I don’t have a lot of fond childhood memories of my family. Friends, sure. School, yes. Summer time, definitely. Just not many warm, fuzzy, feel-good family memories. My parents weren’t warm, fuzzy, feel-good people. It wasn’t an awful childhood, but it left a lot to be desired.
The occasional happy childhood memory makes me smile. It also makes me sad. I wish there had been more of those good memories, more positive moments to hang on to when being an adult feels like too much work. Unfortunately, the bad overshadows the good most of the time. But, you grow up and you move on and you don’t worry about it too much. It is what it is. I envy people whose memories of childhood are filled with love and comfort. That’s a wonderful thing, the kind of security that comes from getting a good start in the world.
I was thinking today about how we used to go to my grandmother’s house for Sunday dinner. That was not a warm, fuzzy, feel-good experience. More like peace talks between enemy nations that always ended in a shaky stand-off until the next Sunday. The trip to grandma’s set the tone for the evening-- my brother and me in the back seat, fighting; my parents in the front seat, fighting. Pretty family picture.
On the way home, though, it was different. Dark, quiet, miles of highway and nothing to do but curl up and go to sleep. I can remember pulling into our driveway some Sunday nights and faking being asleep so I wouldn’t have to get out and walk. More often than not, I’d get a nudge and a terse order to get in the house and go to bed if I was so tired. But once in awhile, my pretend sleeping was convincing enough that I was left alone and my father carried me in the house.
It’s really not much of a memory-- my father opening the car door and shifting my not-so-sleeping body into his arms and carrying me to my bedroom. Hardly something I should remember with such joy. But it was nice, those few moments between the car and my bed when I didn’t have to do anything for myself. Nice not having to worry about putting one foot in front of the other. Nice to be carried, though I was capable of walking. Nice to be taken care of.
I guess I’m thinking about that memory because I’ve been feeling so rundown the past few days and I wouldn’t mind letting someone else take care of me. It would be nice to be carried, just for a little while. (I mean that figuratively, of course. I wouldn’t want anyone to throw their back out.)
Sometimes being sick is a temporary break from the world, a time to be alone and slow down and recharge. And sometimes it’s just a reminder that I’m an adult and I have to take care of myself.
There are days when I write here with the knowledge that other people are reading. So, I strive to write something interesting or informative or just funny. There are days when I need to rant about something and I know I have an audience-- at least a small audience-- who will appreciate my rants. There are days when I simply need to write and my creative efforts here will eventually be spun into something else, somewhere else.
Then there are days when I’m writing entirely for myself, which is today. So, for the sake of sparing everyone else my ramblings, I’m putting my thoughts down below. It really isn’t of any interest to anyone but me, so feel free to skip over to some other more entertaining web page today. You won’t be missing much.
There are worse things than insomnia, but right now I can’t think of many.
Maybe I’m afraid I’ll have another dream about my stupid tadpoles growing legs and escaping their little habitat (I’ve had that dream twice now). Seriously, does anyone know what happens if tadpoles don’t turn into frogs? Do they just stay tadpoles forever? It’s been four months, I think they’re defective. Must write Uncle Milton in the morning. When and if they finally do morph into real frogs I’ll have to feed them live crickets, which is kind of gross. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they stayed like they are now-- two ugly little fish swimming around. I should have asked for a hamster for my birthday. Nah… the squeaking of the hamster wheel would keep me awake all night. Oh, wait… I’m already awake.
I want a hamster.
This is a story about another boy I once knew, but this is a different kind of story. This is a story about Fred. I lost track of him three or four years ago, but he has a habit of reappearing in my life when I least expect it. It always surprises me when I get a letter, phone call or e-mail out of the blue that says, “This is your old friend Fred.” I’m thinking about Fred today and hoping, where ever he is, his life is good.
I was a senior in high school and Fred was a junior when we met while working at a grocery store (my bakery job). Fred was smart and funny and cute and we became friends even though we traveled in different circles (he was, after all, a junior). Fred lived with his grandmother in a not-so-great part of town. He would lecture me not to stop at the stop signs and to keep going if I heard gunshots whenever I drove him home.
Fred was very popular and had a million friends, but for some reason he would talk to me about things he couldn’t talk about to anyone else. Sometimes we would drive to Pompano Beach after work, sit on the beach and talk for hours. He had family problems that were far worse than my family problems and I felt helpless to do anything but listen to him and be sympathetic. He had plans and goals and dreams and, thankfully, a grandmother to keep him in line.
One night Fred asked if we could drive to the beach because he had girl problems and needed to talk. We parked where we usually parked and walked parallel to the beach toward the stoplight where we needed to cross. It was a week night so there weren’t many cars on the strip, but that didn’t seem like a bad thing at the time. I noticed a big truck with a rebel flag on the antennae coming toward us. Nothing unusual really, just some redneck boys out for a drive.
The truck slowed as it passed us on the opposite side of the road. The guys in the truck were watching us and the driver yelled something I couldn’t hear. Whatever it was sounded hostile and that made me a little nervous. I hung on to Fred’s arm, feeling a little better I was with a guy rather than one of my girlfriends. The truck made a U-turn at the light and came up very slowly behind us on our side of the street. I glanced over my shoulder to see how close they were and Fred tensed up.
I suddenly realized I wasn’t the target of their attention. It was Fred they were watching and when I could finally hear what they were yelling, I was afraid for him. You see, Fred is black. And Fred was with a white girl and those two jerks had a problem with that. Fred looked at me, looked at the truck that was now right next to us and kept walking. I jumped when they gunned the engine and took off down the street. All I could say was, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” over and over again. I was still holding on to Fred’s arm and I had started to cry. Fred shrugged it off and started telling me his girlfriend troubles.
When I think of Fred, I think of the sweet, funny guy who maybe had a crush on me (because I definitely had a crush on him) and how he made me feel special. And I think of that night on Pompano Beach when I was slapped in the face with the reality of racism. It was one of the worst experiences of my life and what scares me even now is how much worse it could have been. I wanted to drag those boys out of that truck and beat the crap out of them, but all I could do was say, “I’m sorry.” Up until that night, I thought racism was something horrible from my parents’ generation. Up until that night, I thought racism was a dying thing on it’s way to becoming extinct. Up until that night, I hadn’t ever considered the consequences of walking on the beach with a friend.
There are people who think Martin Luther King doesn’t deserve his own holiday. They complain about Washington and Lincoln’s birthdays being compressed into one ubiquitous President’s Day when King’s birthday became a holiday. Still, I think our founding fathers would approve of celebrating Martin Luther King’s birthday because what King stood for, believed in and hoped for the future deserves a holiday. More than that, my friend Fred deserves for it to be a reality.
Things I Wish I’d Known in Seventh Grade:
1. There is no such thing as a “permanent record.”
2. Algebra will never, ever be useful.
3. Sometimes the popular boys are also the scary boys.
When I was in middle school there was a program that allowed honor students to spend one class period as an office assistant or teacher’s assistant. In sixth and eighth grade, I was a teacher’s assistant to my two favorite teachers. In seventh grade, I was an office assistant. Basically what that meant was I (along with two other girls) answered phones and took messages while the office staff was at lunch. We also made photocopies and typed letters. Mostly we just goofed off and gossiped about who liked who. It seems odd to me now that they let three seventh grade girls run the office for an hour. I guess the benefits of having free labor outweighed the possibility that we would burn the place down.
One afternoon, a boy I knew was in the office. I don’t remember why he was there, but he was popular and I remember being excited when he said he was going to hang out with us. Even then, I knew he didn’t have the best reputation. There were rumors about him, nothing specific, but always the suggestion that he was trouble. A little wild. To three seventh grade girls, that was exciting.
I had to make a bunch of photocopies and the photocopier was out of paper, so I went into the supply room off the main office to get more paper. I was fumbling around, trying to find the right sized paper when I realized I wasn’t alone. He’d followed me into the supply room and was standing very close to me. I wasn’t excited, I was uncomfortable.
He told me he liked me, but there was something about the way he said it, the blank look on his face, that made my stomach flip-flop. I remember trying to laugh and feeling like my throat was closing up. I tried to get past him, but he pressed me up against the metal shelf and kissed me. I remember the corner of the shelf digging into my back as I tried to put some distance between us. The way he pressed against me was something I wouldn’t understand until I was in high school. I was scared, but to this day I don’t know why I didn’t yell for help. I turned my head away, but there was nowhere for me to go. This boy was big for his age and would go on to be the first freshman on the varsity wrestling team in high school. Even in seventh grade he had to be close to two hundred pounds and was several inches taller than me. There was no where for me to go.
Thankfully, one of the other girls came looking for us and he let me go. I never told her, nor anyone else, about what had happened. Partly because I didn’t entirely understand what had happened and partly because I felt somehow responsible. He’d told me he liked me-- that was my fault, right?
I was always very careful after that to keep my distance. Whenever he was nearby, I’d make sure there were other people around, and I always kept my eye on the door. He quickly lost interest in me and moved on to other girls who seemed to like the attention and didn’t notice the strange look in his eyes, a look I now know as predatory. By tenth grade the rumors about him had become more specific-- he would get girls drunk and make them do things. The term “date rape” didn’t exist in the mid-80s, but they didn’t call it rape, either. The attitude was that if you were dumb enough to go off alone with him, you got what you deserved.
He wasn’t the only boy with a rep. There were others. Boys who were cute and charming and popular with parents. Boys who were predators. I don’t remember anyone ever being arrested for rape or assault, but I know it happened. The stairwells were always crowded on Monday mornings as we talked about who did what with whom in whose backseat. Most of the time, the escapades were mutual. But once in awhile, a girl would talk about a boy who hadn’t stopped when she said stop, who hadn’t let her go. These boys used coercion ("If you love me, you’ll let me” or simply, “Don’t be a tease"), they used threats ("I’ll break up with you") or, like the boy I knew in seventh grade, they used strength and size. Whatever the case, the girl in question would rehash her story as if it had happened to someone else, questioning her own role in the event, mulling over how long to be mad at him, whether to break up with him.
The thing is, this kind of behavior-- this cycle of assault without accountability-- began long before I was in high school or even middle school. When I was in elementary school I used to wear shorts under my skirts. All the girls did. This was because there were boys who would lift our skirts to see our underwear. It was a joke, it was harmless. Was it really?
There was a long hallway (but perhaps not so long as my memory-- and childhood fear-- make it) that lead to the cafeteria. Each day when the lunch bell rang, we’d make our way down that hall. If you were lucky and had first lunch, you only had to worry about leaving the cafeteria. If you had the second or third lunch, you had two trips down that hall, five days a week. By second lunch the hall would be lined with boys, mostly fourth and fifth graders. We had to walk that gauntlet every day to go to and from the cafeteria, knowing our skirts would get flipped. It became such a routine thing, you’d think it wouldn’t phase us, but I don’t know a single girl who didn’t dread that walk. So why didn’t we just wear pants? Well, most of us did. But pants- wearing girls got their hair pulled and butts smacked. None of us walked that hall alone.
I can’t believe the teachers and administration didn’t know what was going on. In fact, I know some of them did because one teacher told a new student about the shorts-under-skirts practice after the girl came back from lunch crying. Yet, it happened day after day for the two years I attended that school. There were different versions of the skirt-flipping in higher grades-- the up the back of shirt grope, searching for bra straps in middle school; the free-for-all grabbing of body parts in crowded high school hallways. We learned who to watch out for, which hallways to avoid, where the exits and girls’ bathrooms were (because, despite their bravado in groping our bodies, the boys would never dare step foot in a girls’ restroom). We watched and we learned and we got an education the school system never bragged about providing.
I’d like to think times have changed and girls aren’t going through the same stupid, frightening, harassing rites-of-passage my friends and I went through. I want reassurance that boys who commit assault and rape are held accountable. I need to believe things are different and better than when I went to school, but somehow I don’t think they are. I think girls still have to be careful and watch out for certain boys. And I think some boys, even the popular boys, are predators.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
