tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19573351666339267402024-02-20T14:56:14.270-05:00Compos MentisThere's not much to it, life that is...especially mine. I wander around doing the things one needs to do in a day, thinking I'm "getting things done," when I'm merely abiding my time, attaching meaning to life's events so I can comfortably say, "it wasn't all for nothing." So I can feel as if there is a point to existence...that somebody, maybe even everybody, will remember me when I die...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15525179672187859534noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1957335166633926740.post-83371647628629192522011-12-03T12:29:00.001-05:002011-12-03T12:49:02.262-05:00Where's Waldo<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">As a small child I was so
proud of myself for accomplishing “developmental” milestones. By early
kindergarten, I knew how to tie my own shoes, read small books, and not only
wipe myself, but button and zip my own pants after using the toilet. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">T</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">his last one was a pretty
big feat as far as I was concerned. It meant that I was grown, a big girl. I
didn’t have to yell for the teacher after doing my business like some of my classmates
had to. It meant that I didn’t have to risk that oh-so-embarrassing, “oops, I
wet myself waiting for someone to undo my pants” moment.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Time passed, and I grew more
confident of my self-toileting skills. I knew how to use the bathroom and more
importantly, I knew when I had to use it. I could plan it; time it just right
so that I would never have an accident.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I was a big girl.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">Second grade was here before
I knew it. My arithmetic skills were improving, I was learning cursive—I was
learning the art of “spot the different kid.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">There was at least one in
every class, and spotting them was like playing “Where’s Waldo.” You’d look
around your classroom every day for the first few weeks of school to spot them.
To find that boy or girl who, although they looked somewhat normal, had an
amazingly bizarre habit that could not be ignored.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">These kids seemed oblivious
to the fact that their eccentricities were on display for the world to see.
Maybe they did know, and enjoyed the attention, the stares, whispers and
giggles. On the other hand maybe their desires were so great, so blissful that
they forgot the world existed, forgot that others were watching wide-eyed mouths
gaping.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">There were two “Waldos” in
my class this year, both girls. They were very similar in appearance. Both had
brown hair always looking in need of a good washing and combing. In addition, they
both had an odor that made you wonder if they often urinated on themselves and
never really cleaned up afterwards.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The one’s habit seemed to
revolve around ingesting items which were of crunchy, yet still slimy consistency,
like boogers, or Elmer’s Glue. The booger thing I get, many kids eat their
boogers. The glue thing left me a little puzzled.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I’ve seen many children eat
paste, and it was as if it was an automatic response to the presence of this gritty
white substance. They’d sit there shoveling it in while adhering cotton balls
to a paper plate in attempts to recreate the beauty of a sheep’s face. Almost
like eating the paste was just a part of life for these children. Not my Waldo.
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">She would sit, blocking out
the entire world, methodically squirting the glue onto the lid of her
pencil/art supplies box. She would start by making a border around the entire
thing, and then fill it in, slowly, carefully.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I would be watching this,
thinking to myself, “Why is she doing that? Is she going to eat it again? Does
she think it tastes good?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">She would leave her case
open, letting the glue air dry all morning. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I’d glance over periodically
wondering, “Is she going to eat it yet? How does she know when it’s ready?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Come early afternoon, dinner
would be served. She’d start peeling away at the slightly coagulated white
feast she had prepared earlier that morning. Peeling slowly, taking her time to
get a decently sized piece on which to dine.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Gross.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The other Waldo was way more
curious.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">She had a love, a tragic
attraction to the corners of hard objects. The corner of desks, her chair,
bathroom sinks. It didn’t matter what the material was, if it was hard, she
wanted it. She would sit and writhe on the corner of her chair, rub her private
area on the corner of her desk or the sink in the bathroom. It didn’t matter
who was around, who was looking she did it, almost compulsively.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Once, she was standing at
Mrs. Stewart’s desk grinding and rubbing up against the corner of it—while the
teacher was sitting at it! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">It went on for what seemed
like an eternity before Mrs. Stewart finally noticed her and said, “Stop it, go
sit down!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“How embarrassing,” I thought,
“the teacher caught you and pointed it out in front of the entire class!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Mrs. Stewart, my teacher,
had to have been in her mid-forties to mid-fifties—which seemed ancient to me
at that time. She was a short woman with stereotypical mid-eighties big hair (big
ALL over and super curly/teased looking), and large framed glasses which
covered the area of her face just above her eyebrows down past her cheekbones. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The glasses anyone born in
the eighties has spent many years laughing and commenting on when seen in
photos of friends and loved ones. The same glasses which are for some reason
popular again and these same people who snickered now think they are super cool
when these ginormous frames are perched atop their own nose?!?!?!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Anyway, Mrs. Stewart was a
great teacher. She was informative, she would joke around with us from time to
time, and she’d put us in our places if need be. She seemed like a knowledgeable
and fair woman…</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Until she crushed my
innocent spirit, and embarrassed me in front of all of my classmates.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">We had certain times
designated for bathroom breaks this year. It would be announced that such time
had come, and we’d line up, boys on one side, girls on the other and travel across
the hall to the multi-stall bathrooms. We’d use the bathrooms, make a mess with
water, splashing and smacking while washing our hands like elephants bathing in
the Serengeti.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One day, I didn’t have to
use the restroom, so I spent my time grazing at the drinking fountain. Lapping up
the clear tasteless flow of deliciousness as if I’d spent the last forty years
wander through the Sinai wilderness— <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Bad idea.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">We returned to our classroom
and our seats to continue the day’s lesson. I was learning. I was staring at
the Waldo’s of the second grade when it hit me.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Oh nooooo!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I shouldn’t have drunk all
of that water. I should have tried to use the restroom even though I didn’t
feel the urge to expel the contents of my bladder at the time. I am going to
get into trouble if I ask to use the restroom now. There is no way, I thought,
the teacher will let me go. I have to wait, have to hold it until lunch. I can
do it.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I sat there squirming in my
chair, writhing like Waldo upon the corner of the plastic seat trying to form a
barrier through which the urine could not pass. It worked—for a few minutes.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Before I knew it, a warm
sensation was growing between my legs, spilling onto the floor in an amber
colored puddle. I couldn’t stop it. Once the action was put into motion it had
to continue until its end, until every last drop had been expelled.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I hung my head in defeat.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Within minutes I heard my
name, “Jamie?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I ignored it.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“Jamie?” I heard once again.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I had to acknowledge her. I
looked up at the teacher, thinking maybe she just wanted to ask me what ten
minus three was. Thinking maybe neither she, nor anyone else in the class had
noticed yet. I could make it until lunch time. I would just grab paper towels
after recess and clean up the mess. Done. Nobody had to know but me!!!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">False hope.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The teacher, insensitive to
the look of complete shame in my innocent, big blue eyes said, “Jamie, will you
come up here please?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Please God, don’t do this to
me.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I began the walk of shame
towards her. Walking past the desks of my classmates, inner aspect of my jeans
a darker shade from my crotch down to my shoes, I kept my head low. Maybe they
wouldn’t notice who I was. Maybe they were all too busy eating glue, or crayons
or cutting their hair with safety scissors to notice that somebody was up and
moving.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Maybe, if only my sneakers
hadn’t been squeaking, as if announcing to the world, “Look at me. I’m indoors
where it hasn’t been raining, which must mean I’ve been resting in a golden pond
of humiliation. Look at me!!!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I reached the spot where she
stood and looked up at her. She said quietly, as if her volume made a
difference, “Turn around.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Turn around!?!?!? Why would I
want to turn around? If I turned around I could no longer fool myself into believing
that nobody noticed. If I turned around, I would be exposed to the stares and
gaping mouths of my peers. The same peers who giggle and smirk at the Waldos
with me, peers who tease the Waldos for having pee-pee-pants.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">She repeated, a little
louder this time, “Turn around.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I spun slowly towards the
crowd of awestruck faces, head slung low, glancing up expecting to see a few
snickering faces, fighting back the tears, wondering what had I done, again, to
deserve this…</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Her hand gently patted my
rear-end while she said softly, “Go down to the nurses office.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">My nose was practically
scraping the floor at this point, as I noisily walked towards the door.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The nurse’s office was in
the library and was more of a cubical, open to the viewing, judging eyes of the
world. I sat there atop an orange plastic chair lined with brown paper towels
while the nurse tried reaching my mother. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">“Yes,” I thought, “she didn’t
answer. Now she’ll have to call grandma, and grandma won’t be mad.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">She reached my grandmother,
who never having learned to drive sent my Aunt Marsha to pick me up.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">At my grandmothers, I was
treated as if nothing had happened. I was given lunch, and cookies, and love, as
if I was still the perfect little girl I was earlier that morning. It was nice.
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I was playing in the living
room when I heard her speaking on the phone. I heard her say the words, “had an
accident” and instantly knew to whom she was talking. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I ran into her bedroom, and
quietly pick up the receiver to spy in on their conversation. I heard my mother’s
voice say, “Really?” sigh, “I’ll be right over.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Oh no. Is she going to be
mad? Will I be in trouble? I’ve never done this before. What happens to a little
girl who knows better than to wet herself?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">My mom was there within
minutes. I walked out to the car, glancing back at my grandma hoping it wouldn’t
be the last time I would see her.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The three minute ride home
was in silence. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">We pulled into the driveway,
my mom looked at me and said, “When you get into the house, go straight to the
bathroom and take a shower.” </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">There were no reassuring
comments like, “Oh honey I love you,” or “It’s ok, it happens to everybody at
least once.” There was nothing to make me feel like I hadn’t become a disgrace
to the family, the talk-of-the-town.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I walked into the house, and
as instructed went directly to the bathroom, hoping the shower could wash away
the stench of dishonor streaking my legs. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I came out, wrapped in a
towel, expecting to put on play clothes, and spend the rest of the day
recovering from my ordeal.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Not even close. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">My mother had my favorite
dress sitting out. A white cotton dress with small red velvet hearts freckling
it, which came paired with a small red velvet vest. It had spaghetti straps,
and the bottom was three ruffled tiers. I loved it. I felt so special and pretty
when I wore this dress. Maybe my mother just wanted me to feel good about
myself. Maybe she wanted to help me to forget, to cope with, the events of the
day. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Awww.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">As usual I was wrong. My
mother had me put on my special dress, white bobby socks and black dress shoes.
She put my hair into a ponytail and affixed a pretty red bow at its base—and informed
I was going back to school.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">WHAT?!?!?!?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Why would I want to go back
there? Why would I want to step foot into the classroom where it all happened?
The odor probably hadn’t even had time to dissipate, let alone the dampness of
the tile to dry.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Didn’t she understand that I
was a Waldo now, and that meant I’d spend a lifetime being laughed at and
whispered about? I didn’t want to return to the same school, let alone the same
classroom! Couldn’t I just switch schools? Why did she always insist on
torturing me, as if she had taken a vow to ruin my life?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">She dropped me off; it was
recess. I walked slowly across the lot towards my friends playing on the jungle-gym.
I feared what they had to say. I feared that they’d laugh and point fingers. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Almost to them, they called
out, “Jamie, come play!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">What!?!? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Did I hear them right? They
were happy to see me. They called me over to join them. They didn’t hate me!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">I ran over towards them,
smiling in disbelief, and started playing. One of them turned to me and said, “You
changed your clothes. It’s a pretty dress.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">They didn’t even notice!
Nobody did. Nobody cared. Nobody laughed or joked. It was like it never happened.
As if a girl changing her clothes from jeans to a dress midday was the norm.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The rest of the day happened
as every other had. No laughing no snickering. I didn’t get my lifetime membership
card to the “Where’s Waldo Club.” </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Even when I got home, my
mother didn’t mention it. She didn’t tell my father nor brother. She kept my
secret. She did love me! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Phew.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">That day, I learned that
although you should never pee your pants, you get one free pass. You get one
chance to have an accident, and not be ridiculed or tortured for the rest of
your life. I had used my get-outta-jail-free card, and swore that I’d never find
out what happened if you did it twice.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15525179672187859534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1957335166633926740.post-85734624947314314192011-11-27T09:49:00.001-05:002012-01-29T14:49:01.379-05:00Skeleton secrets...<br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: #cccccc; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’d
previously had a very long and poorly written post about the presence of ghosts
(spirits, demons, whatever you want to refer to them as) in my childhood home…it
was horrible. This one will not be better constructed grammatically, but should be a little less boring and rushed. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Take
two.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">As a
child, I was awakened at least a couple times a week by this
creature, this thing with green glowing eyes envious of the apparent innocence of
my small frame. Long bony fingers ataxically creeping up the foot of my bed,
growing ever more near to my being.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cries,
bellowing cries heard by none, not even me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fear had paralyzed my legs, arms, vocal
chords, but not my awareness. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I would
lay there, frightened, praising God, pleading with God. I would lay there
trying to move, trying to control my breathing—trying to gain control.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t
just cloaked by night’s slumber that my “friends” came out to play. They came
whenever. They hung out as glowing heads in the shower. They presented as tall
sad persons looking for hugs, looking for someone to help them. As old women
confused by the new equipment in their kitchen, and angry fathers beating
their children in the basement’s corners. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wasn’t
the only one to see them. School friends were exposed (some would never return
to my home again), as well as my mother and her friend.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">...and my home
wasn’t the only one on the block.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">My next
door neighbor and I were frightened of our homes as children. We would be at
one's home, hear noises, thumps, moans, screams. We would see shadows moving in
unusual ways. We’d run, screaming to the other’s home--no solace was to be
found. It was as if the terror of our homes were connected. We’d end up stuck
standing in the middle of the street which separated our homes, frozen by
panic, hockey sticks and butcher knives in hand.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">There
was a room in her basement which had been boarded up as long as she could remember.
Neither her older siblings, nor mother knew what was within or why it was
“closed.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My basement had a hallway which
ended with oversized concrete steps leading outdoors, and was separated from
the rest of the basement by a thick, heavy steel door which opened with an initial
thud followed by the typical creaking door noise heard in horror films. Inside
the hallway were two rooms. One, long and very narrow, was lined with shelves, and
assumingly used for storing jars of canned items of some sort. The other can be
described no other way than a single prison cell. A cell which had the barred
door and the bars from the window removed. It was cold, with a very low, maybe
6 foot ceiling, with concrete walls and floor. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
creep factor of these homes, of this period of my life cannot be explained to,
understood nor appreciated by many. We couldn’t accept it as a product of our
imaginations, like many adults wanted us to believe. We created our own
explanation.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">My home,
sat on property owned initially by a gentleman with the last name of Lambert,
who was a physician at the time (this is true as far as we know). There was a cemetery
only 5 houses down which gave us a good picture of the death rates in the neighborhood,
and the house across the street from hers was inhabited by the ghost of a young
woman who had hung herself from the stairwell—and this is where the story
began.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">Dr.
Lambert was having an affair with the young woman across the street. Sometime after its conception, he was asked to abandon his wife to live happily with his young mistress. He declined her pleas, and shortly thereafter, she hung herself
from the stairwell of her parents’ home. Upon finding her swinging, pale body,
they called for “the doctor”. He rushed over, cut the body of his lover down
from the beam of death, but could not manage to revive her. He was crushed;
brain was flooded by grief, by what-ifs, by guilt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">He
snapped.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">My
home, his at the time, was where his practice was for the most part. It was
where he mixed the medicines, tonics and potions of the early twentieth
century. It was where he helped, cured, healed. After her death, it, the
basement mostly, became his chamber of torture, of revenge. Angry with his
world, his god, his cowardice, he declared to dedicate his life to finding human
weakness.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">The
room we felt was a prison cell was used for such. Straw on the floor, patients
were kept. Weeping, screaming, pleading, confessing, they were kept until he
operated on them. He thought he was helping them. He truly believed that he
could change, better their lives by finding the source of their weakness, their
pain, suffering and removing it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">He
was never successful. He had a room of body parts, and organs in jars of
varying sized lining the shelves of his canning room, yet none of them
contained what he hoped it would. None of the patients’ lives were improved—they
were simply lost.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">His
madness grew. His hunger, his desire to cure mankind consumed him. He ran out
of space in his own place to store the bodies, the caverns of human
ailments, and struck up an agreement with the man next door (my neighbor’s
house). His home was the community ice house (this is fact), and for a
considerable fee, a fee only a physician could possibly afford at that time, he
rented an entire room to Dr. Lambert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This one single room would be used to store his experiments, experiments
the Icemaker was initially unaware of.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">Dr.
Lambert became increasingly reclusive, and lost within his own world. Deaths
were mounting in the area, and people were beginning to question their physician’s
competency. </span></span></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">Come early fall, he transported another unsuccessful experiment to his
special room at the Icemaker’s, and, as he had done so many times before,
locked the door and affixed a board to its exterior. </span></span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">Within
a few hours the Icemaker heard movements beneath him, heard subtle moans.
Investigation led him to the door rented for years by the doctor. He leaned in,
pressing his ear tightly to it. His mind had not deceived him; he had indeed
heard movements and moans. Without thought he broke into the room, the room filled
with a madman’s refuse. Bodies, mutilated and dismembered, were stacked atop
one another, and were piled to the ceiling in some spots. The ice normally
frosted and pure looking was painted with the remains of Dr. Lambert’s
inflicted terror and pain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">Townspeople
were called for in the night. The story was told, was heard. They gathered
their torches, their shovels axes and sickles and marched through the street
towards his residence. Busting into the home, his wife and children huddled
together in fear as they hollered for him, yelled threats and obscenities. They
found him in the upstairs bathroom, rope tightly bound about his neck, hanging,
swaying from the beams in the ceiling.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">This was
our explanation, the only one that helped us to comprehend, to make sense of
the oddities that consumed our nights, and fueled our fears. It became a part
of our reality—and remains so.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15525179672187859534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1957335166633926740.post-74276612710159358242011-10-29T12:08:00.001-04:002011-10-29T15:25:33.310-04:00and everybody dies.<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I recall being about seven-years-old, lying sick on the couch, longing for the tender touch of my loving mother to help ease the discomfort of my currently congested and febrile state, when she entered the room, and sat next to me.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #cccccc;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">“Yes,” I thought, “she’s going to baby me, comfort me!” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">WRONG!!!!!!!</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">She sat next to my small, sickly frame, looked at me oh so lovingly and said, “You know everybody dies right?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">What!?!?!? What was she saying to me? What were these words? Was I dying? I thought it was just a cold. An excuse to stay home from school, eat soup, watch cartoons and be babied. What was this she was talking about? Death? I didn’t even like the sound of the word!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">My look of uncertainty about and fear of the topic must have been mistaken for a look of, “ooh, tell me more…” for she continued. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">She expressed again, that everybody I loved would die someday, and that once they did, I would not be able to see them any longer. I recall asking her how long it would be until I could “see” them again--bad idea. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Instead of realizing that she needed to dumb this down a little, word it in such a way as to not arouse a sense of terror in her youngest child, she proceeded with her lesson in as frank a manner as she started.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">She further explained to sick, seven and now scared me that when people die, they are gone for good. Reiterated that once everyone I love (her, my father, my grandmothers, my brother) dies, I will never be able to see them, talk with them, nor hug them again; NEVER! Oh, and she didn’t stop there! She made certain that I understood my own mortality. She in no way allowed me to have the false belief that I was immune to this thing, this fate she termed “death.” I was made to understand that I too, like everybody I knew, and would someday know, would cease to be, would cease to love and be loved.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I forgot that I was sick, that I was home from school, lying around, watching cartoons. I only knew that while others were laughing with peers, and playing at recess, my world was crashing down around me. I didn’t want to be sick. I didn’t want to be having this conversation with my mother. I didn’t want to be laying there, my eyes wide, pupils dilated with fear.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Weak from illness, and feeling trapped by my mother’s presence, I mustered the courage to ask her "when". When would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></i>everybody, <em>my</em> family, <em>my</em> world die. When!?!? </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Without forethought (again), she informed me that she couldn’t tell me. That nobody knew for certain when their life would be over. That it could happen tonight, tomorrow, next year, or even seventy years from now. That uncertainty was why I needed to know about it right then, why she wanted to prepare me for the loss of my loved ones at such a young age. She wanted to be certain that I understood this so I “wouldn’t be surprised or sad when it happened.” Her father, whom died when she was sixteen, prepared her for his death, and instructed her not to be sad, nor to cry when it happened; she wanted to do the same for me, and expected the same from me that he did her.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><em><span style="color: #cccccc;">Really!!!!</span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Boldly telling your child, ill at the time, and only seven, that everyone in the world, everyone in their egocentric little world, including them, would die someday doesn’t seem like a good way to prepare them for life’s atrocities! Springing this on someone so young—nothing good could possibly come of it, nothing.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I voiced my understanding of life, more so of death, with the hope of bringing it to an end more quickly. I figured the more questions I asked, the more confused I looked, the longer she’d torture me with her words, with her facts of life!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">It worked, she stopped talking. I promised her, as she requested I do, that I wouldn’t cry when she died. She leaned in, kissed my forehead, and wandered into the kitchen to make me soup. Tomato soup, which I hated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">To her it was no big deal; it was as if nothing had happened, nothing significant. For me? Ha! It was the beginning of “the end”…for everyone I loved.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">That night, and nearly every night after for the next year or two, I would fall asleep thinking of a loved one dying. I would lie there nightly imagining the death of a certain loved one, and cry. I would be sobbing, face first into my pillow, or stuffed animal of the week, snot running everywhere. I would imagine the death of one person at a time. Each night I would cry less and less for this person, and when I couldn’t cry for them anymore, I’d move on—it was someone else’s turn to die.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Within a year or two, I felt confident in my ability to deal with the deaths of everyone I knew in a “mature” and “adult” manner. I was certain that I would be able to keep my promise to my mother, that I wouldn’t cry for the loss of her. In addition I made certain that I wouldn’t cry for anybody. I told myself that I’d be strong and well prepared for the death of everybody I love; I believed it—until the fall of 2009.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15525179672187859534noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1957335166633926740.post-47348536509273831992011-10-29T11:12:00.001-04:002011-10-29T14:13:11.216-04:00Everybody bleeds...<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">When I was young, very young, my mother taught me all of life’s hard lessons. She held nothing back. Sugar coated noting, worded nothing in age appropriate terms. She simply presented me with these lessons, and left me to decipher them, to deal with them as I so wished.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was tough.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In fifth grade, my elementary school decided to hold an assembly for every child in my grade regarding the “differences” between the sexes. I can’t be certain why they did such, nor what they hoped to accomplish, but they did it (I’m sure parents today would have a fit over such a meeting, fearing that it would plant the seed of promiscuity in their little ten-year-olds). I think they even went so far as to bring a presenter in from outside of the school to host this!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I recall sitting on the floor in the gymnasium with one-hundred other small children while this man projected anatomical drawings of the female and male sex organs onto the wall. Information about females starting their menses was provided. Material about the growth of body hair, development of breasts, deep voices and body odor signaling the onset of puberty, in both males and females, was being thrown at us.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The snickering and whispering were non-stop.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Sitting around me were other small children, some of whom were making assumptive comments about peeing after sex to avoid pregnancy, and if you have sex while the girl is on her period, pregnancy will not occur. I, having been taught the lesson of the “birds and the bees” <strong>years</strong> earlier by my mother, had to kindly inform them that all of this was nonsense. That regardless the acts during and after sexual intercourse, if penetration occurs after a girl has become “fertile,” pregnancy is always a possibility—they just stared at me for a moment before continuing with their banter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Three years later, I was the only girl I knew who didn’t freak out when I started my period. I knew what it was. I knew that the three, yes three underarm hairs that had sprouted, and fuzz that formed “down below” the summer before were sure signs of the monthly crimson tide to come. I started my menses, began using my mother’s sanitary napkins (without needed instructions), and went about my business. It was nearly a year later when my mother finally took note of her more quickly dwindling supply of feminine hygiene products and asked me if “it” had happened. “It had,” I told her, “about a year ago.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">She was up in arms. Asking me why I hadn’t told her. I simply reminded her that she told me years ago what it was, and that it would eventually happen to me; that it was only natural. She just looked at me, and started to say, “You know what this means right. You know that now…” I interrupted her by saying, “That if I have sex with a boy I can get pregnant, I know. I don’t plan on having sex.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"> I still don’t know how to explain the expression on her face. I don’t know if it was a look of, “Oh my god, my little girl is growing up,” or an expression of, “Damn, I taught this girl well!” Regardless her thoughts, it was what it was. I went about my business, fertile and free...she went about hers, calling my aunts and anyone else she knew to tell them the news, old news.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"> <span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">In addition to teaching me about female fertility, puberty and reproduction, my mother taught me about life…more so the finality of it; the lack of human immortality. I handled the bird’s and the bee’s lesson very well. Absorbed the facts and went about my day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next lesson was not as easy of a pill to swallow—it’s still stuck in my throat today…</span></span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15525179672187859534noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1957335166633926740.post-28153497067576492592011-10-16T15:48:00.003-04:002011-10-29T11:30:07.995-04:00Misadventures of an Innocent Mouth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: #999999;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My family was not wealthy when I was very young. My father worked at a local pizza joint, while trying to get his drywall business up and running, and my mother was a stay at home mom. We lived in a rented home in rural Lambertville, Michigan, which was of adequate size. It had four bedrooms, one full bath, a utility room, a large living room and an eat in kitchen. Inside we lived together, happily, my parents, twenty at my birth, my maternal grandmother, diagnosed with schizophrenia twenty years earlier, my older brother, a dog named Bandit, a cat named Samantha, and myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The home had dingy carpeting which clearly showed the paths most frequently taken, cheap tile, and worn out wood floors. I don’t remember the walls having any color, nor artwork (other than a wooden and brass piece with the Lord’s Prayer written on it), hung upon them. Our furniture looked dated, and was most likely hand-me-downs from my father’s older siblings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a rather modest existence, but I knew nothing else.</span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My paternal grandmother lived two doors down, so family was always close by—most importantly my best friend and cousin Crystal, and her brother Adam. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crystal was a couple of months older than me, and Adam was a few months older, I think, than Carl, my brother. We were very close, the four of us. They often visited our grandmother, thus making our times together quite frequent. One visit, I have never been able to forget, even though I have wished to. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I should have recognized, at the wise age of four, that it was going to be a bad day, or at least an unpleasantly unforgettable one, when I hurriedly grabbed the cup off of the kitchen table and held it to my lips…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was upstairs playing alone in my bedroom, when my mother yelled up to me, “Crystal and Adam are at your grandma’s!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I couldn’t stop what I was doing fast enough. I quickly threw on some clothes, well as quickly, and with as much grace as a four year old can, and flew down the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon stepping foot at the bottom, I saw my mom standing in front of the sink, behind her on the kitchen table was my favorite cup. It was an orange, plastic cup with a yellow smiling sun on it which read, “Smile, Jesus loves you!” It was a gift from my bible school teacher, and was all I ever drank from. It was my everything. The only cup worthy of me, a child of God!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ran towards the cup, noticed the deep bluish-purple hue inside and thought how great it was that my mother had prepared Kool-Aid for me. I grabbed the cup with my tiny little hands, brought it to my lips, and began gulping<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it down as if I had never drunk before—and then the taste hit me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gasp!!!!!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What was this awful flavor of Kool-Aid? What had my mother done to me? What had I done to displease her so? Was she really trying to kill me?!?!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I started spitting, choking and coughing. My mother turned to me. Seeing the half-empty cup on the table, and the iridescent bubbles falling from my mouth with every cry and exhalation, her face dropped—as if she knew I thought she was trying to kill me. She grabbed me a glass of water and tried explaining to me that my cup, the cup of God’s child, had only moments earlier been filled, by her, with the cheap laundry detergent of a lower-middleclass family. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn’t understand. I cried, and wailed until the bubble blowing stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She dried my tears, wiped away my snot, and out the door I ran, knowing that I had just narrowly escaped death.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This would <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i></b> be the only vile, evil thing my lips touched that fateful day…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">The majority of the day was spent playing outdoors. I’m sure it was the usual running back-and-forth between my home and our grandmother’s, playing tag, and red-light-green-light. We probably stopped to eat the mulberries which had fallen from the tree behind the driveway. I’m sure we laid in the grass picking, and eating patches of tiny yellow flowers that had an amazingly sweet and sour taste, as we had so many times before. I had forgotten about the horrors of the morning, and was just living in a carefree way, a way one can only do when a child. Life was good. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By early-afternoon, we had ventured into the home to play with toys inside of the imaginary worlds we created for them. Up in our bedroom, twin beds separated by an old nightstand placed beneath a small window, we sat; the boys on Carl’s bed, Crystal and me on mine. The summer sun was shining in, landing upon the two six year-old boys across from me when I recall my older brother saying, “…You kiss his, and Crystal will kiss mine.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">As it did earlier that day, my mind started racing. Thoughts of bad things happening to me if grown-ups found out that I did this flooded my head. I knew it was bad, but I don’t how. Maybe I could tell by the boys’ body language and the nervousness in their voices…maybe I knew because I had tasted evil earlier that morning. Evil veiled by the sun-shining, smiling face, and our Lord’s words. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I knew I shouldn’t, but the, “Oh, come on, it’s what people do,” type comments got to me. I caved in to peer pressure. Caved in, and sinned. He pulled his "private" out, it was small, the size of my little finger today. I slid off of my bed and leaned forward towards it, thinking “Please God, forgive me,” and then I placed my pursed lips upon it for a millisecond or less.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sigh!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did it. It was done, now it was Crystals turn! I would not be venturing to Hell and back alone today. Right then, my mother, the woman who tried ending my short life only hours earlier, hollered up to all of us, “Kids, it’s time to eat!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adam’s pants were pulled up, and the three of them hopped off of the beds, ran out of the room and towards the steps before I even realized what had just happened.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stood there alone for a moment, and thought, “Oh God, I am sorry. Just don’t let my parents find out.” I then started the walk of shame towards the stairway, the stairway from which I could hear the clanking of dishes and chatter of small children. Small children who didn’t seem to realized, much less care, that I, their beloved cousin, sister had nearly died, not once, but twice, before lunchtime.</span> </span></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15525179672187859534noreply@blogger.com1