sister" at church was planning my demise, the sick female in the doctor's waiting room was pretending to be sick and bidding her time until she caught me in the restroom or anywhere there would be no witnesses to the pistol that would come out of that legitimate looking purse.
     I carried fear with me everywhere I went, like a dark stone in my gut, but I breathed not one word of it to anyone. I had been properly trained to be, or at least act, tough. I did not want my dad to think I was being a weakling, so I kept my fear to myself.
     Once I was eighteen and moved out of the state, I thought I'd left that fear behind. By that time I had convinced myself that it was silly to think she or they would look me up and kill me after all these years. I had a better sense of how the justice system worked and did not think they could get by with crying foul after all these years. I thought all that "silliness" was behind me.
     Then, in my mid 20s, I started driving a taxi cab. We had moved back to my home town and I started driving for my sister's company. Mostly it was medical related trips that involved taking someone to the doctor or hospital, usually waiting for them while they kept their appointment, and then taking them home. I discovered I hated the waiting rooms. I would sit in the car, stand in the hallway, make a trip to the cafeteria or dally at the vending machines. Every time I went into the waiting room I would feel panicked. I had not really noticed when I took my sons to the doctor. Often I was too distraught with their situation to be upset with my own. Sometimes I took them out to the hallway crying "fresh air" and "germ avoidance". But now I realized it was more than that. I knew I had a hatred of waiting rooms. I just did not know why.
     I married my second husband when I was thirty-two. He noticed my aversion of waiting rooms and began to ask a lot of questions, questions I did not have good answers for. About a year into our marriage, he settled down beside me and asked me to cooperate with an idea he'd had. I agreed and he asked me one question after another about waiting rooms and fear. Several minutes in, I found myself saying with exasperation, "But what if they are there?" And suddenly I knew that I was still carrying that dark stone around with me, and just as suddenly I was no longer uncomfortable in waiting rooms. It was as if all my brain needed was to know what I was afraid of and then it could deal with that fear. Today, I can proudly say, I can wait with the best of them!