Truth or Consequences

I absolutely could not effectively tell my mom a lie.  I don’t know if it was her piercing gaze when she asked me about something or the stuff I was learning at Covenant Evangelical United Brethren Church but I could never pull it off.    “I don’t know” was no longer an accepted response either. (NOTE: I’ve since become aware of that “lie-detector invisible ray” that most parents seem to have.)

One day I was tagging along with my older brother (who wanted me to be anywhere but with him).  We were at a neighbor’s house swimming in their wading pool.  All at once, I became aware that the other kids were screaming, yelling, and getting out of the pool.  They ran off and escaped down the alley behind our houses.  I was not aware of what they were reacting to because I was younger AND because I had tuned them out because they were accusing me of having cooties in order to get rid of me. I was good at tuning things out and learned later in life where this skill came from…but more on that later.

Not wanting to be alone I got out of the pool to follow the other kids.  It was at this point that I noticed the mom of the household at the back door screaming something at me.  I actually thought she was yelling at the other kids for something, but I didn’t stick around to find out. 

Later that evening this same crazed woman came to our door and demanded to talk to my mom.  I was called downstairs some minutes later.  My mom told me that Mrs. Crazy had just accused me of calling her a “bitch.”  I was in first grade!  I didn’t even know what that meant!  I rather had a feeling it wasn’t good, but I did not know exactly why.  Therefore, I looked at Mrs. Crazy and then at my mother and said that I had not called her any name. 

Mrs. Crazy went even crazier and began calling me a little liar and some other things that made my mom’s blood boil. I could tell because my mom had “that look” on her face. Then my mom looked at me with pleading eyes that said, “Just apologize and get this woman out of here.”  Nevertheless, my true self would not tell this convenient lie.  I said that I was sorry that Mrs. Crazy was so upset but to admit to calling her that name would indeed be a lie and I could not do that. She started to walk toward me screaming what I later identified as obscenities.

 It was then that somewhere in my young mind a connection was made.  This woman’s children were mean to other kids.  This woman’s children did not seem to like being around this woman.  In fact, they seemed scared of her.  They frequently had bruises and a few times broken bones.  I did not put these pieces into a meaningful context until years later, but I knew that I would need to tell the lie because someone was going to get hurt if I didn’t.  I have no idea how I “knew” this, but I did.  My mom would be disappointed and I would probably be punished, but I wasn’t going to let something worse happen. 

I voiced the apology the best I could and Mrs. Crazy left telling my mom to get control of her kids.  I braced myself for the punishment but to my surprise, my mom hugged me.  I looked up and saw tears in her eyes.  I told her I was sorry and she hugged me tighter.  She told me to go back to playing and left me, bewildered, on the stairs. 

After some time I realized she knew I had lied.  Of course, she knew.  I could never lie to her.  She knew what I had done but she never talked with me about it again.  Child abuse was not something even adults talked about back then I suppose.  I have to tell you though, after that day I became even more thankful that I had a loving mom, dad, aunts, uncles, and grandparents…even if I could not tell you exactly why. 

Wow, This Growing Up Stuff is Hard!

If you can’t see what it is, it’s something scary or gross!

My clothing options being dictated by my mother sometimes included a “protective” component.  The pajamas with feet were one example of this.  I hated pajamas with feet!  I had to put my feet in there with no visual confirmation that there was nothing objectionable there.  My mother wanted me to stay warm if I kicked the covers off.  I always thought, hey, if I kick the covers off maybe I’m too warm!  Nevertheless, despite my feeble objections my mother continued to make me wear them.  Being educated by Zorro in the art of keeping secrets, I devised a survival plan.  After my mom would leave, I would take my pajamas off, put them under the covers way at the bottom of my bed and sleep like a baby.  Then in the morning, I would slip them back on and my mom wouldn’t know a thing. It was a great plan. 

Well, it was a great plan until the night my mom changed her mind and decided to let me stay up later than usual to watch I Love Lucy.  She came back into my room and gave me the great news.   I had the covers pulled way up to my neck so she tried to pull them down for me.  I resisted and while gazing off into the distance said I didn’t want to stay up late.  She didn’t believe me so she pulled off the covers anyway.  She let out a gasp and asked me where my pajamas were.  I said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie!

She pulled the covers down the rest of the way and there were the pajamas.  I started to cry and told her that I hated those pajamas!  There were “things” in the feet that bothered me.  She asked me why I hadn’t just told her I didn’t like them.  My five-year-old brain did a review of my memories and was sure that I had told her, but I knew there was no point in arguing.  Besides, she seemed open to banning the hated garments from my life so I just said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie.  So I got to see I Love Lucy and I got new pajamas. 

The fear of unseen things extended to swimming in bodies of water, which were not crystal clear.  If you couldn’t see what was touching you it had to be scary or gross or both!  No amount of coaxing worked.  Even if I was hot and wanted to cool down like everyone else there was no way I was going to risk being touched by unknown things.  My dad kept trying to convince me there was nothing to be afraid of.  I tried to tell him that Zorro wasn’t afraid; Zorro just knew that there were some situations that were to be avoided but he kept trying. To this day, I do not swim in oceans, lakes, streams, or ponds.  In short, if it’s close to nature I’m not going in.  My motto is, “I don’t get back to nature; I get back to the Hotel!” 

 The Evolution of Fears

As years went by and I got older, my mother shared with me her love of science fiction, mystery shows and horror movies.  We watched Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy, and more.  I loved them!  Being a storyteller now, I’ve come to understand what attraction this holds for people, especially children (once they have that what’s real and what’s not thing figured out.)  Watching a movie, reading a story, or hearing a scary story in a safe environment gives you a sense of control and even victory over fear. 

However, if you are listening to the sounds of the movie from your bedroom it can be terrifying.  I remember the first time I “heard” The Day the Earth Stood Still.”  I wasn’t allowed to stay up to watch the movie with my family, for reasons I do not know.  I was in my bed listening to this eerie and dramatic music so I did what I normally did, I started imagining what was happening.  My imagination went wild and I couldn’t sleep well for weeks afterwards! 

The same thing happened some years later while I was “listening” to an episode of the “Outer Limits.”  In this episode, this little girl had disappeared through the wall into another dimension and couldn’t get back.  She could hear her mother calling but she couldn’t see her.  That was good for quite a few nightmares!  Had I been in the living room snuggled up with my mom I believe I would have been able to conquer the fear by seeing what was actually happening as well as my mother’s reaction to it. 

After all, if you can’t see it….

We deal with those childhood fears and then replace them with grown up fears.  “What’s the worst that can happen?” changes from a monster showing up at your house (or being under your bed) into different kinds of “what-if’s.  Take, for instance, the Twilight Zone episode about the guy who loves to read.  Just like me!  He loves to read, but never gets the time to do so.  He wears these thick glasses and has a boss and family that will not let him spend time doing what he loves. One day a terrible disaster occurs and he is the only one left alive on Earth.  He is at the library at the time of the disaster. When he realizes he now has an infinite amount of time to read he rejoices.  He jumps for joy, his glasses fall off and in searching for them he crushes them.  I still get shivers when I think about that.  I spent a lot of time reading as I grew up and found not being able to read a terrifying thought.  It could really happen.   

Dracula and Frankenstein did not really exist but terrible misfortune and injustice did. 

Zorro and the Monster Under the Bed

The chest of drawers lay at the bottom of my bed.  The sound it made when it met the floor was terrifying.  I was hiding under the covers pretending to be asleep while my mother’s frantic voice an footsteps got closer and closer to my room…….

When I was 5 years old, I wanted to be Zorro.  I did not want to be LIKE Zorro.  I did not want to be Zorro’s girlfriend.  I wanted to BE Zorro. 

To understand just how remote this possibility was you will have to know about my mother.  My mother was extremely over-protective.  If they had made bubbles to protect kids from any type of danger or injury I am sure I would have been in one….provided, of course that it came in pink.  I was usually dressed in very girly clothes.  That did not bother me; with the one possible exception being those petticoats that made your dress stand out at 90-degree angles!  They were brutal, especially when you had to sit on a hard pew in church AND sit still. 

What did bother me was that almost everything was pink.  You can get tired of a color after a while you know.  Besides, pink came to represent that over-protective- you-can’t- climb -on -anything-you’ll-break- your- neck world I was living in.

We lived in a house in East Berlin, the one in Pennsylvania, not Germany.  I love seeing people’s faces when I say that.  Living, as a child in a communist country would definitely be a point of interest, would it not?  Anyway, the house we lived in had a bright green roof.  I still wonder why anyone would do that.  But, hey, it wasn’t pink so it was fine with me. 

In our back yard was a really cool circle of pine trees.  You know the ones.  They had branches every six inches or so.  Just like a ladder!  Of course I was told not to climb them.  This did not sit well with me so one day I decided to climb to the top of one of the trees.  The view was spectacular!  I was having a great time…until my mom decided to come out to check on me.  She stood in the circle of trees calling my name; getting louder with each unanswered call.  I looked down at her and just knew I couldn’t answer.  She was freaking out!  The more frightened she sounded, the further away the ground got.  I felt like I was in a rocket taking off into space.  If she stood there any longer, I wouldn’t be able to climb back down.  So, when she gave up and ran inside I quickly climbed back down and headed to the back door.  A hysterical looking woman, who also looked a lot like my mom, met me at the door.  This woman shouted, “Where have you been?”  I said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie. 

Well, she figured out what I had done.  Was it the pine needles on my pedal pushers?  I was ordered in no uncertain terms to never leave the ground again.  She made sure by dressing me in these cute little sun dresses in the summer months.  No way was I going to climb a tree and let someone see my underwear!  During the winter months she dressed me in so many layers of clothes that my arms stuck out at 90-degree angles.  I couldn’t do anything dressed like that, except of course, serve as a target for my brother’s snowball throwing practice.

The TV shows I watched were Liberace, Romper Room, I Love Lucy, and, of course Zorro.  I loved watching anyone play a piano and Liberace was really good so this show was okay with me. 

Romper Room was this show that was sort of like being in Kindergarten and having the teacher talk to you through the TV instead of actually being in school.  I’ll tell you, though; Miss Francis was one boring person!  The only part of the show that was remotely interesting was the end.  At the end Miss Francis would hold up her “magic mirror.”  This mirror was not REALLY a mirror.  It was the frame of a hand mirror with the glass removed so you could still see Miss Francis’ face when she held it up.  She would then look right through the TV and into children’s living rooms and say, “I see Sophie, I see Linda, I see Mike, I see Paul”….and so on.  As a five year old I am still working on that “what’s real and what’s not” development thing so I believed she could see right into our living room. 

Jeff and me at Coney Island

Day after day I waited for her to say my name.  Day after day she came up with more and more obscure names so as to not leave anyone out.  Karen is not an uncommon name.  Do you think she EVER said, “I see Karen?”  She did not!  I got closer and closer to the TV.  Maybe she couldn’t see me way back there on the sofa.  One day I actually grabbed the sides of the TV and shouted, “I’m here!  Why can’t you see me?”  She never did.  What a hoax!  Fooling little kids like that should have been against the law!  I continued to tolerate Miss Francis because the show I really wanted to see was the one on later in the day.  Zorro! 

There were three main reasons I wanted to be Zorro.  The first was that he dressed all in black; the most un-pink color in the crayon box!  He wore a black silk shirt, a black cape, black pants, black boots, a black mask, and a black hat.  How cool!  

The second reason I wanted to be him was his very cool sword.  What are the chances my mom would get me one, I wondered.  I never even asked.  If I couldn’t climb on anything higher than my bed it was doubtful she would give me a sharp implement. 

The third and main reason I wanted to be Zorro had to do with his trusty horse, Tornado.  This horse was his transportation to locations where the bad guys were terrorizing innocent people.  The best part was actually how he got on his horse.  He did not just climb on the horse the way everyone else did.  He would stand on a wall or the roof of a hacienda, whistle for his horse and then leap from great heights and land right on his horse.  They would then go to the rescue of the poor and downtrodden. 

I wanted to BE Zorro!

I had a great imagination so I could pretend the clothes and the sword, but leaping onto my horse involved climbing and jumping, two activities forbidden me.  So, I devised ways around this.  The first great idea I had was to get on our swing set, swing as high as I could, then jump off the swing into the air and land securely on my horse (which in my case was the grass.)  I had never actually done this for obvious reasons, but I had seen my brother do it.  It looked easy. 

So, one day I mounted my swing, pushed myself as high as I could go and gracefully slid off the seat of the swing.  However, I failed to let go of the chains on which the swing was suspended, so all I did was get my sneakers dirty as my feet dragged through the dust until I slowed down.  It turns out that my five-year-old hands had been listening to my mother and in swinging position they were in close proximity to my neck; the one my mom was always telling me I was going to break! 

Not to be discouraged from my quest I tried again.  I was swinging higher than I had ever been before.  I decided then and there I had to do it before my mother’s influence on my hands could reach other strategic parts of my person.  I again gracefully slid from the seat and this time I let go of the chains.  It was glorious!  As I sailed through the air I looked toward my feet to look for my horse.  I looked at my little pink Keds.  My little pink Keds that were not heading down toward my horse, but straight out in the direction of the house and those famous pine trees! 

Before I could do any sort of course correction I landed, WHOMP, flat on my back.  As I was nearing the ground I must have started to scream because after my landing the scream kept going with no effort on my part.  As the scream ended I tried to inhale and realized that….I was dead!  I couldn’t breathe!  I must be dead!  So, I got up and hurried toward the house to tell my mom I was dead.  Boy, was she going to be mad at me!  Halfway to the back door I suddenly inhaled and decided I was not dead after all.  I also decided that I’d have to find another way to mount my horse.

That same day, as I laid in my close- to- the- floor bed for my nap, I realized that at the foot of my bed was my chest of drawers.  I quickly formulated a foolproof plan.  I would climb on my chest of drawers and leap onto my bed (aka my horse.)  It was brilliant!  So from that day on I would tie my pink blanket around my neck as a cape, climb up onto my chest of drawers (aka) my hacienda) and leap onto my horse three times before I settled in for my nap.  Why could I leap only three times?  It was because I only had three names.  I had only three names, unlike my childhood friend who was Catholic.  She was Martha Anne Mary Katherine Grace Spinoza.  Wow, what I could have accomplished with that many names!  Anyway, on my first leap I would hear my mom say, “Karen, settle down!”  On my second leap I would hear, “Karen Jean I said settle down!”  On my third leap I would hear, “Karen Jean Hurst, I do not want to come up there!”  Did your mom or dad ever say that to you?  Did you, like me, want to say,” Then don’t?” 

So, things went on like this for some time until one day I got all three names on my SECOND leap.  I was being robbed of my third leap!  I would have none of this!  I was Zorro and I knew how injustice was to be handled!  So, I quickly got up on my hacienda (aka my chest of drawers) and leaped again.  However, I was not on the correct portion of my hacienda.  I was too close to the edge.  I leapt, landed on my horse, and then heard the loudest crash I had ever heard.  I had caused my hacienda to fall over! 

As I listened to my mom running up the stairs I decided to do the only thing I could; I got under the covers and pretended to be asleep.  When my mom burst through the door and shouted, “What happened?”  I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and said, “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

Well, she figured it out pretty quickly.  Was it the pink blanket still tied around my neck like a cape?  Probably!  My chest of drawers was immediately moved to the other side of my room and that ended my leaping activities.

Jeff & me with Santa (I wasn't afraid of him :-)

As she left my room that day I remember thinking, “What is she so afraid of?”  A leap of little distance onto a soft bed did not seem to me something to be afraid of.  I knew what you really had to be afraid of.  I knew because my brother told me.  What you really had to be afraid of was the monster under the bed!  He told me all about it, including what would happen if any portion of any one of my appendages were to leave the bed.  Dangling your arm or leg over the side could result in the loss of a limb….or at minimum the loss of a few fingers or toes.  Most kids think there’s a monster under their bed at one time or another, but in my case there WAS a monster under my bed.  I heard it every night. 

This experience is the reason I love Bill Harley’s story, “Alicia and the Little Monster.”  Alicia had a monster under her bed too! 

A few years ago, I learned something about my mom that really helped me understand her fears.  She had a little brother who died after a terrible freak accident.  He fell while his brothers were getting him out of his crib and died.  So, she lived with the fears that awful things can happen at any time and decided to decrease the odds that it would happen to me.  The only problem with this is that we cannot totally protect our children from the bad things that might happen.  If we try to deprive them of these experiences we deprive them of experiences that will help build their confidence….and make great stories when they grow up!

So, I overcame my fears.  I had to.  If I had not, I would have never gone white water rafting (and, boy, is that a story!!)  I would have never participated in gymnastics.  I would never have worked with and helped children and adults who, at any given time, could cause serious bodily injury.  In other words, I would not have lived the life I was supposed to.

All of these experiences therefore lead me to be the mom who, upon learning that her first-born was to travel to Europe, said, “That’s great!”  This trip was during a time that had threats of  unrest in the parts of the world where he would be.  He knew I was scared.  He’s like me….he can read people very well.  When I realized he knew I was scared I told him, “Yeah, I’m worried, but that’s what mom’s do.  You cannot live your life being afraid because if you do, you won’t live your life.  Go, have fun and take lots of pictures.  I’m proud of you!”

Thanks Zorro, for giving me the courage to live my life!

Storytelling Sunday: Speaking My Life

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“My life story is the story of everyone I’ve ever met.”

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Johnathan Saffran Foer

Orson Scott Card, author of the Ender series, presented a concept which appeals to me.  That is the concept of a “Speaker for the Dead.”  He tells us in the introduction to this book:

This concept arose from experiences with death and funerals.  I grew dissatisfied with the way we use our funerals to revise the life of the dead, to give the dead a story so different from their actual life that, in effect, we kill them all over again….erase them, edit them, make them into a person much easier to live with than the person who actually lived. 

I rejected that idea…more appropriate funeral would be to say, honestly, what the person was and what that person did.  Honesty does not mean saying all the unpleasant things instead of only the nice ones; does not mean averaging them out….To understand who a person really was, what his/her life really meant, the Speaker for the dead would have to explain their self-story—what they meant to do, what they actually did, what they regretted, what they rejoiced in.  That’s the story we never can know and yet it is the only story worth telling.

Therefore, I’ve decided to speak my life to you so that you can hear the self story.  I’ve decided to share all of those things in an order that makes the most sense to me.  I decided it had to be organized in a specific way.  In one of the books I most enjoyed reading, Tipperary by Frank Delaney, one of the characters arranges a series of letters into chronological order.  When teased about her aversion to disorder she replies:

It is not so much about disorder….it is the fact of the disorder preventing an interesting and instructive human experience from being recorded.

While it may be presumptuous of me to assume my self-story is, interesting and instructive I believe that if you are reading this you must in some fashion think it is worth knowing.

Finally, as a storyteller I am acutely aware that a story is the result of the teller, or writer in this case, and the listener, or reader working together to make the story truly worthwhile.  Therefore, come with me on a journey that I hope will be of use to both of us.  I recently found the concept of "Storytelling Sunday" that I thought would be a great way to motivate myself to write the stories I've been wanting to share.  What a great idea!  

See you next Sunday!

Happy New Year!

I set up this blog some time ago but had not decided what I would use it for.  I now have a purpose!  Storytelling Sunday!  What a great idea.

Stories to come....

Please check out the posts listed to the left for Storytelling Sunday entries.  Hope you enjoy them!

You can read more at From High in the Sky