My Life on One Page

This was a great writing exercise! If you have to write your entire life up to the present moment on one page what would you choose?  This is what I came up with.

I was born in Alexandria Virginia at the George Washington Hospital--which no longer exists.  I like to muse that it had "served its purpose" (to bring me safely into this world.)  Then, no longer needed, it was transformed into something less useful--a government building.  During my infancy my mom worked at the Pentagon.  I sure wish I had asked her more about that when she was alive!

When I was four years old we lived in a house with a bright green roof.  I wanted to be Zorro.  He wore black and jumped off the roof onto his trusty horse, Tornado.  I lived in a bubble of protection and wore pink.

When I was in the fifth grade my teacher hit me in the head with a book.  My crimes? They were, in no particular order, living on the wrong side of Manor Street, helping a classmate who was struggling, and, in general being nice to her in spite of her mean disposition toward me.

In Junior High I entered the John F. Reynolds "Junior Miss"contest.  There were only three of us.  The one with the most talent didn't win.  The one who lived on the right side of Manor Street did. 

In High School I continued to love learning, became a majorette and learned quite a bit about racism. I also learned from my dad that I could do ANYTHING I set my mind to.  He was right :-)  I also fainted at a football game during one of our halftime performances.  My dad was the only person besides the band leader who noticed.

In college I still loved learning but learned a little late that I wasn't cut out to be a teacher.....so I majored in Psychology to figure out why.

As an adult I spent 25+ years working with disabled children and adults, trying to solve the mystery of why it was so hard for people to accept others "as they are."

I retired to spend my time as a storyteller, a Stephen minister, and a parent.

I now blog to to solve even bigger mysteries.

In Sixth Grade and Growing up Fast

Before we leave 5th grade I want to share one more memory.

Where were you when President Kennedy was assassinated?

The other memory seared in my mind from my fifth grade year was the assassination of President Kennedy.  The loudspeaker came on and we heard a radio report stating that the president had been shot.  No preparation, no reassurances to the kids, just the President had been shot.  We were excused from school and told to go home.  

 I’m thinking that today the school would have had grief counselors on site within hours.  Counselors provided, not because of the assassination but because of the complete absence of reassurances that we were still safe.  Maybe other teachers did this.  I don’t know.  I don’t even know if Mrs. W tried to reassure the smart side of the room.  I do know I left terrified about what this all meant and that there was no way I could seek comfort from Mrs. W. 

The real world was coming into focus and I didn’t understand what it all meant.  

 

Being a Zorro wannabe I was very familiar with injustice and senseless tragedy.  However, it occurred in 30-minute episodes and the good guy always prevailed.  Real life was different. 

Summer Trips to Washington D.C. 

In the summer between fifth and sixth grades my father started a tradition of taking me and a few of my friends on a trip to see the sights in Washington D.C.  Of course, my favorite part was stopping at the "Hot Shops" for lunch which, of course included the most delicious onion rings ever produced.

I believe the first of such trips included two of my cousins, Marty Lou and Kim.  Also invited along was Patti Jo one of my neighborhood buddies.  

We went to see all the sights.  One, of course being the Washington Monument.  This was back in the day when you could actually walk up the stairs to the top as opposed to taking the elevator.

It seems that it was my Dad's tradition to actually walk up AND down all those stairs to the top.  So I decided to walk with him. 

Now, my memory may be foggy, but I seem to remember that he and I walked up and down.  My cousins and friend did not, or, at least did not do the round trip.  So we took a before and after picture.  I'm pretty sure all those "exhausted" children laying on the lawn did not do the walking part both ways.  But it made for a good picture.

You can see my Dad's shadow in one of the pictures.  Our parents cast shadows in our memories that stay with us forever, don't they?

Thinking back, I am grateful that my Dad took the time to do this with us.  It was probably really hot and humid in D.C. during those trips, but he walked around with us all day.  He showed us the sights, let us put our feet in the Potomac (at least I assume that's what the picture of us is where we are all standing with our feet in the water. :-)  He took us out to eat and took pictures everywhere we went.  

He was one awesome Dad! 

Mr. R and the Fruit Roll Throw

Well, I progressed to sixth grade, self esteem relatively intact.  Mr. R was the sixth grade teacher.  I had only had women as teachers to this point so this was quite exciting.  However, Mr. R was not very skilled in classroom management and we walked all over him.

We were quite unruly too.  Yes, I said we.  I went along with most everything and never, ever really tried to re-direct the activity.  My peers’ approval was becoming definitely more important than adults.

There were three other girls in the class who lived near me, so we spent most of our time passing notes, giggling, and, in general, ignoring Mr. R.  One day I suppose he had had enough and he rearranged our desks and split us up.  I was saddened by this, until one of my friends announced that we should come back early after lunch because she had a plan.   

We met back in the classroom (Mr. R was still in that mysterious place called the Teacher’s Lounge) and proceeded to move our desks back together again.  I was sure we would get into deep trouble, but when he came back and saw what we did he just got a funny look on his face and ignored the whole thing. 

We all sat in the back of the classroom, which was great as far as I was concerned.  You see, we had this reading program stored back there with different reading levels.  So, I spent most of my time reading.  The only break from this was my group’s daily extracurricular activity-- swinging on the bars in the girl’s room.  One by one we would ask to go to the girl’s lav.  When we were all there we would jump off the toilets and swing on the bars.  We even hung there by our legs.  It was great!    

This, of course, was during a time when the stall structure in school lavatories consisted of round pipes....just like a jungle gym!  Today they are square with sharp edges.  Mr. R probably got into the construction business after his experience with us.

One day we were all hanging by our legs when the door flew open and Mr. R’s unmistakable voice yelled, “What’s going on in here!”  We were probably giggling loudly and complaining about Mr. R never really thinking that since the restroom was right across the hall from our classroom he would probably hear us.   

We were shocked!  A man opened the door to the girl’s bathroom!   Wasn’t that illegal or something!  We had all jumped down, except for one of my friends, so Mr. R said, “You with the red knee socks!  You are in trouble!”  He was so confident that he had hard evidence, however, he knew nothing about sixth grade couture rules.  If red knee socks were the color of choice EVERY girl wore red knee socks.  Well we paraded out, lined up and looked at Mr. R....all of us wearing red knee socks.  He got that look again and just told us to go back to class. 

At this point I really did start to feel bad for him.  I made some feeble attempts to guide us back to actually learning something, but to no avail.  The turning point for me was the day someone suggested we have a fruit roll for Mr. R.   

Back in the day schoolchildren would all bring a piece of fruit to school and, on cue, would roll the fruit up to the teacher.  It was supposed to communicate appreciation and even affection.  A fruit roll for Mr. R?  I was suspicious but thought perhaps someone decided we should be nice to him for a change.  When we got to school that day, the ringleader told us the real plan.  On cue, we would throw the fruit at Mr. R instead of rolling it.  Well, I went along with it.  I was hesitant, but what sixth grader wants to be ostracized? 

The tension in the air was electric.  We were all acting quite nice to Mr. R to, I suppose, lull him into a false sense of security.  On cue, we all stood up with our fruit of choice in our hands.  

 This moment in my memory plays in slow motion for me.  I looked up at Mr. R, who had seen the fruit and had actually started to smile.  In that moment I saw Mr. R for the first time.  He was a teacher trying to insert knowledge into our thick skulls.  His eyes spoke volumes.  He was finally being appreciated.  

 I started to smile too, when I realized that our plan was not what he expected.  I wanted to scream, “stop” but my mouth would not work.  In the next moment, with fruit flying past him and smashing onto the blackboard his expression changed to one of deep sadness. It looked mostly like anger, but I saw hurt too.  I was devastated.  What had I done?  I should have stopped it, or at least objected.  I stood there with the orange in my hand and slowly sat down.  Mr. R saw my orange and our eyes met.  

It didn’t matter that I had not thrown it at him.  I had intended to do so.  I became acutely aware of just how much we need to pay attention to the consequences of our actions.  While the other students laughed and cheered, I began to cry.  I had hurt someone and it would take a long time for me to forgive myself for doing so.

We were punished, but Mr. R never told anyone outside our classroom what had happened.  He was probably embarrassed.  I did, however, tell my mom what we had done.  She made me write an apology letter to Mr. R. 

I think it was the only one he got.

I think I also got punished at home, although, I cannot remember.  The punishment of having to remember the hurt in his eyes was more than enough for me.

One More Memory....The Hair Wars

 Mom thought "straight stringy hair" looked awful so she frequently made me get "perms."  I distinctly remember my last trip to "Maxine's Hair Salon."  The beautician was affectionately known as Maxie.  She also sang for the Sweet Adeline's which was like a female barbershop quartet.  I loved that kind of harmony!

Anyway, on this last trip my mom had PROMISED that I could get a "body wave" instead of a "curly perm."   Well, that was a ruse to get me there and get a.....you guessed it, a curly perm.  I was furious!!

I smiled for the picture...not after

And, as if that was not bad enough, Mom thought bangs that were more than 1/4 inch in length looked atrocious so she frequently talked me into letting her "trim" them.  I believe this picture is, in fact THE LAST TIME I let her and her scissors near my hair.  :-)

My sixth grade picture would be the last evidence that perm.  My hair and perm solution would not meet again for a long, long time.  You will notice the look in my mom's eyes saying "I think I need to trim them a bit more."

I denied her that privileged.

If you will also notice I had teeth that needed straightened.  Those front teeth were a source of much teasing from my peers.  So I got braces.....more on that later. 

Life at Lafayette Elementary

The World according to Mrs. W

I entered fifth grade at Lafayette Elementary School as Mifflin only went to fourth grade.  There were many more students, a bigger, school and many attitudes that were a mystery to me.  My fifth grade teacher seemed to take an immediate dislike to me.  I was not worried though.  Mrs. V had convinced me I was a great student and a great person.  Mrs. W would realize this eventually.

After a few months, though, I got worried.  Mrs. W regularly seemed to intentionally embarrass me.  I dismissed this idea immediately.  I believed no teacher would do such a thing.  I was probably being too sensitive.  I sat beside a little girl who never talked and struggled with everything.  I now realize that I was seated on the “stupid” side of the classroom.  It turns out that Miss V thought I was quite smart so she had insisted that I be placed in Mrs. W’s classroom.  Mrs. W did not agree for reasons you will hear later. 

I discovered that this girl loved to read too.  She and I would talk about books and stories we liked, including our favorite parts.  Pippi Longstocking was a definite favorite.  When it came time to do book reports, my friend panicked.  It seems that she knew what she wanted to say, but she could not get it down onto paper.  I immediately thought of a solution.  She would tell me what to write and I would write it for her.  It was a great plan!  I now know that my friend probably had a learning disability.  It would be my first experience with a person with a disability and it definitely would not be my last.

A few days later, Mrs. W came down our row of desks.  I was happy to see her as she spent very little time on our side of the room.  She stopped between our desks and asked my friend, “Who wrote this!?”  As she asked this question she waved the girl’s book report in her face.  My friend was obviously terrified so I piped up and said, “I did.” 

I was about to explain what had happened when Mrs. W picked up a textbook that was on my desk and hit me on the side of the head with it.  Textbooks are heavy!  It hurt and the pain was not just physical.  I looked up at her and saw such anger that I decided it was futile to explain.  Then another emotion took over.  I was quite sure that she was not allowed to hit kids in the head with textbooks so I became angry.  I calmly rose from my desk and headed for the cloakroom to get my jacket and my lunchbox, intending to leave school and go home.  She shrieked at me to get back to my seat but I kept going.  I arrived home shaken, angry and confused.  A small part of me still believed all she had to do was get to know me and everything would be fine.

When I told my mom, she got that look on her face and said she would take care of it. I stayed home the next day while she met with the Principal and Mrs. W.  When she came home she told me it was all worked out and that Mrs. W would never again hit or humiliate me.  I thought, “Wow, how did you do that?” but I just said thanks.

Mrs. W was never again rude to me, but it as clear she still did not like me.  However, I still had the confidence that Miss V had given me and I did not care.  I even thought about what she was missing by not getting to know me.  Ah, to return to the innocence of youth!

Years later I learned what had transpired in that meeting.  It turns out that most of the kids from Mifflin were from a less affluent part of town than most of the students.  We were known as the “Pearl Street kids.”  It was not a compliment. 

My mother told her that if she, or anyone else, referred to my friends or me as the Pearl Street kids again there would be more trouble than they ever dreamed of.  It was also stipulated that if Mrs. W ever again humiliated me or laid a hand on me she would be back and it would not be pleasant. 

My beautiful mom :-)

Way to go mom!  Zorro couldn’t have done it better himself!

And, by the way, it seems that the boy from the fourth grade Safety Patrol incident was a “Pearl Street kid” geographically speaking, but his family was full of sports stars that the high schools loved, so he was exempt. 

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. 

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!