This is kind of my therapy blog. The stories I write down are simply anecdotes from my life; until I write them, that is. The following story is for me, but I'm willing to share. I'm putting it here for two reasons. 1. It's a story that I want to tell. 2. The woman about whom I'm writing does not read this blog, although her Hubby does. I don't want to bring any pain to either of them. To Mr. J, I plead: It still hurts like crazy, I need to write it out, please understand.
The Mighty Quinn
My best friend and I have been through a lot. Twice we have tried and failed to open a small business. We have taked and laughed and cried, like good friends do. She has carried me more times than I care to admit here. She always has a warm smile and an open door. Always. The story begins with an open door.
N opened the front door to Chasmyn's home, and welcomed me inside. As usual, the place was quiet, homey and spotless. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was wafting from the kitchen, and her home was a pleasantly warm contrast to the nippy October air. I wanted to find my friend and give her a big, joyous hug. I wanted to share the happiness. Coffee placed a distant second that night.
Chasmyn had called me at around 8 o'clock at night. It was October 20th, 2000. She thought she might be in real labor. Having been there myself I asked a lot of silly questions and decided she might just have this baby in the next 24 hours. I showered to wash away the smell of cigarettes, Chasmyn doesn't smoke. Then I meditated while waiting for her next phone call. It came a little before 10 pm.
I kissed my hubby and hugged my son, telling them I didn't know when I would be back, and drove to Chasmyn's house. I was one of a very few people invited to Chasmyn's home birth. I spent the drive time reminding myself not to say anything stupid or crude. I was born without a faux pas filter, and I never really developed one later, either.
The select group, myself included, sat in the living room drinking coffee while Chasmyn worked her way through the various stages of labor. We had a lot of fun waiting. You could say it was some of the best waiting ever. There was a point where I sagely advised, "You're about halfway through the transition phase. It's the worst, but it will be over soon." Chasmyn responded, "You don't know! You can't possibly know!" And we fell out of our seats with laughter. Well, all of us guests. Chasmyn was too busy to laugh, and I don't think she thought it was funny at all.
The doula was on time, the doctor had gotten lost and was late; but he was there for the important part. He had given himself plenty of time. (There is one doctor in St. Louis who does home births. I expect he's a busy man.)
Chasmyn delivered on a bed with 50 billion pillows, being held by her mother, her hubby, and her closest friends. She would push, and we'd all push with her. Everyone was touching her when she pushed Quinn into the world. (well, everyone but me, I was holding a video camera, and it doesn't matter, I was touching her in spirit)
Quinn was born with a caul, a sign of good fortune for the child. I heartily agree. Anyone with J and Chasmyn as his parents would be fortunate indeed.
I went home feeling blessed by this newborn's presence. I felt I had witnessed the birth of a child who would touch the world. I expected great things of him. I thought about my own birth experiences and recalled the looks of wonder on the faces of my friends, and decided that although my children were special, they were nothing compared to Quinn.
Two days later, Chasmyn called me from the hospital. Quinn wasn't eating. He cried all the time. His breathing was labored and his lips were purple. Quinn was born with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, and my best friend was faced with some very tough choices. She could put her 2 day old son on a waiting list for a heart transplant, she could hope he became healthy enough for a series of experimental open heart surgeries, or she could take him home and give him what the doctors called "compassionate care". Compassionate care means caring for your child until they die.
I didn't scream, gnash my teeth, or throw sharp pointy objects at the universe for letting this happen. I didn't even think about that kind of drama until later. Instead, I drove to Cardinal Glennon Hospital. I waited with her family and friends, while J and Chasmyn sat with Quinn in PICU. They were taking turns bringing people to visit their son. Can you believe that? I probably would have been balled up in as corner, rejecting the world. They invited their loved ones to see their son.
There's more to the story, of course, but I'm done writing about it for now. It hurts too damn much. I'll let you off the hook, though. They opted for the series of surgeries, and Quinn thrived for 2 years and 8 months. He died June 19th. He went in for a comparatively simple valve replacement, and just didn't recover. You can read his story, in his mother's words here
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Friday, December 26, 2003
First Boyfriend, First Kiss
In Catholic school, I had earned the nickname "Medusa" for my wildly curly red hair. Some genius in my class pulled one of my bouncy locks one day and commented, "Your hair is like snakes. Medusa!" The nickname stuck, and didn't do a whole lot for my self-image.
Then I transferred to public school, where nobody knew my nickname. I was "the new kid", and it was great. Everyone but me had a boyfriend or girlfriend, so I picked a kid who would be handsome when he finished growing up, and we began dating. For 5 months, we held hands on the bus ride home. That was it. We held hands.
His stop was before my own, so I really only held hands for half the bus ride. Then I'd switch seats and sit in front of my friend Ben. He was a lot more fun than my boyfriend, but he wasn't good eye candy. My boyfriend was cute but clueless. I'd spend half the bus ride listening to stupid jokes, laughing and trying to look interested. The only thing I was truly interested in was getting kissed. I wanted this kid to give me my first kiss. I wasted 5 months of my youth waiting for a kiss that never came. Eventually I asked him if he wanted to kiss me. He said, "No." So I said, "Then I'm going to break up with you." He said, "Good." And that was that.
After the break up, I spent all of the bus ride leaning over the seat and talking to Ben. He didn't tell stupid jokes, he talked about interesting stuff. His world was so different from my own, although we lived less than a mile from each other.
First of all, he had both parents. Secondly, his parents let him do stuff that my mom would never let me do. Like playing D&D or owning weapons. He had a bb gun, knives, nunchucks and throwing stars.
We would yack during the ride and continue the conversation at the ice cream place. The ice cream place was only open in the summer, so we would sit on the picnic bench outside and not be disturbed. We would talk for about half an hour, then Ben would ask me for a kiss. Every day I would scream, "Ew! No!" And every day he would steal my purse and say, "I'm not giving your purse back until you kiss me." I would then kick him in the shin, grab my purse and leave in a huff.
There was no way this guy was going to be my first kiss! He was too skinny. His hair was too dark. And he sniffed all the time because he had allergies. My first kiss was supposed to come from Prince Charming, not some sickly little boy.
Except that sickly little boy began to grow on me. I had so much fun hanging out with him, and the walk home became a very lonely walk indeed. One day Ben snatched my purse and made his request, and I thought, "Why not? You've got to kiss somebody."
So I kissed him.
I thought of soap operas, and tried to kiss like it looked like they kissed on the shows. It was an open mouth, no tongue kiss; and it was no big deal.
I waited more than a year before telling Ben that he was my first kiss.
I suppose persistence pays off.
In Catholic school, I had earned the nickname "Medusa" for my wildly curly red hair. Some genius in my class pulled one of my bouncy locks one day and commented, "Your hair is like snakes. Medusa!" The nickname stuck, and didn't do a whole lot for my self-image.
Then I transferred to public school, where nobody knew my nickname. I was "the new kid", and it was great. Everyone but me had a boyfriend or girlfriend, so I picked a kid who would be handsome when he finished growing up, and we began dating. For 5 months, we held hands on the bus ride home. That was it. We held hands.
His stop was before my own, so I really only held hands for half the bus ride. Then I'd switch seats and sit in front of my friend Ben. He was a lot more fun than my boyfriend, but he wasn't good eye candy. My boyfriend was cute but clueless. I'd spend half the bus ride listening to stupid jokes, laughing and trying to look interested. The only thing I was truly interested in was getting kissed. I wanted this kid to give me my first kiss. I wasted 5 months of my youth waiting for a kiss that never came. Eventually I asked him if he wanted to kiss me. He said, "No." So I said, "Then I'm going to break up with you." He said, "Good." And that was that.
After the break up, I spent all of the bus ride leaning over the seat and talking to Ben. He didn't tell stupid jokes, he talked about interesting stuff. His world was so different from my own, although we lived less than a mile from each other.
First of all, he had both parents. Secondly, his parents let him do stuff that my mom would never let me do. Like playing D&D or owning weapons. He had a bb gun, knives, nunchucks and throwing stars.
We would yack during the ride and continue the conversation at the ice cream place. The ice cream place was only open in the summer, so we would sit on the picnic bench outside and not be disturbed. We would talk for about half an hour, then Ben would ask me for a kiss. Every day I would scream, "Ew! No!" And every day he would steal my purse and say, "I'm not giving your purse back until you kiss me." I would then kick him in the shin, grab my purse and leave in a huff.
There was no way this guy was going to be my first kiss! He was too skinny. His hair was too dark. And he sniffed all the time because he had allergies. My first kiss was supposed to come from Prince Charming, not some sickly little boy.
Except that sickly little boy began to grow on me. I had so much fun hanging out with him, and the walk home became a very lonely walk indeed. One day Ben snatched my purse and made his request, and I thought, "Why not? You've got to kiss somebody."
So I kissed him.
I thought of soap operas, and tried to kiss like it looked like they kissed on the shows. It was an open mouth, no tongue kiss; and it was no big deal.
I waited more than a year before telling Ben that he was my first kiss.
I suppose persistence pays off.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
I changed the date and removed the duplicate comments. If you haven't been here in a few days, there are new stories below my request post.
A Request
I have written enough material for two books already, and I'm not half done with the stories. I've been stuffing the raw tales into Microsoft Word and doing some refining. Some of my stories must absolutely go into the book. I insist on it. :p
These are my favorites, the ones I look back on and laugh or cry (or both)
Drunks
More on Drunks
The Race War That Wasn't
...And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!
Shopping
Wednesday Is Dumpster Day
The Sad Story Of Mr. Brown
Biker's Code Of Ethics
Payphone Perverts
Hanging Out aka why poor kids don't go to college
Independance Day
The California Bum
Why You Shouldn't Skip School Warning Potentially triggering rape story
The Neighbors Downstairs
Some of these are integral to the book, some are just writing I'm proud of.
So here's my request. Which stories are your favorites? Which ones would you like to see in the signed copy I send to you loyal 6 readers?
A Request
I have written enough material for two books already, and I'm not half done with the stories. I've been stuffing the raw tales into Microsoft Word and doing some refining. Some of my stories must absolutely go into the book. I insist on it. :p
These are my favorites, the ones I look back on and laugh or cry (or both)
Drunks
More on Drunks
The Race War That Wasn't
...And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!
Shopping
Wednesday Is Dumpster Day
The Sad Story Of Mr. Brown
Biker's Code Of Ethics
Payphone Perverts
Hanging Out aka why poor kids don't go to college
Independance Day
The California Bum
Why You Shouldn't Skip School Warning Potentially triggering rape story
The Neighbors Downstairs
Some of these are integral to the book, some are just writing I'm proud of.
So here's my request. Which stories are your favorites? Which ones would you like to see in the signed copy I send to you loyal 6 readers?
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Pre-Neighborhood Santa Story
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, J and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone. The unlucky altar boys carry candles, the lucky ones carry either the Bible or the Monstrance.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got nice gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "M and D will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, J and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone. The unlucky altar boys carry candles, the lucky ones carry either the Bible or the Monstrance.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got nice gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "M and D will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Discovering Drugs
When I was 14, I was invited to a party in the downstairs apartment. I asked mom if I could go. She said ok, because I would only be right downstairs. I met Kenny out on the porch, and he told me he thought I was old enough to "learn how to party" and that was why he had invited me. We went inside and he introduced me to his friends while mixing up a screwdriver.
This was my first real drink.
Growing up Catholic, I'd had wine at church; but that is no more than a sip. Growing up with an Italian family, I'd had watered wine at holiday get-togethers. I had never had vodka before. Before the party was over, I was totally plastered.
I walked around sipping my screwdriver and chatting with Kenny's friends. They spent a lot of time talking about their cars. Pretty soon, my screwdriver was all gone. Kenny noticed my empty glass and brought me another drink. He asked me if I was having fun, and I politely responded, "Yeah, this is great."
I smiled up at him while thinking the party was dumb. The radio was playing annoying hard rock; I preferred top 20 stuff. The guys only talked about things that didn't interest me. I was bored, but I felt I should live up to Kenny's supposition that I was old enough to party. I didn't want to let him down.
The party got much better when the alcohol hit me. Things became interesting. I realized I didn't have to care about the rusted-out piece-of-shit that somebody was "fixing up". I could let them talk, and just enjoy watching how they lit up whenever they thought about their car. The range of emotions on these guys faces was amazing. I found myself surrounded by guys telling me all about their cars, and through that, themselves. I could see that some of them would always be losers, and some of them would be able to stick to their tasks; eventually resulting in a nice looking car.
I excused myself to take a bathroom break, and received the shock of my life. I passed the mirror. Being staggeringly drunk, I didn't realize it was a mirror at first.
I saw a stunningly beautiful girl, and stopped to look at her. I hadn't seen this girl at the party, she must have just come in. Then I recognized my freckles on the girl in the mirror. It was me, and I was beautiful!
I spent a lot of time looking at myself. I wanted to go home and see if I was pretty in that mirror too, but I didn't want mom to know I was drunk; so I stayed and played with my newly-discovered attractiveness. I let one of the guys start kissing on me, and then we were laying down on the couch kissing. I was really relaxed and it felt good. About the time the guy had gotten a hand down my pants, Kenny came to the rescue. He lifted the guy by his shirt and said, "Dude, She's 14."
The guy fled from me like I had started sprouting roaches.
I became very embarrassed and went home.
A few months later Kenny introduced me to pot. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I believe Kenny was trying to teach me the ways of the world in the safest way possible. He slowly opened my eyes, and stayed with me to keep me out of trouble. I suppose I should be grateful. He put a lot of effort into watching over me. I think he did it because he was head over heels in love with my sister. I think he didn't want her to get hurt by seeing me get hurt. I know I didn't start doing stupid things until I'd changed my circle of friends.
The most valuable thing I learned from Kenny was "Just say no thank you." The people doing drugs are fine with that. The usual response is, "More for me!"
When I was 14, I was invited to a party in the downstairs apartment. I asked mom if I could go. She said ok, because I would only be right downstairs. I met Kenny out on the porch, and he told me he thought I was old enough to "learn how to party" and that was why he had invited me. We went inside and he introduced me to his friends while mixing up a screwdriver.
This was my first real drink.
Growing up Catholic, I'd had wine at church; but that is no more than a sip. Growing up with an Italian family, I'd had watered wine at holiday get-togethers. I had never had vodka before. Before the party was over, I was totally plastered.
I walked around sipping my screwdriver and chatting with Kenny's friends. They spent a lot of time talking about their cars. Pretty soon, my screwdriver was all gone. Kenny noticed my empty glass and brought me another drink. He asked me if I was having fun, and I politely responded, "Yeah, this is great."
I smiled up at him while thinking the party was dumb. The radio was playing annoying hard rock; I preferred top 20 stuff. The guys only talked about things that didn't interest me. I was bored, but I felt I should live up to Kenny's supposition that I was old enough to party. I didn't want to let him down.
The party got much better when the alcohol hit me. Things became interesting. I realized I didn't have to care about the rusted-out piece-of-shit that somebody was "fixing up". I could let them talk, and just enjoy watching how they lit up whenever they thought about their car. The range of emotions on these guys faces was amazing. I found myself surrounded by guys telling me all about their cars, and through that, themselves. I could see that some of them would always be losers, and some of them would be able to stick to their tasks; eventually resulting in a nice looking car.
I excused myself to take a bathroom break, and received the shock of my life. I passed the mirror. Being staggeringly drunk, I didn't realize it was a mirror at first.
I saw a stunningly beautiful girl, and stopped to look at her. I hadn't seen this girl at the party, she must have just come in. Then I recognized my freckles on the girl in the mirror. It was me, and I was beautiful!
I spent a lot of time looking at myself. I wanted to go home and see if I was pretty in that mirror too, but I didn't want mom to know I was drunk; so I stayed and played with my newly-discovered attractiveness. I let one of the guys start kissing on me, and then we were laying down on the couch kissing. I was really relaxed and it felt good. About the time the guy had gotten a hand down my pants, Kenny came to the rescue. He lifted the guy by his shirt and said, "Dude, She's 14."
The guy fled from me like I had started sprouting roaches.
I became very embarrassed and went home.
A few months later Kenny introduced me to pot. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I believe Kenny was trying to teach me the ways of the world in the safest way possible. He slowly opened my eyes, and stayed with me to keep me out of trouble. I suppose I should be grateful. He put a lot of effort into watching over me. I think he did it because he was head over heels in love with my sister. I think he didn't want her to get hurt by seeing me get hurt. I know I didn't start doing stupid things until I'd changed my circle of friends.
The most valuable thing I learned from Kenny was "Just say no thank you." The people doing drugs are fine with that. The usual response is, "More for me!"
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Snow
Poverty looks like peeling paint on wooden windows, broken glass patched with tape, flat tires, and barren yards where even the weeds fear to grow.
Poverty smells like stale beer, cooked cabbage, urine and Roach-Ex.
Poverty feels like despair. Day in and day out, it seeps into you and weighs you down.
Snow is everything that poverty is not. Snow is white and sparkling, it covers everything and weighs practically nothing. I have always loved snow. I love watching it drift in the air. I love watching it coat the world. I love clearing the sidewalk, and I love playing in it.
My sister and I would build snowmen in the back yard, because they would be safe there. If we built them in the front yard, the snowmen would get knocked over and the remains would be thrown at passing cars. We went sledding on cardboard boxes until my sister found a real sled at a yard sale. And we threw millions of snowballs.
The boys in the neighborhood would shove rocks in their snowballs before throwing them. We got revenge by dipping ours in the gutter and making slush balls. All of us threw things at the busses. We would hide behind cars, with a stash of snowballs and bombard the bus as it came down the street. It gave us a feeling of power to smack a snowball against the bus window, where some working stiff was resting his head.
I never attacked the homeless people, but a lot of the other kids did. Woe to the hapless bums on a snow day. The neighborhood kids would run at them with their arms full of rock encrusted snowballs, and bombard the poor fellows. The homeless would inevitable hunch their shoulders and wander away. They never fought back. Perhaps that's why I didn't take part in the game. I couldn't see the fun in attacking someone less powerful than myself.
One year we had an honest-to-God blizzard. The total snowfall that week was more than 2 feet. The kid next door dug snow tunnels all over his yard. He was out there most of the day, moving snow.
I was so excited. Finally enough snow to build an igloo! I grabbed the snow shovel and made a giant mound of snow in the back yard. Then I couldn't figure out how to turn a mountain of snow into an igloo. I thought I should make the snow a little denser first, so I smacked the mound with the shovel to firm it up. Then I had a small, dense mound. Hmm. I added more snow and tamped it down again. My mound was not noticeably larger.
Eventually, after several hours of work, the yard was half empty and I was the proud owner of a 5 foot high flat-bottomed snowball. I went inside to have some hot cocoa and think about this. Sometime during the snow moving, I had come up with a brilliant idea. When snow is a day or so old, it gets a layer of ice on the top. If I could create a layer of ice, I would have a see through igloo. How cool is that?
I took a cup of water outside and poured it on my snow mound, but everything the water touched turned to slush. This clearly wasn't working out as I'd hoped. Never one to give up easily, I filled the spray bottle mom used for misting the plants, and tried spritzing the snow mound.
Better.
It still turned to slush, but not as much. I spritzed the entire mound and went inside for the night. I was cold, my mittens were wet, and I was thinking the whole thing might have been a waste of time. The next morning, my snow mound had been trampled by the kids who lived downstairs.
I have since learned the mechanics of building an igloo. I went about it in entirely the wrong way. :)
Poverty looks like peeling paint on wooden windows, broken glass patched with tape, flat tires, and barren yards where even the weeds fear to grow.
Poverty smells like stale beer, cooked cabbage, urine and Roach-Ex.
Poverty feels like despair. Day in and day out, it seeps into you and weighs you down.
Snow is everything that poverty is not. Snow is white and sparkling, it covers everything and weighs practically nothing. I have always loved snow. I love watching it drift in the air. I love watching it coat the world. I love clearing the sidewalk, and I love playing in it.
My sister and I would build snowmen in the back yard, because they would be safe there. If we built them in the front yard, the snowmen would get knocked over and the remains would be thrown at passing cars. We went sledding on cardboard boxes until my sister found a real sled at a yard sale. And we threw millions of snowballs.
The boys in the neighborhood would shove rocks in their snowballs before throwing them. We got revenge by dipping ours in the gutter and making slush balls. All of us threw things at the busses. We would hide behind cars, with a stash of snowballs and bombard the bus as it came down the street. It gave us a feeling of power to smack a snowball against the bus window, where some working stiff was resting his head.
I never attacked the homeless people, but a lot of the other kids did. Woe to the hapless bums on a snow day. The neighborhood kids would run at them with their arms full of rock encrusted snowballs, and bombard the poor fellows. The homeless would inevitable hunch their shoulders and wander away. They never fought back. Perhaps that's why I didn't take part in the game. I couldn't see the fun in attacking someone less powerful than myself.
One year we had an honest-to-God blizzard. The total snowfall that week was more than 2 feet. The kid next door dug snow tunnels all over his yard. He was out there most of the day, moving snow.
I was so excited. Finally enough snow to build an igloo! I grabbed the snow shovel and made a giant mound of snow in the back yard. Then I couldn't figure out how to turn a mountain of snow into an igloo. I thought I should make the snow a little denser first, so I smacked the mound with the shovel to firm it up. Then I had a small, dense mound. Hmm. I added more snow and tamped it down again. My mound was not noticeably larger.
Eventually, after several hours of work, the yard was half empty and I was the proud owner of a 5 foot high flat-bottomed snowball. I went inside to have some hot cocoa and think about this. Sometime during the snow moving, I had come up with a brilliant idea. When snow is a day or so old, it gets a layer of ice on the top. If I could create a layer of ice, I would have a see through igloo. How cool is that?
I took a cup of water outside and poured it on my snow mound, but everything the water touched turned to slush. This clearly wasn't working out as I'd hoped. Never one to give up easily, I filled the spray bottle mom used for misting the plants, and tried spritzing the snow mound.
Better.
It still turned to slush, but not as much. I spritzed the entire mound and went inside for the night. I was cold, my mittens were wet, and I was thinking the whole thing might have been a waste of time. The next morning, my snow mound had been trampled by the kids who lived downstairs.
I have since learned the mechanics of building an igloo. I went about it in entirely the wrong way. :)
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Theft
St. Louis hosts a great 4th of July bash. It used to be called the V. P. Fair, but the name has been changed the Fair St. Louis in recent years. Why the name change, you ask? I don't have the foggiest idea. We all still call it the V.P. Fair anyway.
V. P. stands for Veiled Prophet. Every year, some St. Louis business man gets to dress up like the pope with a veil covering his face, and ride in the 4th of July parade. I suppose it looks bad to out-of-towners, seeing some dude dressed in white with a white pointy hat and a covered face. They probably wonder if a lynching is part of the festivities. I heard many dark rumors about Masonic satanists and perverts running the V.P. Fair. Somehow my child's brain turned that into the Veiled Prophet being in drag under his white robe.
One year I was getting paid to hand out balloons at the Fair. It was a hot and tiring, but rewarding job. After work, I walked down to the Arch, where the festivities were going on. I met my mom at the St. Francis De Sales beer booth, where they were selling -you guessed it- BEER. Saint Louisans are a strange bunch. We will go out of our way to buy beer from a church, rather than support the small businessman.
I helped mom sell beer for the next hour, watched the fireworks, and helped clean up. When everything was done, we went down the hill to the Huck Finn/Tom Sawyer riverboats. My sister was a waitress on the boats, so we hung out until she got off work. Then we rode the bus home together.
I was so tired, I almost fell asleep on the bus. Once home, we went into the living room, and discovered our TV was gone. Our intruders had also taken the stereo, the change jar (that held mostly buttons) and mom's silver dollar collection. They had gone through every drawer in the house, including mine.
Our front door had a dead bolt, but the back door had only a sliding bolt. We never thought twice about it. The back door was an interior door. Anyone breaking in would have to break down the outside door (with it's measly sliding bolt, too); and that would be loud. Both doors were hanging wide open.
We thought all of our pitiful possessions were gone, but mom started finding things they missed. They had dropped one of the speaker covers on the stairs. They missed the alarm clock. It had gotten unplugged when our cowardly dog hid under mom's bed. Best of all, they had entirely skipped the stereo in my sister's room. It was in a dark corner with some clothes on top of it.
I cannot tell you how much it lifts your spirit to realize you have something left. That stereo was all we had for 2 years. We couldn't afford a new TV, so we listened to music instead. My friends were astounded when they came over and realized we had no TV. We spent a lot of time sitting on the porch talking.
Mom swiped some paper from work, and my sister and I would listen to the radio and draw pictures. The idea was to make a little logo for whatever song was on at the time. The image must be finished before the song ended. Some examples:
a pair of tickets with dice on them = "Two Tickets to Paradise"
A crescent moon and a guy with shades = "I Wear My Sunglasses At Night"
We always tried to out do each other for creativity, and would plague mom to judge the pictures when she got home.
I think getting our TV stolen was one of the better things that happened to me.
St. Louis hosts a great 4th of July bash. It used to be called the V. P. Fair, but the name has been changed the Fair St. Louis in recent years. Why the name change, you ask? I don't have the foggiest idea. We all still call it the V.P. Fair anyway.
V. P. stands for Veiled Prophet. Every year, some St. Louis business man gets to dress up like the pope with a veil covering his face, and ride in the 4th of July parade. I suppose it looks bad to out-of-towners, seeing some dude dressed in white with a white pointy hat and a covered face. They probably wonder if a lynching is part of the festivities. I heard many dark rumors about Masonic satanists and perverts running the V.P. Fair. Somehow my child's brain turned that into the Veiled Prophet being in drag under his white robe.
One year I was getting paid to hand out balloons at the Fair. It was a hot and tiring, but rewarding job. After work, I walked down to the Arch, where the festivities were going on. I met my mom at the St. Francis De Sales beer booth, where they were selling -you guessed it- BEER. Saint Louisans are a strange bunch. We will go out of our way to buy beer from a church, rather than support the small businessman.
I helped mom sell beer for the next hour, watched the fireworks, and helped clean up. When everything was done, we went down the hill to the Huck Finn/Tom Sawyer riverboats. My sister was a waitress on the boats, so we hung out until she got off work. Then we rode the bus home together.
I was so tired, I almost fell asleep on the bus. Once home, we went into the living room, and discovered our TV was gone. Our intruders had also taken the stereo, the change jar (that held mostly buttons) and mom's silver dollar collection. They had gone through every drawer in the house, including mine.
Our front door had a dead bolt, but the back door had only a sliding bolt. We never thought twice about it. The back door was an interior door. Anyone breaking in would have to break down the outside door (with it's measly sliding bolt, too); and that would be loud. Both doors were hanging wide open.
We thought all of our pitiful possessions were gone, but mom started finding things they missed. They had dropped one of the speaker covers on the stairs. They missed the alarm clock. It had gotten unplugged when our cowardly dog hid under mom's bed. Best of all, they had entirely skipped the stereo in my sister's room. It was in a dark corner with some clothes on top of it.
I cannot tell you how much it lifts your spirit to realize you have something left. That stereo was all we had for 2 years. We couldn't afford a new TV, so we listened to music instead. My friends were astounded when they came over and realized we had no TV. We spent a lot of time sitting on the porch talking.
Mom swiped some paper from work, and my sister and I would listen to the radio and draw pictures. The idea was to make a little logo for whatever song was on at the time. The image must be finished before the song ended. Some examples:
a pair of tickets with dice on them = "Two Tickets to Paradise"
A crescent moon and a guy with shades = "I Wear My Sunglasses At Night"
We always tried to out do each other for creativity, and would plague mom to judge the pictures when she got home.
I think getting our TV stolen was one of the better things that happened to me.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Thanksgiving With Family
As previously mentioned here, I have a large family. I have 2 Aunts and 5 Uncles. So thanksgiving at grandma's house was always a crowded affair. Grandma would cook the biggest turkey in the Universe, and leftovers were unlikely.
When we moved from Grandma's house to the apartment on California, we started having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I believe mom had had enough of her siblings for a while.
That first year, mom made the Universe's largest turkey. It was 23 lbs. I was so heavy, it bent the oven rack. She forced stuffing into every nook and cranny of the bird, and packed the leftovers all around it. I think she prepared a good 5 lbs of stuffing. She made sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, and that horrible "salad" with peeled grapes and raisins in it. (I think it's a Waldorf salad. It's grapes, raisins, shredded carrots and marshmallows. Why is this food?)
Hang on a sec. I'm breaking my cardinal rule here, and ranting instead of writing, but bear with me... or skip this part if my life as an adult bores you.
Ages ago, I was at a New Years Eve party. One of my friends had somehow come up with a disgusting mix of foods, and just had to share it with everyone. She'd rush up and whisper, "cinnamon mayonnaise." Then laugh while you made faces at the taste that had suddenly appeared in your mouth.
This spawned "The Disgusting Food Game", which my hubby and I play with our son. The idea is to pick 2 foods that individually taste good, but together would taste horrible, and say them out loud. An example would be "crab leg brownies". You win if you can get everyone to make a face.
My son would spend hours (if we'd let him) making up strange things. Anyway, I think Waldorf salad should win the Disgusting Food Game hands down. I mean, really; marshmallow grapes is strange, marshmallow raisins is bad, and marshmallow carrots is just plain nasty. Ok, back to the story:
We had leftovers through Christmas vacation. We had to pitch the stuffing because it started growing mold. We had turkey sandwiches almost every day for lunch. I thought I'd never want to eat turkey again. I didn't eat any of the Waldorf salad.
The next thanksgiving, Tru-Buy had some Rock Cornish Game Hens. They were only a dollar a piece, and we bought 3. We each got to dress our own bird. It was a lot of fun. The cat kept jumping up on the table and trying to steal them. By the time the hens made it into the oven, all of them had teeth marks.
Believe it or not, that is not the funniest cat vs. Thanksgiving story in my repetoire. Mom had rescued a kitten and brought it home. He was so tiny, she could hold him in one hand. He had outsized ears and a pointy little face. Gremlins had just come out in the theaters, and he looked like a black and white version of those evil green critters, so we named him Gremlin. Boy did that cat live up to his name. He had a fetish for stinky things, like shoes and armpits. We would take off our shoes when we got home from school, and he would promptly bury his head in them. If you tried to take the shoes away, he would scratch you. He would also hop onto my boyfriends laps, purring away, and slowly creep his way toward their armpit. Then he'd shove his head in there and start sniffing. Then he would lick. I always said at this point, "You might want to move him..." and wait. A few good licks would drive the cat into a frenzied desire for the smell, and he would bite their armpit. (tee hee)
Needless to say, Gremlin was aptly named. We first discovered it when Gremlin was still a kitten. Mom was again making a gigantic turkey, and gremlin hopped up onto the table and snagged it by the foot. We all laughed at the cute little kitten who's eyes were bigger than his stomach. Then that beast started dragging the turkey away. We thought that was pretty funny too, and mom said, "Where's my camera? This is great!"
We stopped laughing when the turkey hit the floor. All that seasoning work down the tubes. We had to wash off the turkey and start from scratch.
As previously mentioned here, I have a large family. I have 2 Aunts and 5 Uncles. So thanksgiving at grandma's house was always a crowded affair. Grandma would cook the biggest turkey in the Universe, and leftovers were unlikely.
When we moved from Grandma's house to the apartment on California, we started having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I believe mom had had enough of her siblings for a while.
That first year, mom made the Universe's largest turkey. It was 23 lbs. I was so heavy, it bent the oven rack. She forced stuffing into every nook and cranny of the bird, and packed the leftovers all around it. I think she prepared a good 5 lbs of stuffing. She made sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, and that horrible "salad" with peeled grapes and raisins in it. (I think it's a Waldorf salad. It's grapes, raisins, shredded carrots and marshmallows. Why is this food?)
Hang on a sec. I'm breaking my cardinal rule here, and ranting instead of writing, but bear with me... or skip this part if my life as an adult bores you.
Ages ago, I was at a New Years Eve party. One of my friends had somehow come up with a disgusting mix of foods, and just had to share it with everyone. She'd rush up and whisper, "cinnamon mayonnaise." Then laugh while you made faces at the taste that had suddenly appeared in your mouth.
This spawned "The Disgusting Food Game", which my hubby and I play with our son. The idea is to pick 2 foods that individually taste good, but together would taste horrible, and say them out loud. An example would be "crab leg brownies". You win if you can get everyone to make a face.
My son would spend hours (if we'd let him) making up strange things. Anyway, I think Waldorf salad should win the Disgusting Food Game hands down. I mean, really; marshmallow grapes is strange, marshmallow raisins is bad, and marshmallow carrots is just plain nasty. Ok, back to the story:
We had leftovers through Christmas vacation. We had to pitch the stuffing because it started growing mold. We had turkey sandwiches almost every day for lunch. I thought I'd never want to eat turkey again. I didn't eat any of the Waldorf salad.
The next thanksgiving, Tru-Buy had some Rock Cornish Game Hens. They were only a dollar a piece, and we bought 3. We each got to dress our own bird. It was a lot of fun. The cat kept jumping up on the table and trying to steal them. By the time the hens made it into the oven, all of them had teeth marks.
Believe it or not, that is not the funniest cat vs. Thanksgiving story in my repetoire. Mom had rescued a kitten and brought it home. He was so tiny, she could hold him in one hand. He had outsized ears and a pointy little face. Gremlins had just come out in the theaters, and he looked like a black and white version of those evil green critters, so we named him Gremlin. Boy did that cat live up to his name. He had a fetish for stinky things, like shoes and armpits. We would take off our shoes when we got home from school, and he would promptly bury his head in them. If you tried to take the shoes away, he would scratch you. He would also hop onto my boyfriends laps, purring away, and slowly creep his way toward their armpit. Then he'd shove his head in there and start sniffing. Then he would lick. I always said at this point, "You might want to move him..." and wait. A few good licks would drive the cat into a frenzied desire for the smell, and he would bite their armpit. (tee hee)
Needless to say, Gremlin was aptly named. We first discovered it when Gremlin was still a kitten. Mom was again making a gigantic turkey, and gremlin hopped up onto the table and snagged it by the foot. We all laughed at the cute little kitten who's eyes were bigger than his stomach. Then that beast started dragging the turkey away. We thought that was pretty funny too, and mom said, "Where's my camera? This is great!"
We stopped laughing when the turkey hit the floor. All that seasoning work down the tubes. We had to wash off the turkey and start from scratch.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Stamp Collecting Without a Babysitter or why Famous Barr has rubber doohickeys on their escalators
Once upon a time, my mom worked at the Famous Barr downtown. She frequently told us about the emergency stop button on the escalators, and the accidents she saw while working there. Then dad left, stuff happened, and we wound up living in a 1 bedroom apartment on California.
Mom had long since stopped working at Famous Barr. Now she worked for Royal Papers. They were located downtown, around the corner from Manhattan Coffee, and a mere 2 blocks away from Busch Stadium. Sometimes my sister and I would take a bus downtown and surprise mom at lunch time. This was always a good way to score some chili from O. T. Hodges, makers of the best chili in St. Louis. Mom was always happy to see us. We would show up at her desk, grinning; then we'd all walk to Hodges to eat massive bowls of all-meat chili for $1.20 a bowl. I never really connected those trips with mom eating peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the week. (Geez, now I'm ashamed at my 11 year old selfishness)
Anyway, someone had given my sister and I stamp collecting kits for Christmas the year before; and it became tradition to surprise mom for lunch, then visit Famous Barr to (maybe) buy a new stamp. My sister was always finding ways of making money. That year she was a coat check girl at an Italian restaurant. She'd spend her tips on stamps.
The collectibles department was on the 8th or 9th floor, which meant a lot of escalator riding. We used to play around on the escalators, walking backwards, jumping the last few steps, etc. Nobody really cared, and we behaved ourselves when the escalator was crowded.
Most of the escalators were wide enough for us to stand side by side easily, but the 7th floor one was narrow. We had perused the stamps and were tired from all the walking we'd done that day. On the 7th floor escalator, we both sat down. J was in front, I was behind her. Near the bottom, I jumped past my sister, clearing the magic disappearing stairs easily. I turned in triumph to say, "Didja see that jump?!" to my sister, expecting some snide 'I jumped farther when I was 3' kind of comment.
Instead, I saw my sister crouched in front of the escalator for some reason. Even at 11 years old, I knew when something was wrong. Alarm bells started going off in my head, and I ran to the escalator. J had somehow managed to get her hand stuck in the space where the handrail goes into the escalator. She said, calmly, "Ow."
I completely forgot that all escalators had an emergency stop button. I grabbed the black hand rail and pushed with all my might, trying to make it go backwards so my sister could pull her hand out. The rubber slid through my hands. I couldn't stop it. I tried pushing harder. No results. I was starting to panic. I looked around and saw that we had drawn a crowd. My sister said, again quite calmly, "This really hurts. Could someone get my hand out?"
I knew there was an easy way to stop the escalator, but I couldn't remember how. It sat, nagging, in the back of my head. Visions of my mom telling us about the accidents she had witnessed while working at this very store popped into my head; but I couldn't remember the easy way to make the belt stop. I kicked the hand rail, thinking the jolt would trigger some hidden stopping device, then I stepped back to appraise the situation. I thought that just pulling her hand out would hurt it worse, so I looked at the crowd of adults for help. J said again, "This really hurts. Could someone help me?" The grown ups were so far away. There was a huge space between us and them. J's hand was slowly getting sucked deeper into the machine. The whole hand was buried now, and I couldn't stop the belt. I pleadingly said, "Help us. Please help my sister."
The crowd just stared. Then a man leapt from the crowd like Superman. He was of medium height. He was neither fat nor thin. He had a brown beard with a little bit of grey here and there. He was wearing a tie, but no jacket. He had blue eyes. I'll never forget him.
He didn't pause as I mentally photographed him. He went straight to my sister, grabbed her arm and yanked her hand free.
For a few seconds, the world slowed down. I had plenty of time to see the bloody, mangled mess if my sister's hand. I thought I could see some bone on two of her fingers. I completely lost control of myself. I felt faint, and I sat down cross-legged and started crying into my hands. I couldn't stop crying. My mind calmly stated, "You're having hysterics." Then, "This is what hysterics is like. J needs you. Help J." But I couldn't do anything except cry into my hands.
An employee came over and made me stand up. Then he (she? That part is gone from my memory) took my sister away. The man who saved my sister looked into my face and said, in the most gentle voice I'd ever heard, "Her hand is fine. They took her to (don't remember) floor. This man is going to take you to her. She'll be alright."
Someone led me to a service elevator. I looked back as we headed away from the crowd, but the man with the beard was gone. I never got to thank him, and he'll never know the end of the story. -but you will-
They took my sister to the nurses office and poured iodine on her hand. I sat on a chair in the dimly lit hallway, listening to her scream. The employee who brought me to the nurses hall sat with me for a little bit. He kept asking me, "Are you ok?" I kept telling him that I was. It was a lie, of course. I was not ok. I suggested that he had better things to do than sit with a kid, and eventually he went away.
A lot of this is blurry for me, and I'm sorry I can't share every excruciating detail. Really.
I remember the nurse asking J for mom's phone number. I vaguely recall hearing that mom was on her way. The only bits that come back to me with any intensity are me biting the heels of my hands every time I heard my sister cry out, and how incredibly lonely it was in the corridor.
Mom showed up after what seemed an eternity, but couldn't have been more than 15 minutes. She was a little winded; she had just run 6 blocks in high heels. She Looked at me, said, "Thank God you're alright," and went into the room where they were taking care of J.
I wish I could remember the reaming she gave the people on the other side of the door, but I can't. It's a shame. I'm sure her words were choice. I waited some more, feeling lost and unloved; with nothing but the walls for company. I tried to be mature about the whole thing. I was unhurt, my sister was in agony. Of course mom was going to rush to the injured child. I didn't expect her to take care of me too, but I really wanted to hear her say, "It's not your fault."
Mom called a cab to take us to Cardinal Glennon hospital. She and J came out, and we took the service elevator to the first floor. My sister's hand was heavily bandaged, and a little bit of blood was starting to seep through. We were escorted to the entrance, and waited for the cab on the sidewalk.
At the hospital, we were greeted by one of the owners of Royal Papers. He had brought along his brother, who was a lawyer. The lawyer didn't usually work in personal injury, but he thought this was worthy of a lawsuit. He explained that Famous Barr would not correct the escalator problem unless it went to court. He told mom that my sister was the perfect way to make sure something like this didn't happen to anyone else.
My sister's hand was photographed, x-rayed, splinted and re-bandaged. She was seen by a specialist, who declared that she would lose her middle fingernail, but should have full use of her hand. The lawyer waited while all this was going on, and he drove us home.
J's fingernail did come off, and she grew a new one. For a while, the nail was only attached on one side. She would chase me through the house, opening and closing her fingernail like it was a door. I'd run away screaming, "You're gross, you're so gross!"
We took Famous to small claims court, and won easily. When my sister testified, it was a sight to see. She was an A-B student with a big vocabulary and a lot of poise. She sat in the witness chair, swinging her feet and looking cute as can be. The judge was incensed that such a thing could happen to such a bright girl. He was also pissed at my mom. He told her she should have taken the case to civil court and asked for millions. Mom said, "I don't want millions. I just want Famous Barr to use safe escalators."
The judge awarded us the maximum amount allowed, $1600. He also ordered Famous to replace or repair the escalator in question. A few years later, we went shopping there, and noticed big rubber pads tied to the base of the hand rail. You would have to work hard to get your hand in there now. They never replaced the escalators that had been installed in the 1920's. My sister has scars for the rest of her life, and Famous Barr is out $1600, a few dozen foam pads, and our insurance co-pay. Woo-de-hoo.
On a brighter note. My sister works in the medical field now. She's a PA, certified for surgery. She does everything a doctor does, except write prescriptions. Missouri doesn't allow PA's to write scrips. She's damn good at her job, and I'm friggin' proud of her.
Once upon a time, my mom worked at the Famous Barr downtown. She frequently told us about the emergency stop button on the escalators, and the accidents she saw while working there. Then dad left, stuff happened, and we wound up living in a 1 bedroom apartment on California.
Mom had long since stopped working at Famous Barr. Now she worked for Royal Papers. They were located downtown, around the corner from Manhattan Coffee, and a mere 2 blocks away from Busch Stadium. Sometimes my sister and I would take a bus downtown and surprise mom at lunch time. This was always a good way to score some chili from O. T. Hodges, makers of the best chili in St. Louis. Mom was always happy to see us. We would show up at her desk, grinning; then we'd all walk to Hodges to eat massive bowls of all-meat chili for $1.20 a bowl. I never really connected those trips with mom eating peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the week. (Geez, now I'm ashamed at my 11 year old selfishness)
Anyway, someone had given my sister and I stamp collecting kits for Christmas the year before; and it became tradition to surprise mom for lunch, then visit Famous Barr to (maybe) buy a new stamp. My sister was always finding ways of making money. That year she was a coat check girl at an Italian restaurant. She'd spend her tips on stamps.
The collectibles department was on the 8th or 9th floor, which meant a lot of escalator riding. We used to play around on the escalators, walking backwards, jumping the last few steps, etc. Nobody really cared, and we behaved ourselves when the escalator was crowded.
Most of the escalators were wide enough for us to stand side by side easily, but the 7th floor one was narrow. We had perused the stamps and were tired from all the walking we'd done that day. On the 7th floor escalator, we both sat down. J was in front, I was behind her. Near the bottom, I jumped past my sister, clearing the magic disappearing stairs easily. I turned in triumph to say, "Didja see that jump?!" to my sister, expecting some snide 'I jumped farther when I was 3' kind of comment.
Instead, I saw my sister crouched in front of the escalator for some reason. Even at 11 years old, I knew when something was wrong. Alarm bells started going off in my head, and I ran to the escalator. J had somehow managed to get her hand stuck in the space where the handrail goes into the escalator. She said, calmly, "Ow."
I completely forgot that all escalators had an emergency stop button. I grabbed the black hand rail and pushed with all my might, trying to make it go backwards so my sister could pull her hand out. The rubber slid through my hands. I couldn't stop it. I tried pushing harder. No results. I was starting to panic. I looked around and saw that we had drawn a crowd. My sister said, again quite calmly, "This really hurts. Could someone get my hand out?"
I knew there was an easy way to stop the escalator, but I couldn't remember how. It sat, nagging, in the back of my head. Visions of my mom telling us about the accidents she had witnessed while working at this very store popped into my head; but I couldn't remember the easy way to make the belt stop. I kicked the hand rail, thinking the jolt would trigger some hidden stopping device, then I stepped back to appraise the situation. I thought that just pulling her hand out would hurt it worse, so I looked at the crowd of adults for help. J said again, "This really hurts. Could someone help me?" The grown ups were so far away. There was a huge space between us and them. J's hand was slowly getting sucked deeper into the machine. The whole hand was buried now, and I couldn't stop the belt. I pleadingly said, "Help us. Please help my sister."
The crowd just stared. Then a man leapt from the crowd like Superman. He was of medium height. He was neither fat nor thin. He had a brown beard with a little bit of grey here and there. He was wearing a tie, but no jacket. He had blue eyes. I'll never forget him.
He didn't pause as I mentally photographed him. He went straight to my sister, grabbed her arm and yanked her hand free.
For a few seconds, the world slowed down. I had plenty of time to see the bloody, mangled mess if my sister's hand. I thought I could see some bone on two of her fingers. I completely lost control of myself. I felt faint, and I sat down cross-legged and started crying into my hands. I couldn't stop crying. My mind calmly stated, "You're having hysterics." Then, "This is what hysterics is like. J needs you. Help J." But I couldn't do anything except cry into my hands.
An employee came over and made me stand up. Then he (she? That part is gone from my memory) took my sister away. The man who saved my sister looked into my face and said, in the most gentle voice I'd ever heard, "Her hand is fine. They took her to (don't remember) floor. This man is going to take you to her. She'll be alright."
Someone led me to a service elevator. I looked back as we headed away from the crowd, but the man with the beard was gone. I never got to thank him, and he'll never know the end of the story. -but you will-
They took my sister to the nurses office and poured iodine on her hand. I sat on a chair in the dimly lit hallway, listening to her scream. The employee who brought me to the nurses hall sat with me for a little bit. He kept asking me, "Are you ok?" I kept telling him that I was. It was a lie, of course. I was not ok. I suggested that he had better things to do than sit with a kid, and eventually he went away.
A lot of this is blurry for me, and I'm sorry I can't share every excruciating detail. Really.
I remember the nurse asking J for mom's phone number. I vaguely recall hearing that mom was on her way. The only bits that come back to me with any intensity are me biting the heels of my hands every time I heard my sister cry out, and how incredibly lonely it was in the corridor.
Mom showed up after what seemed an eternity, but couldn't have been more than 15 minutes. She was a little winded; she had just run 6 blocks in high heels. She Looked at me, said, "Thank God you're alright," and went into the room where they were taking care of J.
I wish I could remember the reaming she gave the people on the other side of the door, but I can't. It's a shame. I'm sure her words were choice. I waited some more, feeling lost and unloved; with nothing but the walls for company. I tried to be mature about the whole thing. I was unhurt, my sister was in agony. Of course mom was going to rush to the injured child. I didn't expect her to take care of me too, but I really wanted to hear her say, "It's not your fault."
Mom called a cab to take us to Cardinal Glennon hospital. She and J came out, and we took the service elevator to the first floor. My sister's hand was heavily bandaged, and a little bit of blood was starting to seep through. We were escorted to the entrance, and waited for the cab on the sidewalk.
At the hospital, we were greeted by one of the owners of Royal Papers. He had brought along his brother, who was a lawyer. The lawyer didn't usually work in personal injury, but he thought this was worthy of a lawsuit. He explained that Famous Barr would not correct the escalator problem unless it went to court. He told mom that my sister was the perfect way to make sure something like this didn't happen to anyone else.
My sister's hand was photographed, x-rayed, splinted and re-bandaged. She was seen by a specialist, who declared that she would lose her middle fingernail, but should have full use of her hand. The lawyer waited while all this was going on, and he drove us home.
J's fingernail did come off, and she grew a new one. For a while, the nail was only attached on one side. She would chase me through the house, opening and closing her fingernail like it was a door. I'd run away screaming, "You're gross, you're so gross!"
We took Famous to small claims court, and won easily. When my sister testified, it was a sight to see. She was an A-B student with a big vocabulary and a lot of poise. She sat in the witness chair, swinging her feet and looking cute as can be. The judge was incensed that such a thing could happen to such a bright girl. He was also pissed at my mom. He told her she should have taken the case to civil court and asked for millions. Mom said, "I don't want millions. I just want Famous Barr to use safe escalators."
The judge awarded us the maximum amount allowed, $1600. He also ordered Famous to replace or repair the escalator in question. A few years later, we went shopping there, and noticed big rubber pads tied to the base of the hand rail. You would have to work hard to get your hand in there now. They never replaced the escalators that had been installed in the 1920's. My sister has scars for the rest of her life, and Famous Barr is out $1600, a few dozen foam pads, and our insurance co-pay. Woo-de-hoo.
On a brighter note. My sister works in the medical field now. She's a PA, certified for surgery. She does everything a doctor does, except write prescriptions. Missouri doesn't allow PA's to write scrips. She's damn good at her job, and I'm friggin' proud of her.
Friday, November 21, 2003
I wasn't always this sane
(Oh, the places I could go with a title like that...)
Turns out, I'm going somewhere really gross. Don't read this if you're faint of heart, or don't like pain. I warned you.
When you grow up in a neighborhood like mine, it tends to be stressful; and stress does weird things to people. Stress takes whatever little idiosyncrasies one has and turns them into full blown wrongness.
One of my idiosyncrasies is how I hate my body. Not my whole body, just one little piece of it at a time. For a while, I hated my nose. It was too cute. It ended in a little round ball. It was covered in freckles. (um, yeah. Redhead=freckles.) One month my legs would be too skinny, the next my skin would be too pale. You know, standard body dismorphic stuff. I never did anything stupid about it, just grumbled into the mirror when I thought nobody was looking.
That is, I never did anything stupid until I started hating my hair. One day, I'll post a picture of my hair, and you'll understand. But until I get around to that, you'll have to accept a description instead.
My hair is thick and curly and orange. It wouldn't feather, like Farrah Fawcetts. It wouldn't spike, like Cyndi Laupers. It had a mind of it's own, and all it wanted to do was puff.
One day I got sick of looking at my bushy orange hair, so I decided to cut it. This was shortly after I had liberally doused my hair with Sun-In, and learned that peroxide turns red hair day-glo orange. I didn't have the money for a hair cut, so I got the scissors out and started chopping at it myself. I was upset at the neon effect, I was on my period, and I was crying. What with all the internal chaos, I cut rather sloppily, and accidentally snipped off the very tip of my ring finger.
(I'll wait while you cringe in horror)
.
.
.
You can't really tell. It was just a few millimeters of skin, and I didn't actually cut it all the way through. It still had a tiny bit that was connected, so when I realized what I had stupidly just done, and ran cold water over it, the bit of skin flapped around.
I stopped running water over my finger, because that was just creepy. Then it started to hurt, and my god, the pain was unlike anything I could remember. I knew I needed stitches, but I also knew what mom would say.
"You don't need stitches. We'll sit in the emergency room all day waiting, and those doctors should be seeing people who need them."
So I grabbed a band-aid and tried to stick the flap of skin back on. This was a miserable failure, of course. The band-aid would slip around, pulling the skin with it. It hurt like crazy, and was freaky too. I tried using 3 band-aids instead, One to hold the flap, and 2 to hold the flap holding band-aid. I promptly bled through all of them.
I went and showed my finger to my sister, hoping for some moral support, or maybe just a way to fix it. Her help came in the form of a question, "What did you go and do that for?" Then she rolled her eyes like I had done it for the attention.
We had some gauze and paper tape, so I wrapped my finger in gauze and made a little cast for it out of the tape. That worked pretty well. The finger bit still hurt so badly I wanted to just stop feeling anything, but the mini cast protected it from being jarred. Unfortunately, my little protective device wasn't breathable. My finger started to sweat, then it got all pruny. After a few days of incarceration, it started to smell like feet.
I decided to let it breathe several times a day, because bactine just wasn't killing the awful smell. In hindsight, letting it breathe probably saved me from the joys of gangrene. That might have been my only bright moment that week.
I kept expecting the little flap of skin to turn black and fall off. Like an umbilical cord, or my sister's fingernail when she got her hand caught in the escalator. But it didn't turn black. It knitted itself back to my finger. It's kind of funny, I have a little 3mmx5mm oval of skin, complete with fingerprint lines, surrounded by scar tissue. I don't have much feeling in that bit of skin. I can feel pressure and pain, but not heat or cold. I used to freak out my friends by poking it with a needle, pretending that it didn't hurt. (Lord knows why. Stupid teenager tricks, perhaps?) When I think about it, (or write about it, like here) the fingertip tingles.
The moral of the story:
Don't let your kids stay home alone. They will do stupid things and not tell you about them.
(Oh, the places I could go with a title like that...)
Turns out, I'm going somewhere really gross. Don't read this if you're faint of heart, or don't like pain. I warned you.
When you grow up in a neighborhood like mine, it tends to be stressful; and stress does weird things to people. Stress takes whatever little idiosyncrasies one has and turns them into full blown wrongness.
One of my idiosyncrasies is how I hate my body. Not my whole body, just one little piece of it at a time. For a while, I hated my nose. It was too cute. It ended in a little round ball. It was covered in freckles. (um, yeah. Redhead=freckles.) One month my legs would be too skinny, the next my skin would be too pale. You know, standard body dismorphic stuff. I never did anything stupid about it, just grumbled into the mirror when I thought nobody was looking.
That is, I never did anything stupid until I started hating my hair. One day, I'll post a picture of my hair, and you'll understand. But until I get around to that, you'll have to accept a description instead.
My hair is thick and curly and orange. It wouldn't feather, like Farrah Fawcetts. It wouldn't spike, like Cyndi Laupers. It had a mind of it's own, and all it wanted to do was puff.
One day I got sick of looking at my bushy orange hair, so I decided to cut it. This was shortly after I had liberally doused my hair with Sun-In, and learned that peroxide turns red hair day-glo orange. I didn't have the money for a hair cut, so I got the scissors out and started chopping at it myself. I was upset at the neon effect, I was on my period, and I was crying. What with all the internal chaos, I cut rather sloppily, and accidentally snipped off the very tip of my ring finger.
(I'll wait while you cringe in horror)
.
.
.
You can't really tell. It was just a few millimeters of skin, and I didn't actually cut it all the way through. It still had a tiny bit that was connected, so when I realized what I had stupidly just done, and ran cold water over it, the bit of skin flapped around.
I stopped running water over my finger, because that was just creepy. Then it started to hurt, and my god, the pain was unlike anything I could remember. I knew I needed stitches, but I also knew what mom would say.
"You don't need stitches. We'll sit in the emergency room all day waiting, and those doctors should be seeing people who need them."
So I grabbed a band-aid and tried to stick the flap of skin back on. This was a miserable failure, of course. The band-aid would slip around, pulling the skin with it. It hurt like crazy, and was freaky too. I tried using 3 band-aids instead, One to hold the flap, and 2 to hold the flap holding band-aid. I promptly bled through all of them.
I went and showed my finger to my sister, hoping for some moral support, or maybe just a way to fix it. Her help came in the form of a question, "What did you go and do that for?" Then she rolled her eyes like I had done it for the attention.
We had some gauze and paper tape, so I wrapped my finger in gauze and made a little cast for it out of the tape. That worked pretty well. The finger bit still hurt so badly I wanted to just stop feeling anything, but the mini cast protected it from being jarred. Unfortunately, my little protective device wasn't breathable. My finger started to sweat, then it got all pruny. After a few days of incarceration, it started to smell like feet.
I decided to let it breathe several times a day, because bactine just wasn't killing the awful smell. In hindsight, letting it breathe probably saved me from the joys of gangrene. That might have been my only bright moment that week.
I kept expecting the little flap of skin to turn black and fall off. Like an umbilical cord, or my sister's fingernail when she got her hand caught in the escalator. But it didn't turn black. It knitted itself back to my finger. It's kind of funny, I have a little 3mmx5mm oval of skin, complete with fingerprint lines, surrounded by scar tissue. I don't have much feeling in that bit of skin. I can feel pressure and pain, but not heat or cold. I used to freak out my friends by poking it with a needle, pretending that it didn't hurt. (Lord knows why. Stupid teenager tricks, perhaps?) When I think about it, (or write about it, like here) the fingertip tingles.
The moral of the story:
Don't let your kids stay home alone. They will do stupid things and not tell you about them.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Marathon Chess
As I grew older, I spent more and more time on activities that separated me from the rest of the neighborhood. I stopped visiting the game room, where we used to hang out by the jukebox and burn each other's butts with lighters. (a variation of a hot-foot, I guess) I ceased going to neighbors' garages, to look vapid while actually learning to fix cars. No longer did I drive my friends around, yelling Wooo at cute guys. Instead, I made some new friends; and we taught each other to play chess.
I had experimented with chess before, of course. All those different pieces, each one having it's own way of moving, fascinated me. But previous forays into the world of chess involved me sitting on some guys lap and moving the pieces wherever he told me to. Sad as it sounds, I felt priveledged to touch those lovely rooks, bishops and knights. (yeah, the pawns get no respect) I believed that if I were well behaved enough, one day someone might actually teach me to play. It didn't happen that way; I remained "the piece mover" until we broke up.
Months later, I spied a chess set at a friends' house. It was sitting in a corner, sandwiched between some other board games. I asked, "You know how to play chess? He said, "Yeah, but I'm not real good." He had barely gotten the "yeah" part out, when I pounced on him saying, "You'll teach me, right?"
He probably would have taught me without me using my feminine wiles on him, but I was a teenager; and I figured it couldn't hurt.
So I learned to play chess, and pretty soon, we were teaching others in our group to play too. One by one, we bought our own chess boards; and pretty soon we had 3 different sets taking up residence in my friend's apartment. That was how marathon chess was born.
We would all meet at Dennis's house and start playing. We didn't have timers or anything, but as long as you were winning, you got to keep your seat. The fun was in the playing, and the challenge was to hold the most comfortable seat for as long as you could. If you lost, you had to get up and wait for another game. The wait was never very long, for we played speed chess. Most games lasted less than 10 minutes.
If a game ran long, everyone would leave their tables and stand around watching us. I say 'us' because the long matches were usually between me and my bestest friend, Jon. Not always, but usually.
People would watch, because it wasn't the normal -stare at the board for 5 minutes, then slowly move your piece- kind of match. It was more like a 30 second pause, move your piece, flash a devilishly triumphant grin, wait for the dawning light of doom to hit them, then cuss loudly as your opponent makes the one move you didn't see.
It wasn't about winning, so much as it was about winning quickly, so you could tackle a fresh opponent. "New victim... fresh meat... gotta play!"
We were chess junkies.
As I grew older, I spent more and more time on activities that separated me from the rest of the neighborhood. I stopped visiting the game room, where we used to hang out by the jukebox and burn each other's butts with lighters. (a variation of a hot-foot, I guess) I ceased going to neighbors' garages, to look vapid while actually learning to fix cars. No longer did I drive my friends around, yelling Wooo at cute guys. Instead, I made some new friends; and we taught each other to play chess.
I had experimented with chess before, of course. All those different pieces, each one having it's own way of moving, fascinated me. But previous forays into the world of chess involved me sitting on some guys lap and moving the pieces wherever he told me to. Sad as it sounds, I felt priveledged to touch those lovely rooks, bishops and knights. (yeah, the pawns get no respect) I believed that if I were well behaved enough, one day someone might actually teach me to play. It didn't happen that way; I remained "the piece mover" until we broke up.
Months later, I spied a chess set at a friends' house. It was sitting in a corner, sandwiched between some other board games. I asked, "You know how to play chess? He said, "Yeah, but I'm not real good." He had barely gotten the "yeah" part out, when I pounced on him saying, "You'll teach me, right?"
He probably would have taught me without me using my feminine wiles on him, but I was a teenager; and I figured it couldn't hurt.
So I learned to play chess, and pretty soon, we were teaching others in our group to play too. One by one, we bought our own chess boards; and pretty soon we had 3 different sets taking up residence in my friend's apartment. That was how marathon chess was born.
We would all meet at Dennis's house and start playing. We didn't have timers or anything, but as long as you were winning, you got to keep your seat. The fun was in the playing, and the challenge was to hold the most comfortable seat for as long as you could. If you lost, you had to get up and wait for another game. The wait was never very long, for we played speed chess. Most games lasted less than 10 minutes.
If a game ran long, everyone would leave their tables and stand around watching us. I say 'us' because the long matches were usually between me and my bestest friend, Jon. Not always, but usually.
People would watch, because it wasn't the normal -stare at the board for 5 minutes, then slowly move your piece- kind of match. It was more like a 30 second pause, move your piece, flash a devilishly triumphant grin, wait for the dawning light of doom to hit them, then cuss loudly as your opponent makes the one move you didn't see.
It wasn't about winning, so much as it was about winning quickly, so you could tackle a fresh opponent. "New victim... fresh meat... gotta play!"
We were chess junkies.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
The little girl who lived downstairs
I find that I can not write this story in my usual vivid style, but I want it told because it speaks volumes about the "protect the children, adults can fend for themselves" mentality of my neighborhood. So here's the story in it's more concise form:
The downstairs neighbors had 4 children, 3 girls and a boy. The youngest girl was 5 years old when she disappeared from the yard. She was found wandering down our street several hours later, in shock. The heroin dealer who lived by Tower Grove park had swiped her, violated her, and left her to find her own way home. The little girl who lived downstairs had some great uncles. They took care of the matter. The heroin dealer does not sell drugs anymore. His body was pulled out of the Mississippi River. The cops never bothered to look for his murderers, and I'm glad.
I find that I can not write this story in my usual vivid style, but I want it told because it speaks volumes about the "protect the children, adults can fend for themselves" mentality of my neighborhood. So here's the story in it's more concise form:
The downstairs neighbors had 4 children, 3 girls and a boy. The youngest girl was 5 years old when she disappeared from the yard. She was found wandering down our street several hours later, in shock. The heroin dealer who lived by Tower Grove park had swiped her, violated her, and left her to find her own way home. The little girl who lived downstairs had some great uncles. They took care of the matter. The heroin dealer does not sell drugs anymore. His body was pulled out of the Mississippi River. The cops never bothered to look for his murderers, and I'm glad.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
The neighbors downstairs
December in St. Louis is usually annoyingly cold and snowless. We rarely had a white Christmas. What little snow we did get would melt quickly, since the usual December high was 45 degrees. I used to head off to school with a dusting of snow making the world look like it was covered in diamonds, my hair freezing solid; but on the walk home at 3:00, the snow would be gone and the streets would be dry. Typical St. Louis winter.
One Christmas eve, we got blessed with a warm snap. Literally. It was the usual freezing bitterness on the 23rd, then bam! 75 degrees the next day. It was great until the hoosiers started drinking. We were kept up half the night with the party downstairs. It seems their entire family and a keg of beer had crammed themselves into the 4 room apartment below us. Of course, with the weather so nice, they were drinking on the porch too. The next morning, as mom was refusing to let us wear shorts to Christmas mass, our downstairs neighbors started arguing. Mom said, "Damn this weather! They always do that!"
Which was true, Hoosiers do always drink and fight when it gets warm. We went to church (in dresses, mom always wins) and changed into shorts the second we got home. We were just beginning to open our presents when the fighting downstairs spilled out onto the front porch. I actually stopped unwrapping to listen to big Ken (the father) fight with little Ken (his brother-in-law). The fight had been going on for nearly 2 hours by this time. I think they had taken breaks to drink more beer, though.
Mom sort of growled, and went for the phone. She had a feeling she'd be calling the cops pretty soon. Sure enough, she had barely gotten the phone in her hand when big Ken threw little Ken (Kenny) through our storm door. Glass went everywhere; a good portion went into Kenny's neck and back. At least big Ken hadn't thrown him head first.
Mom was livid. She forgot about the phone and stormed downstairs with a broom and dustpan. Knowing her, she was probably going to make both men clean up the broken glass. My sister and I rushed downstairs too. This action was too good to miss!
Big Ken had gone back into his house and Kenny was sitting in the middle of the porch, drunkenly trying to pick glass out of his shoulders. Mom kind of deflated and started picking up the glass herself. She ignored the little drops of blood everywhere. She ignored Kenny, too.
Kenny gave up trying to evict his glass and went inside to apologize. Apparently he had called Ken a "fat fuck" in front of the kids, then compounded it by disparaging Ken's ability to buy Christmas presents for his family.
(I don't think the children were traumatized from hearing their Uncle call their dad names nearly as much as they were traumatized by the bloody fight afterward. But that's just me. After all, who beats the snot out of someone -in front of their kids- for saying something they shouldn't have said in front of the kids? Hoosiers, that's who.)
We could hear the whole thing, of course. In 80 degree heat, you know every window was open. Kenny apologized profusely while his sister pried glass out of his body with a pair of tweezers.
Mom finished with the glass and sat on the porch smoking, waiting for everything to die down. Eventually Ken came outside and mom showed him the dustpan full of glass. He said, "What happened?"
He had no recollection of throwing his brother-in-law through our storm door.
He was a good guy in general. He replaced our glass and everything. The sucky part for me is that I still can't remember what I got for Christmas that year.
December in St. Louis is usually annoyingly cold and snowless. We rarely had a white Christmas. What little snow we did get would melt quickly, since the usual December high was 45 degrees. I used to head off to school with a dusting of snow making the world look like it was covered in diamonds, my hair freezing solid; but on the walk home at 3:00, the snow would be gone and the streets would be dry. Typical St. Louis winter.
One Christmas eve, we got blessed with a warm snap. Literally. It was the usual freezing bitterness on the 23rd, then bam! 75 degrees the next day. It was great until the hoosiers started drinking. We were kept up half the night with the party downstairs. It seems their entire family and a keg of beer had crammed themselves into the 4 room apartment below us. Of course, with the weather so nice, they were drinking on the porch too. The next morning, as mom was refusing to let us wear shorts to Christmas mass, our downstairs neighbors started arguing. Mom said, "Damn this weather! They always do that!"
Which was true, Hoosiers do always drink and fight when it gets warm. We went to church (in dresses, mom always wins) and changed into shorts the second we got home. We were just beginning to open our presents when the fighting downstairs spilled out onto the front porch. I actually stopped unwrapping to listen to big Ken (the father) fight with little Ken (his brother-in-law). The fight had been going on for nearly 2 hours by this time. I think they had taken breaks to drink more beer, though.
Mom sort of growled, and went for the phone. She had a feeling she'd be calling the cops pretty soon. Sure enough, she had barely gotten the phone in her hand when big Ken threw little Ken (Kenny) through our storm door. Glass went everywhere; a good portion went into Kenny's neck and back. At least big Ken hadn't thrown him head first.
Mom was livid. She forgot about the phone and stormed downstairs with a broom and dustpan. Knowing her, she was probably going to make both men clean up the broken glass. My sister and I rushed downstairs too. This action was too good to miss!
Big Ken had gone back into his house and Kenny was sitting in the middle of the porch, drunkenly trying to pick glass out of his shoulders. Mom kind of deflated and started picking up the glass herself. She ignored the little drops of blood everywhere. She ignored Kenny, too.
Kenny gave up trying to evict his glass and went inside to apologize. Apparently he had called Ken a "fat fuck" in front of the kids, then compounded it by disparaging Ken's ability to buy Christmas presents for his family.
(I don't think the children were traumatized from hearing their Uncle call their dad names nearly as much as they were traumatized by the bloody fight afterward. But that's just me. After all, who beats the snot out of someone -in front of their kids- for saying something they shouldn't have said in front of the kids? Hoosiers, that's who.)
We could hear the whole thing, of course. In 80 degree heat, you know every window was open. Kenny apologized profusely while his sister pried glass out of his body with a pair of tweezers.
Mom finished with the glass and sat on the porch smoking, waiting for everything to die down. Eventually Ken came outside and mom showed him the dustpan full of glass. He said, "What happened?"
He had no recollection of throwing his brother-in-law through our storm door.
He was a good guy in general. He replaced our glass and everything. The sucky part for me is that I still can't remember what I got for Christmas that year.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
This is neat
The Open Directory Project is the largest, most comprehensive human-edited directory of the Web. It is constructed and maintained by a vast, global community of volunteer editors.
and it's pretty durned cool, too. How would you like to search for a blog or journal about, say... shamanism, without having to look at stupid ads or web-crawler sites? I sure would. Go Netscape!
The Open Directory Project is the largest, most comprehensive human-edited directory of the Web. It is constructed and maintained by a vast, global community of volunteer editors.
and it's pretty durned cool, too. How would you like to search for a blog or journal about, say... shamanism, without having to look at stupid ads or web-crawler sites? I sure would. Go Netscape!
Monday, November 03, 2003
Halloween
October 31st was my favorite day of the year. The week preceeding Halloween was filled with the planning, then making of a costume, carefully plotting out the most efficient candy routes, and listening to mom tell us at least twice a day which houses we must not visit.
When I was 5 and my sister was 6, we dressed as gypsies. We didn't tell jokes, we had a little chant instead. "We are gypsies, young and bold. Would you like your fortune told? Simply cross our palms with gold." I can't believe I still remember that, 29 years later.
Over the years, my sister and I have dressed as many odd things. Bloody ghosts (red wax on an old white sheet), pumpkins, hippies, ghouls, you name it -we probably tried to be it. Mom vetoed most of our costume ideas as being too revealing, like the year I found her old suede miniskirt. She shot that one down really fast. She pulled out a long sleeved monstrosity for me to wear in it's place, then had fits because it was form-fitting. That year I wound up dressing as a bunch of grapes. Mom was really trying to ignore the fact that I had developed a figure. My sister on the other hand, got to dress as a mummy. J was a small B cup, whereas I was a very full C. So J got to wrap herself in crepe paper, while I got stuck with purple balloons safety pinned all over a leotard. I felt really stupid, but it made Mom happy, so Fruit Of The Loom I was. (sigh)
Trick or treating was a 3 hour affair for us. We'd hit California, travel west on Magnolia, turn north on Nebraska, east on Sidney, then head for Grandma's neighborhood. Some of the people near Grandma gave out fabulous candy. There was one house, over on Texas, that gave out an entire lunchbag of nifty stuff. The problem was in digging up the courage to fetch it. The house was a standard 2-story flat-roofed rectangle. It was surrounded by thorn bushes, with a little brick path leading to the house. The whole place was shrouded in darkness, except for one tiny outdoor light on the second floor. The only way to reach that minuscule beacon of safety was a rickety iron staircase. It was probably meant as a fire escape. At the top of the stairs, set in the doorway was a box full of lunch bags, and a sign reading, "Take one, please." It was worth every ounce of adrenaline when we opened the bag and saw full sized Hershey bars, whole handfulls of Brach's caramels, and usually a shiny red apple. The year I was grapes, I fell into the thorn bushes, and popped all the ballons on my butt and side. So for the rest of my trick or treating, I was a half eaten bunch of grapes.
The next year, I dressed as a vampiress. I wore my friend's red velvet ball gown, and she wore my mom's black velvet dress with silver buttons. Note to the unwise -cleavage does not get you more candy.
We were heading home for our parents to check our candy haul, when a cop car came cruising slowly up the street.
-Let me break here to explain a bit about St. Louis City cops in the 1980's... Prostitution was rampant in our neighborhood. The cops would "arrest" the prostitutes, but let them go half and hour later when they had gotten a freebie. Also, most of the people in my neighborhood had been arrested at one time or another, so nobody really trusted the police. They were never there when you needed them, they didn't keep the streets safe, and they'd bust you for looking at them -if they thought you had enough cash on hand to bribe them.-
So, when the cops stopped along side us, my friend was shaking with fear. I told her the cops were the good guys, they wouldn't hurt us. She didn't believe me so I said I'd do the talking. It went like this:
cops- How you doing tonight?
me- Fine. How are you?
cops- Isn't it a bit late to be out walking the streets?
me- It's not even 9 o'clock.
cops- you're a bit old to be trick or treating... I think you're doing business. You know, we don't put up with that kind of shit around here, so why don'y you two just put your pretty asses in the car? (cop then goes to open his door)
At this point (always thinking on my feet, I am) I walk up to the car, lean over so they get a good look at my cleavage and say,
me: You think we're prostitutes? I'm 13 years old! So unless you want to see how fast my mom can press charges for statutory rape, you'd better move on!
cops: I don't believe you.
me: Well, my mom is standing right there (pointing to mom, 4 houses away and moving toward us) So why don't you ask her?
cops: We'll do that.
Then they drove away.
I was outraged. Mom was outraged when I told her, too.
Of course, my friend had a way of drawing trouble, and eventually I learned that the best way to avoid trouble was to be where she wasn't.
October 31st was my favorite day of the year. The week preceeding Halloween was filled with the planning, then making of a costume, carefully plotting out the most efficient candy routes, and listening to mom tell us at least twice a day which houses we must not visit.
When I was 5 and my sister was 6, we dressed as gypsies. We didn't tell jokes, we had a little chant instead. "We are gypsies, young and bold. Would you like your fortune told? Simply cross our palms with gold." I can't believe I still remember that, 29 years later.
Over the years, my sister and I have dressed as many odd things. Bloody ghosts (red wax on an old white sheet), pumpkins, hippies, ghouls, you name it -we probably tried to be it. Mom vetoed most of our costume ideas as being too revealing, like the year I found her old suede miniskirt. She shot that one down really fast. She pulled out a long sleeved monstrosity for me to wear in it's place, then had fits because it was form-fitting. That year I wound up dressing as a bunch of grapes. Mom was really trying to ignore the fact that I had developed a figure. My sister on the other hand, got to dress as a mummy. J was a small B cup, whereas I was a very full C. So J got to wrap herself in crepe paper, while I got stuck with purple balloons safety pinned all over a leotard. I felt really stupid, but it made Mom happy, so Fruit Of The Loom I was. (sigh)
Trick or treating was a 3 hour affair for us. We'd hit California, travel west on Magnolia, turn north on Nebraska, east on Sidney, then head for Grandma's neighborhood. Some of the people near Grandma gave out fabulous candy. There was one house, over on Texas, that gave out an entire lunchbag of nifty stuff. The problem was in digging up the courage to fetch it. The house was a standard 2-story flat-roofed rectangle. It was surrounded by thorn bushes, with a little brick path leading to the house. The whole place was shrouded in darkness, except for one tiny outdoor light on the second floor. The only way to reach that minuscule beacon of safety was a rickety iron staircase. It was probably meant as a fire escape. At the top of the stairs, set in the doorway was a box full of lunch bags, and a sign reading, "Take one, please." It was worth every ounce of adrenaline when we opened the bag and saw full sized Hershey bars, whole handfulls of Brach's caramels, and usually a shiny red apple. The year I was grapes, I fell into the thorn bushes, and popped all the ballons on my butt and side. So for the rest of my trick or treating, I was a half eaten bunch of grapes.
The next year, I dressed as a vampiress. I wore my friend's red velvet ball gown, and she wore my mom's black velvet dress with silver buttons. Note to the unwise -cleavage does not get you more candy.
We were heading home for our parents to check our candy haul, when a cop car came cruising slowly up the street.
-Let me break here to explain a bit about St. Louis City cops in the 1980's... Prostitution was rampant in our neighborhood. The cops would "arrest" the prostitutes, but let them go half and hour later when they had gotten a freebie. Also, most of the people in my neighborhood had been arrested at one time or another, so nobody really trusted the police. They were never there when you needed them, they didn't keep the streets safe, and they'd bust you for looking at them -if they thought you had enough cash on hand to bribe them.-
So, when the cops stopped along side us, my friend was shaking with fear. I told her the cops were the good guys, they wouldn't hurt us. She didn't believe me so I said I'd do the talking. It went like this:
cops- How you doing tonight?
me- Fine. How are you?
cops- Isn't it a bit late to be out walking the streets?
me- It's not even 9 o'clock.
cops- you're a bit old to be trick or treating... I think you're doing business. You know, we don't put up with that kind of shit around here, so why don'y you two just put your pretty asses in the car? (cop then goes to open his door)
At this point (always thinking on my feet, I am) I walk up to the car, lean over so they get a good look at my cleavage and say,
me: You think we're prostitutes? I'm 13 years old! So unless you want to see how fast my mom can press charges for statutory rape, you'd better move on!
cops: I don't believe you.
me: Well, my mom is standing right there (pointing to mom, 4 houses away and moving toward us) So why don't you ask her?
cops: We'll do that.
Then they drove away.
I was outraged. Mom was outraged when I told her, too.
Of course, my friend had a way of drawing trouble, and eventually I learned that the best way to avoid trouble was to be where she wasn't.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
Vendettas
The South Side Code included rules for vengance. It was generally "an eye for an eye" kind of thing, but a few actions went beyond those paramaters. The example I'm thinking of is when a very nice boy from a "mafia" family was found pistol-whipped nearly to death in a park. The whole neighborhood was abuzz with talk about how the L family would get their revenge on the R family. The dispute began before my time. Somebody did something to someone else, and forever afterwards the L's and R's were at war. All I knew was that fighting would occasionally flare up between the families, and we would have something to gossip about for a while. The pistol-whipping of a 15 year old boy was definately an escalation, though. He was a good kid. He didn't get involved in his family's vendetta, and he was handsome. At least he was until someone saw fit to bludgeon his face with the butt-end of a handgun.
Our downstairs neighbors were indirectly related to the R family, and they were a little worried because the boy was from the L family. For the next two weeks, the apartment below us was full of people. The whole clan was rotating shifts, protecting their home. At least once a day someone from the L family would drive down the street shouting threats. My neighbors would shout back, "There's little kids in here!" (that being the reason for the protection. Once you've crossed the invisible age barrier it's no-holds-barred) Then our neighbors would pile into their car and give chase. If it wasn't so scary, it would have been funny. Finally one night around 10 o'clock someone from the L's threw a brick at our window. They thought the cousins to the R's lived upstairs. Mom was pretty mad.
We had been watching the news when the car came roaring down the street. We heard the shouting, knew it would be over in a minute: then heard the brick break our window. Mom ran downstairs just in time to see a carload of stick-waving hoosiers dash off in pursuit of the L's. She went inside the downstairs apartment to comfort the mother and children that had been left behind. I think she did it so she wouldn't have to deal with the window yet. When the menfolk returned after their fruitless chase, she got out the duct tape and patched the window. Then mom sat down and studied the brick. She was still looking at it when I went to bed. I don't know what secrets she gleaned from the brick, but a few days later she and the brick went for a walk together. When she came back, she told us the problem was solved, and we didn't need to worry about any more problems with the L family.
Mom had a special gift for things like that. She could make people park their cars instead of sitting in the street and honking, and she could clear a bar fight with nothing but presence.
The South Side Code included rules for vengance. It was generally "an eye for an eye" kind of thing, but a few actions went beyond those paramaters. The example I'm thinking of is when a very nice boy from a "mafia" family was found pistol-whipped nearly to death in a park. The whole neighborhood was abuzz with talk about how the L family would get their revenge on the R family. The dispute began before my time. Somebody did something to someone else, and forever afterwards the L's and R's were at war. All I knew was that fighting would occasionally flare up between the families, and we would have something to gossip about for a while. The pistol-whipping of a 15 year old boy was definately an escalation, though. He was a good kid. He didn't get involved in his family's vendetta, and he was handsome. At least he was until someone saw fit to bludgeon his face with the butt-end of a handgun.
Our downstairs neighbors were indirectly related to the R family, and they were a little worried because the boy was from the L family. For the next two weeks, the apartment below us was full of people. The whole clan was rotating shifts, protecting their home. At least once a day someone from the L family would drive down the street shouting threats. My neighbors would shout back, "There's little kids in here!" (that being the reason for the protection. Once you've crossed the invisible age barrier it's no-holds-barred) Then our neighbors would pile into their car and give chase. If it wasn't so scary, it would have been funny. Finally one night around 10 o'clock someone from the L's threw a brick at our window. They thought the cousins to the R's lived upstairs. Mom was pretty mad.
We had been watching the news when the car came roaring down the street. We heard the shouting, knew it would be over in a minute: then heard the brick break our window. Mom ran downstairs just in time to see a carload of stick-waving hoosiers dash off in pursuit of the L's. She went inside the downstairs apartment to comfort the mother and children that had been left behind. I think she did it so she wouldn't have to deal with the window yet. When the menfolk returned after their fruitless chase, she got out the duct tape and patched the window. Then mom sat down and studied the brick. She was still looking at it when I went to bed. I don't know what secrets she gleaned from the brick, but a few days later she and the brick went for a walk together. When she came back, she told us the problem was solved, and we didn't need to worry about any more problems with the L family.
Mom had a special gift for things like that. She could make people park their cars instead of sitting in the street and honking, and she could clear a bar fight with nothing but presence.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Why I hate Spaghetti
Every Sunday, we had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa was born in Sicily, at the turn of the last Century. "Old Fashioned" doesn't even begin to describe him. He served in both World Wars, and was married twice. His first wife died in childbirth. Their son was stillborn. Grandma took cooking lessons from an old Sicilian woman, so she could prepare foods from his homeland. Every other day, she served Italian food, and Sunday was always spaghetti day. I ate spaghetti once a week for 13 years. I will never eat it again.
She would vary the meat to go with the spaghetti. One week we'd cut up 3-5 whole chickens, the next she'd make meatballs. When I was small, I shredded lettuce for the salad. As I grew, I progressed to cutting veggies, skinning tomatoes, and finally, butchering chickens. I'll never forget the day I cut up my first chicken. Grandpa had passed away by this time, so we were only disecting 4 birds. Aunt Petrina told Grandma I was old enough to help cut. They had a little argument, and then Petrina put a nice sharp butcher knife in my 9 year old hands.
I was delighted, but frightened at the same time. I'd seen how cleanly the knife sliced through the chicken. I'd seen how easily it went through the joint between the leg and thigh. And I'd seen numerous Aunts say, "Damn!" and rush off to bandage their hand, because the knife had slipped.
Petrina broke the shoulders of a chicken carcass and showed me where to start. I carefully cut out the wishbone, trying so hard not to crack it prematurely. I succeeded, only to break it as I tried to dislodge it from the breastbone. Petrina told me not to worry. It wasn't my fault. It was a "weak chicken". She said I'd probably need help with the legs too.
Doing the breasts and back were easy. The butcher knife slid right through the rib and back bones. It was easier than cutting cold butter. The legs, however, were a different matter. By the time I had gotten to that point, all the other chickens were done, and all 5 of my uncles were crowded in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching. I bent the "knee" of the bird over the knife blade, gave a good tug upwards and pop!, I had separated a leg from a thigh. Filled with triumph, I sliced off the other leg and went after the thigh.
If you've never cut up a chicken, let me tell you, there's a trick to removing the thighs. A trick which I didn't know at 9 years of age. You have to break the joint first. The knife wouldn't separate the joint. It slipped to one side, or slid to the other, and would not cut where it was supposed to. So, I sat at the kitchen table stubbornly sawing through the thigh bone. This stupid bird was not going to defeat me! I was totally engrossed in my work, and I didn't hear the smothered giggles of my Uncles at first. Aunt Petrina heard them, however; and she came to my rescue.
She said, "There's a faster way, honey." and picked up the chicken by the thighs. She held it up and gave a quick jerk with both hands, cleanly dislocating the joints. Well, dislocating the joint I hadn't been sawing away at, anyway. What was left of the other one wouldn't pop. I had mutiliated it too badly. She taught me how to wedge the knife between the joints properly, and press down to cut through it. About this time, Mom and J finished the salad and came to see what everyone was looking at. She screamed when she saw her "baby" had a butcher knife, and totally missed seeing me cut the last of the chicken. I triumphantly added the thigh to the pile on the table, just as Mom laid into Petrina for letting me grow up a bit.
That night, someone made sure I got the sorry, mutilated thigh for dinner.
Every Sunday, we had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa was born in Sicily, at the turn of the last Century. "Old Fashioned" doesn't even begin to describe him. He served in both World Wars, and was married twice. His first wife died in childbirth. Their son was stillborn. Grandma took cooking lessons from an old Sicilian woman, so she could prepare foods from his homeland. Every other day, she served Italian food, and Sunday was always spaghetti day. I ate spaghetti once a week for 13 years. I will never eat it again.
She would vary the meat to go with the spaghetti. One week we'd cut up 3-5 whole chickens, the next she'd make meatballs. When I was small, I shredded lettuce for the salad. As I grew, I progressed to cutting veggies, skinning tomatoes, and finally, butchering chickens. I'll never forget the day I cut up my first chicken. Grandpa had passed away by this time, so we were only disecting 4 birds. Aunt Petrina told Grandma I was old enough to help cut. They had a little argument, and then Petrina put a nice sharp butcher knife in my 9 year old hands.
I was delighted, but frightened at the same time. I'd seen how cleanly the knife sliced through the chicken. I'd seen how easily it went through the joint between the leg and thigh. And I'd seen numerous Aunts say, "Damn!" and rush off to bandage their hand, because the knife had slipped.
Petrina broke the shoulders of a chicken carcass and showed me where to start. I carefully cut out the wishbone, trying so hard not to crack it prematurely. I succeeded, only to break it as I tried to dislodge it from the breastbone. Petrina told me not to worry. It wasn't my fault. It was a "weak chicken". She said I'd probably need help with the legs too.
Doing the breasts and back were easy. The butcher knife slid right through the rib and back bones. It was easier than cutting cold butter. The legs, however, were a different matter. By the time I had gotten to that point, all the other chickens were done, and all 5 of my uncles were crowded in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching. I bent the "knee" of the bird over the knife blade, gave a good tug upwards and pop!, I had separated a leg from a thigh. Filled with triumph, I sliced off the other leg and went after the thigh.
If you've never cut up a chicken, let me tell you, there's a trick to removing the thighs. A trick which I didn't know at 9 years of age. You have to break the joint first. The knife wouldn't separate the joint. It slipped to one side, or slid to the other, and would not cut where it was supposed to. So, I sat at the kitchen table stubbornly sawing through the thigh bone. This stupid bird was not going to defeat me! I was totally engrossed in my work, and I didn't hear the smothered giggles of my Uncles at first. Aunt Petrina heard them, however; and she came to my rescue.
She said, "There's a faster way, honey." and picked up the chicken by the thighs. She held it up and gave a quick jerk with both hands, cleanly dislocating the joints. Well, dislocating the joint I hadn't been sawing away at, anyway. What was left of the other one wouldn't pop. I had mutiliated it too badly. She taught me how to wedge the knife between the joints properly, and press down to cut through it. About this time, Mom and J finished the salad and came to see what everyone was looking at. She screamed when she saw her "baby" had a butcher knife, and totally missed seeing me cut the last of the chicken. I triumphantly added the thigh to the pile on the table, just as Mom laid into Petrina for letting me grow up a bit.
That night, someone made sure I got the sorry, mutilated thigh for dinner.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Prison Tag
My 5th grade gym teacher taught us a game called "prison tag". The base form of the game is simple. Take a group of kids and split them into 2 teams. Team 1 are jailers, team 2 are prisoners. Everyone starts out standing in the designated jail space, then the prisoners "escape" while the jailers cover their eyes and count. When the count reaches 100, the jailers move out in pairs or groups to catch the escaped prisoners, leaving one person behind to guard the jail. If there's no guard, the prisoners are allowed to go free again. When a jailer touches a prisoner, they're caught, and must submit to being escorted back to jail. Once a prisoner is jailed, the only way out is to have a free prisoner pull him or her out of the designated jail space. When all escaped prisoners are caught, the teams switch sides and begin again. Simple!
When we became teenagers, my sister and I revived the game. The jail was our front porch. The play area was half a block, from the yellow line down the middle of California Ave. to the alley, and anywhere between Sidney street and the yellow brick Victorian house. There was no covering of the eyes, instead we marked 5 minutes on a watch. You were not allowed to climb trees, or go up on anyone's roof. Hiding in your house was also considered cheating.
The game was only played at night; when the white sodium streetlights cast nice, dark shadows. It was fun to hide, but it was even more fun to creep through the darkness, tingling with adrenaline, going quiet as a mouse as a seeker ran past you, or jumping out of your skin when you got caught. We became the masters of invisibility and stealth. I learned that with the proper shadows, you could hide in a 6 inch deep doorway. I learned to hide right out in the open, with jailers passing mere feet in front of me. Any patch of darkness would do, really. The trick was to quiet your presence.
As a jailer, I loved to startle the heck out of some kid in a near-trance of "I'm not here, you don't see me." I knew the best hiding spots, and I never failed to check them. We became so good at the game, that more often than not, we'd have to call a start-over after about 45 minutes. Kids would come creeping out of the strangest places to begin the next game. I remember when Joey had actually jammed himself up in the wheel well of a large car. He wasn't a big kid, but that was still impressive! Another favored hiding spot was the 10 inch space between my house and the bar next door. Kids would work their way almost to the roof, then start wriggling sideways toward the alley. We couldn't reach them to tag them, but they couldn't get out, either. Sometimes I'd hide in that same space, but I was smart. Everyone knew the climbing thing, so I'd get down on the ground instead. Nobody thought to look down, until I came out of there after "were starting over" was called. The gap between the buildings held decades of trash and several inches of compost. I guess it was disgusting. It never bothered me at the time.
Nobody wanted to be the kid left behind, so everyone joined in on shouting the all-clear. We were amazingly civil to each other. We all played by the rules, and there were no arguments. Prison Tag was so much fun, we played it 3 summers in a row.
My 5th grade gym teacher taught us a game called "prison tag". The base form of the game is simple. Take a group of kids and split them into 2 teams. Team 1 are jailers, team 2 are prisoners. Everyone starts out standing in the designated jail space, then the prisoners "escape" while the jailers cover their eyes and count. When the count reaches 100, the jailers move out in pairs or groups to catch the escaped prisoners, leaving one person behind to guard the jail. If there's no guard, the prisoners are allowed to go free again. When a jailer touches a prisoner, they're caught, and must submit to being escorted back to jail. Once a prisoner is jailed, the only way out is to have a free prisoner pull him or her out of the designated jail space. When all escaped prisoners are caught, the teams switch sides and begin again. Simple!
When we became teenagers, my sister and I revived the game. The jail was our front porch. The play area was half a block, from the yellow line down the middle of California Ave. to the alley, and anywhere between Sidney street and the yellow brick Victorian house. There was no covering of the eyes, instead we marked 5 minutes on a watch. You were not allowed to climb trees, or go up on anyone's roof. Hiding in your house was also considered cheating.
The game was only played at night; when the white sodium streetlights cast nice, dark shadows. It was fun to hide, but it was even more fun to creep through the darkness, tingling with adrenaline, going quiet as a mouse as a seeker ran past you, or jumping out of your skin when you got caught. We became the masters of invisibility and stealth. I learned that with the proper shadows, you could hide in a 6 inch deep doorway. I learned to hide right out in the open, with jailers passing mere feet in front of me. Any patch of darkness would do, really. The trick was to quiet your presence.
As a jailer, I loved to startle the heck out of some kid in a near-trance of "I'm not here, you don't see me." I knew the best hiding spots, and I never failed to check them. We became so good at the game, that more often than not, we'd have to call a start-over after about 45 minutes. Kids would come creeping out of the strangest places to begin the next game. I remember when Joey had actually jammed himself up in the wheel well of a large car. He wasn't a big kid, but that was still impressive! Another favored hiding spot was the 10 inch space between my house and the bar next door. Kids would work their way almost to the roof, then start wriggling sideways toward the alley. We couldn't reach them to tag them, but they couldn't get out, either. Sometimes I'd hide in that same space, but I was smart. Everyone knew the climbing thing, so I'd get down on the ground instead. Nobody thought to look down, until I came out of there after "were starting over" was called. The gap between the buildings held decades of trash and several inches of compost. I guess it was disgusting. It never bothered me at the time.
Nobody wanted to be the kid left behind, so everyone joined in on shouting the all-clear. We were amazingly civil to each other. We all played by the rules, and there were no arguments. Prison Tag was so much fun, we played it 3 summers in a row.
The Games We Played
We were really no different from children in better neighborhoods, in that we played games just like any other kid. The war games were a bit more intense, perhaps... and games played as teenagers were all about showing your strength and toughness... but we played like children around the world play. We rode our bikes and hung out at the park and did normal child like things. Then we got a little older, and started playing toughness games. I played jungle gym tag until I saw a boy take an 8 foot tumble and bust his head open. The park had 5 concrete sewer pipes in pretty pastel colors, laid out like a horseshoe with about 4 feet between each one. We would play tag on them. If your feet touched the ground you lost, and had to wait for the next game to begin. I got a lot of bruises that way. The city decided the tunnels were too dangerous, and had all but one of them removed. That would have been a big bummer, except they tore out a lot of other dangerous equipment at the same time and replaced it with brand new ways to kill ourselves. They built a structure out of what looked like giant railroad ties and steel bars. There were 3 layers of horizontal ladders connected by platforms. I think we were supposed to hang from the bars, but nobody did. We simply moved our tag game to the new site. The lowest rack was 6 feet off the ground, and they got progressively higher. We'd run along the 12 inch wide wooden tie, chasing the other kids and laughing like crazy. Some of the older children would run across the bars themselves. That was how I saw a kid crack his head open. He was running over the bars and his foot slipped. He fell backwards and smacked his back on the bars behind him. He kind of went limp and slipped through the bars. He tumbled a bit as he fell, and wound up hitting his head on the concrete below. We all stopped playing and stared at him. It took a bit before we saw that he was bleeding. Bright red blood was beginning to pool around his hair, and he wasn't moving. He must have knocked himself out. Nobody got down and helped him. We were all too afraid he was dead. We were speechless. He stirred, groaned, and in a flash his friends were around him helping him up. They half carried him home, and I never played tag on the monkey bars again.
We played street football, street frisbee and street soccer. We also played alleyball. To play alleyball you needed at least 2 people, something resembling a bat, something reasonably round and hard, and bases. Every Christmas, some kid would get a wiffle ball set. That would last for a month or so, and then we'd revert to using broomsticks, 2x4's or cast off pipes. Bases were easy, any rock or piece of trash would work. The number of bases varied depending on how much crap we could find in the alley. Likewise "balls" ranged from rocks to beach balls, depending upon what was available that day.
We were really no different from children in better neighborhoods, in that we played games just like any other kid. The war games were a bit more intense, perhaps... and games played as teenagers were all about showing your strength and toughness... but we played like children around the world play. We rode our bikes and hung out at the park and did normal child like things. Then we got a little older, and started playing toughness games. I played jungle gym tag until I saw a boy take an 8 foot tumble and bust his head open. The park had 5 concrete sewer pipes in pretty pastel colors, laid out like a horseshoe with about 4 feet between each one. We would play tag on them. If your feet touched the ground you lost, and had to wait for the next game to begin. I got a lot of bruises that way. The city decided the tunnels were too dangerous, and had all but one of them removed. That would have been a big bummer, except they tore out a lot of other dangerous equipment at the same time and replaced it with brand new ways to kill ourselves. They built a structure out of what looked like giant railroad ties and steel bars. There were 3 layers of horizontal ladders connected by platforms. I think we were supposed to hang from the bars, but nobody did. We simply moved our tag game to the new site. The lowest rack was 6 feet off the ground, and they got progressively higher. We'd run along the 12 inch wide wooden tie, chasing the other kids and laughing like crazy. Some of the older children would run across the bars themselves. That was how I saw a kid crack his head open. He was running over the bars and his foot slipped. He fell backwards and smacked his back on the bars behind him. He kind of went limp and slipped through the bars. He tumbled a bit as he fell, and wound up hitting his head on the concrete below. We all stopped playing and stared at him. It took a bit before we saw that he was bleeding. Bright red blood was beginning to pool around his hair, and he wasn't moving. He must have knocked himself out. Nobody got down and helped him. We were all too afraid he was dead. We were speechless. He stirred, groaned, and in a flash his friends were around him helping him up. They half carried him home, and I never played tag on the monkey bars again.
We played street football, street frisbee and street soccer. We also played alleyball. To play alleyball you needed at least 2 people, something resembling a bat, something reasonably round and hard, and bases. Every Christmas, some kid would get a wiffle ball set. That would last for a month or so, and then we'd revert to using broomsticks, 2x4's or cast off pipes. Bases were easy, any rock or piece of trash would work. The number of bases varied depending on how much crap we could find in the alley. Likewise "balls" ranged from rocks to beach balls, depending upon what was available that day.
Monday, September 29, 2003
A reposting of Wednesday is Dumpster Day with bright and shiny new editing
Every school morning, sis and I would leave the house and walk 3 blocks to Notre Dame Elementary, where we went to school. Every morning our route would take us past the place where men loaded their food trucks. My mom called them roach coaches, so I’d always look for roaches crawling over the ice in the bins. The men would offload expired packaged food, take on fresh packaged food, and head off for their routes to feed hungry construction workers. Most days, the men would give the expired food to the line of homeless people waiting in the alley.
Wednesday, however, was dumpster day. The manager would stand and watch while the food went from the trucks to the dumpster. He wouldn’t let the drivers give any of it away. He would try to shoo off the homeless people by yelling at them. “Get away from here! Get outta that dumpster! You're trespassing! I'm gonna call the cops!” He would yell.
In the summertime, we would see them camped out in the alley waiting for the manager to go off-shift, while all that food rotted in the sun. The waste always bothered me. There was a shift change at 11 o'clock, and the homeless people would help each other into the dumpster after the Wednesday manager had left. We could hear the hollow echo of their voices coming from the dumpster, "This samwitch looks ok." or "Shit, all this crap's rotten."
By noon, they would have faded away to wherever homeless people go; but we would see them again at night staking out their turf, or riding the California (avenue) bus, which ran up and down our street until 2 am.
My sister and I started taking a longer route to school on Wednesdays. We would walk up California to Lynch, instead of taking Sidney Street and passing the dumpster.
When we walked across Lynch, we would pass the dairy, and once in a while we would see a young guy quietly "forgetting" a crate of fresh milk sitting by their dumpster. A few times this same guy would give milk to the students heading to school. It was a rare treat to have something filling in the morning, and my sister and I were afraid to press our luck by walking past too often. We understood he was breaking the rules and risking his job to feed hungry kids whose parents were trying to give their children a decent education. A good education will take you a hell of a lot farther than a good meal, but there were a lot of nights where my mom said, "I'm not hungry, you girls eat up." to pay for the Catholic school I was fortunate enough to attend.
Every school morning, sis and I would leave the house and walk 3 blocks to Notre Dame Elementary, where we went to school. Every morning our route would take us past the place where men loaded their food trucks. My mom called them roach coaches, so I’d always look for roaches crawling over the ice in the bins. The men would offload expired packaged food, take on fresh packaged food, and head off for their routes to feed hungry construction workers. Most days, the men would give the expired food to the line of homeless people waiting in the alley.
Wednesday, however, was dumpster day. The manager would stand and watch while the food went from the trucks to the dumpster. He wouldn’t let the drivers give any of it away. He would try to shoo off the homeless people by yelling at them. “Get away from here! Get outta that dumpster! You're trespassing! I'm gonna call the cops!” He would yell.
In the summertime, we would see them camped out in the alley waiting for the manager to go off-shift, while all that food rotted in the sun. The waste always bothered me. There was a shift change at 11 o'clock, and the homeless people would help each other into the dumpster after the Wednesday manager had left. We could hear the hollow echo of their voices coming from the dumpster, "This samwitch looks ok." or "Shit, all this crap's rotten."
By noon, they would have faded away to wherever homeless people go; but we would see them again at night staking out their turf, or riding the California (avenue) bus, which ran up and down our street until 2 am.
My sister and I started taking a longer route to school on Wednesdays. We would walk up California to Lynch, instead of taking Sidney Street and passing the dumpster.
When we walked across Lynch, we would pass the dairy, and once in a while we would see a young guy quietly "forgetting" a crate of fresh milk sitting by their dumpster. A few times this same guy would give milk to the students heading to school. It was a rare treat to have something filling in the morning, and my sister and I were afraid to press our luck by walking past too often. We understood he was breaking the rules and risking his job to feed hungry kids whose parents were trying to give their children a decent education. A good education will take you a hell of a lot farther than a good meal, but there were a lot of nights where my mom said, "I'm not hungry, you girls eat up." to pay for the Catholic school I was fortunate enough to attend.
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Street Entertainers
My neighborhood held a nearly endless variety of entertainment. It was totally free. All you had to do was look out your window to see the amazing Hoosier show. You didn't need a barker, brightly colored posters, or even circus lights. A pair of ears was all that was necessary to alert you to the upcoming entertainment.
Monday was hangover day. The only exciting sights on Monday were arguments over parking spots, which didn't happen often. Pretty boring, all-in-all. I do, however, remember being late for school one Monday morning, because Mr. Brown's family had boxed me in...
My first car was a 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus (think Roadrunner without the neat-o hood scoops) It was painted blood red, and had push bumpers attached to the front and back of it. I used to joke about how I would loose it and push the slow drivers out of my way someday.
The night before, the bar had been particularly busy when I got home from work at 1:30 in the morning, so I had to park around the corner. I got up the next day to find that my car was boxed in. There was an old station wagon about 8 inches behind my car, and Mr. Brown's truck was maybe a foot in front of me. To make matters worse, he had crap loaded in the truck that extended out over the hood of my car. I saw that his junk had scratched my paint.
Oh, no... I don't think so! It's one thing to box me in, that means I'm gonna knock on your door and wake your ass up to move your piece of shit. You don't get that courtesy if you've disrespected my car and scratched the paint. I started up my 19 foot long, hemi 318 powered muscle car and gently backed into the station wagon behind me. My intent was to push it all the way into California Ave, and leave it there as a statement to not fuck with me. I gleefully imagined their surprise to see their station wagon tying up traffic. (heh, heh, heh)
and I did nothing but break their crappy plastic front grill.
Apparently, my bumper sat just high enough to slide over their bumper; and hit the grill instead. Not wanting to actually damage their vehicle, I drove forward to my original spot and got out of the car. I was livid. I tried moving the crap in the truck, so I could push it instead, but it was too heavy.
Nothing to do now but make a scene. I gently pulled their cracked grill off their radiator and slid it back into position, so it looked like nothing had happened to it, then I went and knocked on Mr. Brown's door. I stood there in my Catholic high school uniform feeling like a damned fool for having to beg them to move their car, yet hoping someone would see me so I wouldn't be all alone when I confronted the only black homeowner on the street. Nobody saw me, and Mr. Brown himself answered the door. I asked him politely if he could please move his station wagon or truck, since they were both blocking my way and I would be late for school, which would mean a demerit because Bishop Du Bourg High was very strict. I tried to look as helpless and good-girlish as possible, and even worked up some tears. Not hard to do when you're as mad as I was at the moment. I looked down at my school-spirit red loafers and got myself ready to have a screaming argument with him. The neighborhood Code said you argued for half an hour before driving off in a huff, or you treated your victim like a helpless child and moved your car while rolling your eyeballs at their stupidity for parking where they shouldn't have. I was hoping for the latter, so I could make it to school on time.
Instead of telling me off for parking in his section, he apologized profusely and sent his daughter to move the station wagon she had so rudely boxed me in with. I was so dumbfounded by this, that I forgot to yell at him for scratching my paint. Nevertheless, I was still late for school.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were drive like an idiot days. A favorite pastime was to stand in the middle of the street and wait for a friend to drive by so you could jump onto their car. One time K jumped a little too soon, and wound up clinging to the hood ornament and front bumper. We laughed like crazy as his pals circled the block several times, with him clinging to the front of the car like road kill. It was hilarious! They finally stopped and K said, "Dude, that wasn't funny! Couldn't you hear me yelling for you to stop?" Then he and the driver had a little fistfight while everybody else laughed at them both.
Other games were "how many Hoosiers can you fit in a car?" and "car surfing". If you've never been car surfing, here's how it works. Step 1: be a passenger in a car. Step 2: climb out of a window of the moving car. Step 3: Stand on the roof of the moving car yelling "Wooooooooooooo" and pretend to surf. Step 4: Let your girlfriend pick gravel and broken beer bottle glass out of your back while you talk about what a rush it was. You'd think my street would be spotless with all those fools picking up glass for us, but no... The drunks at the bar kept breaking more on the weekends.
Thursday was fix-your-car night. Everybody wanted to be ready for the weekend, so Thursdays saw popped hoods and greasy Levis all up and down the street. I think the goal was to get as dirty as possible, so you'd look like you'd done something productive. Us girls were allowed to hand them beer and stand around looking pretty. It was a mark of honor to have a greasy hand print on the butt of your jeans. It meant some guy who knew how to fix a car liked you.
Not that I ever saw most of them do more than change the oil, of course. When I got my own car I was tremendously popular, until I replaced the starter myself. Then the guys avoided me like the plague in public. In private, they'd park in the alley behind my house and "let" me fix the stuff they couldn't.
The weekend was reserved for fighting, of course. There was fighting at the Game Room, fighting at the bar and driving around looking for a fight. All were well lubricated with beer.
My neighborhood held a nearly endless variety of entertainment. It was totally free. All you had to do was look out your window to see the amazing Hoosier show. You didn't need a barker, brightly colored posters, or even circus lights. A pair of ears was all that was necessary to alert you to the upcoming entertainment.
Monday was hangover day. The only exciting sights on Monday were arguments over parking spots, which didn't happen often. Pretty boring, all-in-all. I do, however, remember being late for school one Monday morning, because Mr. Brown's family had boxed me in...
My first car was a 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus (think Roadrunner without the neat-o hood scoops) It was painted blood red, and had push bumpers attached to the front and back of it. I used to joke about how I would loose it and push the slow drivers out of my way someday.
The night before, the bar had been particularly busy when I got home from work at 1:30 in the morning, so I had to park around the corner. I got up the next day to find that my car was boxed in. There was an old station wagon about 8 inches behind my car, and Mr. Brown's truck was maybe a foot in front of me. To make matters worse, he had crap loaded in the truck that extended out over the hood of my car. I saw that his junk had scratched my paint.
Oh, no... I don't think so! It's one thing to box me in, that means I'm gonna knock on your door and wake your ass up to move your piece of shit. You don't get that courtesy if you've disrespected my car and scratched the paint. I started up my 19 foot long, hemi 318 powered muscle car and gently backed into the station wagon behind me. My intent was to push it all the way into California Ave, and leave it there as a statement to not fuck with me. I gleefully imagined their surprise to see their station wagon tying up traffic. (heh, heh, heh)
and I did nothing but break their crappy plastic front grill.
Apparently, my bumper sat just high enough to slide over their bumper; and hit the grill instead. Not wanting to actually damage their vehicle, I drove forward to my original spot and got out of the car. I was livid. I tried moving the crap in the truck, so I could push it instead, but it was too heavy.
Nothing to do now but make a scene. I gently pulled their cracked grill off their radiator and slid it back into position, so it looked like nothing had happened to it, then I went and knocked on Mr. Brown's door. I stood there in my Catholic high school uniform feeling like a damned fool for having to beg them to move their car, yet hoping someone would see me so I wouldn't be all alone when I confronted the only black homeowner on the street. Nobody saw me, and Mr. Brown himself answered the door. I asked him politely if he could please move his station wagon or truck, since they were both blocking my way and I would be late for school, which would mean a demerit because Bishop Du Bourg High was very strict. I tried to look as helpless and good-girlish as possible, and even worked up some tears. Not hard to do when you're as mad as I was at the moment. I looked down at my school-spirit red loafers and got myself ready to have a screaming argument with him. The neighborhood Code said you argued for half an hour before driving off in a huff, or you treated your victim like a helpless child and moved your car while rolling your eyeballs at their stupidity for parking where they shouldn't have. I was hoping for the latter, so I could make it to school on time.
Instead of telling me off for parking in his section, he apologized profusely and sent his daughter to move the station wagon she had so rudely boxed me in with. I was so dumbfounded by this, that I forgot to yell at him for scratching my paint. Nevertheless, I was still late for school.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were drive like an idiot days. A favorite pastime was to stand in the middle of the street and wait for a friend to drive by so you could jump onto their car. One time K jumped a little too soon, and wound up clinging to the hood ornament and front bumper. We laughed like crazy as his pals circled the block several times, with him clinging to the front of the car like road kill. It was hilarious! They finally stopped and K said, "Dude, that wasn't funny! Couldn't you hear me yelling for you to stop?" Then he and the driver had a little fistfight while everybody else laughed at them both.
Other games were "how many Hoosiers can you fit in a car?" and "car surfing". If you've never been car surfing, here's how it works. Step 1: be a passenger in a car. Step 2: climb out of a window of the moving car. Step 3: Stand on the roof of the moving car yelling "Wooooooooooooo" and pretend to surf. Step 4: Let your girlfriend pick gravel and broken beer bottle glass out of your back while you talk about what a rush it was. You'd think my street would be spotless with all those fools picking up glass for us, but no... The drunks at the bar kept breaking more on the weekends.
Thursday was fix-your-car night. Everybody wanted to be ready for the weekend, so Thursdays saw popped hoods and greasy Levis all up and down the street. I think the goal was to get as dirty as possible, so you'd look like you'd done something productive. Us girls were allowed to hand them beer and stand around looking pretty. It was a mark of honor to have a greasy hand print on the butt of your jeans. It meant some guy who knew how to fix a car liked you.
Not that I ever saw most of them do more than change the oil, of course. When I got my own car I was tremendously popular, until I replaced the starter myself. Then the guys avoided me like the plague in public. In private, they'd park in the alley behind my house and "let" me fix the stuff they couldn't.
The weekend was reserved for fighting, of course. There was fighting at the Game Room, fighting at the bar and driving around looking for a fight. All were well lubricated with beer.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
The California Bum
There was a homeless man who routinely slept at the bus stop near our home. He had a good spot. It was a building with a sheltered corner stoop. His area was a full 6 or 8 feet across, so he had room to stretch out if he wanted to. He had wild grey hair and a bushy grey beard. He always wore a military green overcoat, slacks and tennis shoes. He had a small bag with him at all times. He used it as a pillow, and I guess it held his spare clothes. The stench coming off of him was terrible. I never understood how someone could appear so content with such filth all over him. About once a month he'd catch a shower someplace. We could tell because his beard would be clean and he wouldn't stink for a while. Every morning he'd be over at the food trucks, scavenging expired edibles; and every night he'd be sleeping at the corner bus stop. Everyone called him the California Bum, and he had been a fixture in the neighborhood for more than 20 years.
He was one of the "safe" homeless, meaning he wouldn't talk to himself or attack anybody. He never did anything perverted, unlike some of the other bums in the area. I never saw neither alcohol nor drugs around him. He seemed sane and capable of working. It was a mystery as to why he was homeless.
Every once in a blue moon, my sister and I would make some toast with peanut butter and take it to him. We'd get up really early on a Saturday morning and sneak down to the bus stop with our gift wrapped in a paper towel. Feeding the bum was scary and exciting. We weren't suposed to go anywhere near the homeless, they were dangerous. We also didn't want anyone to see us. Being nice to a neighbor was fine, being nice to a bum marked you as a sucker. Getting caught would have opened us to all kinds of victimization from our neighbors. Yet another one of those unwritten rules we had to live by.
We fed him anyway. It was a way of thumbing our noses at the neighborhood. The California Bum was our local landmark, and we didn't want him to move away. As long as he was around, no other homeless person could sleep on his corner. It was important to keep a pervert-free space nearby.
I don't know how well I can convey the value the California Bum held for the neighborhood. We were proud of him. He was something that made us unique. Half the South Side knew about the California Bum. I had friends spend the night just so they could look at him. It was one of those things you'd treasure. "I saw the California Bum... I saw where he sleeps!" Had a lot more power than, "I saw him on the bus... he sat near me."
He disappeared for a month or so in '85. We were worried that our bum had died. A scraggly woman took over his spot, and she would scream at you if you got too close to her. She didn't mooch food at the trucks, she just kind of set up housekeeping at the sheltered corner. She rarely left it and her trash would spill out onto the sidewalk. Everybody resented her. That place belonged to the California Bum and no one else. She was an evil encroacher with no right to be there. The kids would fling trash at her, just to get her going. She'd yell and scream and threaten, but she wouldn't leave the corner. It made it easy for the neighborhood kids to victimize her.
I don't know how our bum got his spot back, but one morning he was sleeping out there again like nothing had happened. I wish I had been awake to see him kicking her off his turf.
There was a homeless man who routinely slept at the bus stop near our home. He had a good spot. It was a building with a sheltered corner stoop. His area was a full 6 or 8 feet across, so he had room to stretch out if he wanted to. He had wild grey hair and a bushy grey beard. He always wore a military green overcoat, slacks and tennis shoes. He had a small bag with him at all times. He used it as a pillow, and I guess it held his spare clothes. The stench coming off of him was terrible. I never understood how someone could appear so content with such filth all over him. About once a month he'd catch a shower someplace. We could tell because his beard would be clean and he wouldn't stink for a while. Every morning he'd be over at the food trucks, scavenging expired edibles; and every night he'd be sleeping at the corner bus stop. Everyone called him the California Bum, and he had been a fixture in the neighborhood for more than 20 years.
He was one of the "safe" homeless, meaning he wouldn't talk to himself or attack anybody. He never did anything perverted, unlike some of the other bums in the area. I never saw neither alcohol nor drugs around him. He seemed sane and capable of working. It was a mystery as to why he was homeless.
Every once in a blue moon, my sister and I would make some toast with peanut butter and take it to him. We'd get up really early on a Saturday morning and sneak down to the bus stop with our gift wrapped in a paper towel. Feeding the bum was scary and exciting. We weren't suposed to go anywhere near the homeless, they were dangerous. We also didn't want anyone to see us. Being nice to a neighbor was fine, being nice to a bum marked you as a sucker. Getting caught would have opened us to all kinds of victimization from our neighbors. Yet another one of those unwritten rules we had to live by.
We fed him anyway. It was a way of thumbing our noses at the neighborhood. The California Bum was our local landmark, and we didn't want him to move away. As long as he was around, no other homeless person could sleep on his corner. It was important to keep a pervert-free space nearby.
I don't know how well I can convey the value the California Bum held for the neighborhood. We were proud of him. He was something that made us unique. Half the South Side knew about the California Bum. I had friends spend the night just so they could look at him. It was one of those things you'd treasure. "I saw the California Bum... I saw where he sleeps!" Had a lot more power than, "I saw him on the bus... he sat near me."
He disappeared for a month or so in '85. We were worried that our bum had died. A scraggly woman took over his spot, and she would scream at you if you got too close to her. She didn't mooch food at the trucks, she just kind of set up housekeeping at the sheltered corner. She rarely left it and her trash would spill out onto the sidewalk. Everybody resented her. That place belonged to the California Bum and no one else. She was an evil encroacher with no right to be there. The kids would fling trash at her, just to get her going. She'd yell and scream and threaten, but she wouldn't leave the corner. It made it easy for the neighborhood kids to victimize her.
I don't know how our bum got his spot back, but one morning he was sleeping out there again like nothing had happened. I wish I had been awake to see him kicking her off his turf.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Christmas Downtown
Every December we would take the California bus downtown. Mom tried to take us on a day when it was snowing, because snow makes the trip complete. We would ride through gentle white flakes and get off at Locust street. The air was always crisp and refreshing after the stifling heat and smells of the bus. It was great to join the crowd walking around Famous Barr, looking at the window displays. Famous always had the best displays, with trains and teddy bears and lots of animatronics to catch the eye. It was always so magical to me, those bright lights and fake snow showing what Christmas was supposed to look like. Every window had a Christmas tree decorated to perfection. Every entrance had a bell-ringing Santa collecting for the Salvation Army. Mom let us put coins in each bucket we passed as we worked our way around the outside of the store.
There really is nothing to compare to walking in the freezing cold, being bumped, jostled and squeezed while you peer into a world of commercial fantasy. I never heard the bitter, exhausted parents and their whiny overstimulated children. I just blocked it out. I heard instead the Christmas music being played over loudspeakers and the perpetual ringing of those tiny silver handbells. "Cling cling... Thank you ma'am, God bless you." Everyone I noticed was polite and happy; doing charitable works in the spirit of Christmas.
Eventually we would be back where we started, so we'd go inside to see Santa and his Wonderland, which took up the entire 8th floor. Each year some toy maker would sponsor the Wonderland, so the theme would be all about their products. Mattel was great, Lego was awesome, but I think Ty had everyone beat for the all-out magic of Christmas award. Ty did their wonderland with stuffed animals and some of the most amazing animatronics I've seen outside of Disney World. They had sound baffles to deflect and dampen noise; so when you walked through a snowfall-in-the-forest scene, it was quiet enough to hear the motor for the snow machine. Tiny little speakers would project realistic animal sounds or the laughter of children, or whatever was appropriate to the scene you were passing through.
After the Wonderland, we would be shunted into a red hallway that twisted and turned as it led us around to Santa and the exit. I despised the red hallway. The overhead lighting was sucked up by the red fabric covering the walls, so everything seemed dim and bloody. I'd hear the children around me chattering about the long list of toys they wanted and kept my own mouth shut. Asking for things we couldn't afford would only make mom feel guilty. Instead, I'd focus on the grab bags mom bought from the lady in the box halfway through the red corridor.
I was one of those children who asks for the things Santa can't provide. The Christmas of '78, when mom was still working at the grocery store, I asked for a better job so she could buy a house. Then I told him that if the recession was too big, he could bring me a toy horse instead. In '79, I asked for toys for the kids who didn't have Christmas... (you know, the Jewish children) and maybe a toy horse if he had any left over.
Santa would give us a piece of candy and then we'd be out into the brightly lit toy department. We never bought toys from Famous Barr at Christmas. They were too expensive. My sister and I would walk past them pretending we didn't want any of the things they were selling. We would drag mom down to the candy department on the first floor and beg for some Rocky Road chocolate. We knew how much mom loved Rocky Road, and we wanted to reward her for taking us to see the Wonderland. Mom would buy a half pound, and then we'd catch a bus for home. It was one of the best parts of Christmas, and I regret that my son will never see those fabulous displays. Going to a mall just doesn't measure up.
Every December we would take the California bus downtown. Mom tried to take us on a day when it was snowing, because snow makes the trip complete. We would ride through gentle white flakes and get off at Locust street. The air was always crisp and refreshing after the stifling heat and smells of the bus. It was great to join the crowd walking around Famous Barr, looking at the window displays. Famous always had the best displays, with trains and teddy bears and lots of animatronics to catch the eye. It was always so magical to me, those bright lights and fake snow showing what Christmas was supposed to look like. Every window had a Christmas tree decorated to perfection. Every entrance had a bell-ringing Santa collecting for the Salvation Army. Mom let us put coins in each bucket we passed as we worked our way around the outside of the store.
There really is nothing to compare to walking in the freezing cold, being bumped, jostled and squeezed while you peer into a world of commercial fantasy. I never heard the bitter, exhausted parents and their whiny overstimulated children. I just blocked it out. I heard instead the Christmas music being played over loudspeakers and the perpetual ringing of those tiny silver handbells. "Cling cling... Thank you ma'am, God bless you." Everyone I noticed was polite and happy; doing charitable works in the spirit of Christmas.
Eventually we would be back where we started, so we'd go inside to see Santa and his Wonderland, which took up the entire 8th floor. Each year some toy maker would sponsor the Wonderland, so the theme would be all about their products. Mattel was great, Lego was awesome, but I think Ty had everyone beat for the all-out magic of Christmas award. Ty did their wonderland with stuffed animals and some of the most amazing animatronics I've seen outside of Disney World. They had sound baffles to deflect and dampen noise; so when you walked through a snowfall-in-the-forest scene, it was quiet enough to hear the motor for the snow machine. Tiny little speakers would project realistic animal sounds or the laughter of children, or whatever was appropriate to the scene you were passing through.
After the Wonderland, we would be shunted into a red hallway that twisted and turned as it led us around to Santa and the exit. I despised the red hallway. The overhead lighting was sucked up by the red fabric covering the walls, so everything seemed dim and bloody. I'd hear the children around me chattering about the long list of toys they wanted and kept my own mouth shut. Asking for things we couldn't afford would only make mom feel guilty. Instead, I'd focus on the grab bags mom bought from the lady in the box halfway through the red corridor.
I was one of those children who asks for the things Santa can't provide. The Christmas of '78, when mom was still working at the grocery store, I asked for a better job so she could buy a house. Then I told him that if the recession was too big, he could bring me a toy horse instead. In '79, I asked for toys for the kids who didn't have Christmas... (you know, the Jewish children) and maybe a toy horse if he had any left over.
Santa would give us a piece of candy and then we'd be out into the brightly lit toy department. We never bought toys from Famous Barr at Christmas. They were too expensive. My sister and I would walk past them pretending we didn't want any of the things they were selling. We would drag mom down to the candy department on the first floor and beg for some Rocky Road chocolate. We knew how much mom loved Rocky Road, and we wanted to reward her for taking us to see the Wonderland. Mom would buy a half pound, and then we'd catch a bus for home. It was one of the best parts of Christmas, and I regret that my son will never see those fabulous displays. Going to a mall just doesn't measure up.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Crossing The Street
Once upon a time, we lived in a 2 family apartment that faced the bar. We stayed there until the woman who owned the property passed away. Her daughter inherited the place, and decided she didn't want to rent to pet owners anymore. This posed quite a problem since my family included a dog, a parakeet and several hamsters. Our new landlady gave us 30 days to find a new place. My sister and I promptly took on extra baby sitting jobs, and when that didn't look like it would be enough money we had a yard sale. We stripped our toy collection to the bare minimum. I even gave up several of my Breyer horses to raise some "moving money".
It is a strange thing to have people picking through your possessions, looking for a bargain. Everything was "make an offer", but we didn't sell very much. Mom came home early and caught us. She was so mad. She made us take everything back inside, then sat us down for a lecture. Mom rarely spanked us, and believe me, there were times I wished for a spanking. At least it would be over with quickly, instead of having to be part of a half hour long guilt session. The end result of this lecture was that we were forbidden to sell or trade any of the things she had worked so hard for. We were not allowed to do any work for anything but college money, and we were not allowed to beg money off of our friends. We had injured her pride, and now she wouldn't even let us help.
My sister and I figured that was it, we'd be homeless. While mom was looking for a new place, J and I thought up ways to keep our textbooks dry or searched the neighborhood for a good location not already in use by the homeless. Now, when my mom sets her mind to something; nothing stands in her way. The upstairs apartment next to the bar was going to be available in about a month and a half. Mom tracked down the landlord and somehow convinced him to let us move in earlier. She borrowed $400 from my grandma and we moved across the street in one day. It wasn't really that hard. Mom had 7 siblings, so we had a constant line of people moving stuff across California Avenue. We must have made quite a picture, because we drew a crowd. One of my uncles would carry a heavy piece of furniture all by himself, and the crowd would cheer. My sister and I would carry an overloaded box without spilling anything, and get applause. We even got some audience participation in the form of car spotters and neighbors bringing us cups of water. My family was probably the most entertaining thing they had seen all year.
That night, for the first time in my life, I slept in my own room.
Once upon a time, we lived in a 2 family apartment that faced the bar. We stayed there until the woman who owned the property passed away. Her daughter inherited the place, and decided she didn't want to rent to pet owners anymore. This posed quite a problem since my family included a dog, a parakeet and several hamsters. Our new landlady gave us 30 days to find a new place. My sister and I promptly took on extra baby sitting jobs, and when that didn't look like it would be enough money we had a yard sale. We stripped our toy collection to the bare minimum. I even gave up several of my Breyer horses to raise some "moving money".
It is a strange thing to have people picking through your possessions, looking for a bargain. Everything was "make an offer", but we didn't sell very much. Mom came home early and caught us. She was so mad. She made us take everything back inside, then sat us down for a lecture. Mom rarely spanked us, and believe me, there were times I wished for a spanking. At least it would be over with quickly, instead of having to be part of a half hour long guilt session. The end result of this lecture was that we were forbidden to sell or trade any of the things she had worked so hard for. We were not allowed to do any work for anything but college money, and we were not allowed to beg money off of our friends. We had injured her pride, and now she wouldn't even let us help.
My sister and I figured that was it, we'd be homeless. While mom was looking for a new place, J and I thought up ways to keep our textbooks dry or searched the neighborhood for a good location not already in use by the homeless. Now, when my mom sets her mind to something; nothing stands in her way. The upstairs apartment next to the bar was going to be available in about a month and a half. Mom tracked down the landlord and somehow convinced him to let us move in earlier. She borrowed $400 from my grandma and we moved across the street in one day. It wasn't really that hard. Mom had 7 siblings, so we had a constant line of people moving stuff across California Avenue. We must have made quite a picture, because we drew a crowd. One of my uncles would carry a heavy piece of furniture all by himself, and the crowd would cheer. My sister and I would carry an overloaded box without spilling anything, and get applause. We even got some audience participation in the form of car spotters and neighbors bringing us cups of water. My family was probably the most entertaining thing they had seen all year.
That night, for the first time in my life, I slept in my own room.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Fighting
Violence was part of life for me. I saw it daily, and learned that the human body can take a lot of damage before it gives out on a person. I never wanted to inflict that kind of harm on my neighbors, and sometimes it gets thrown in your face. When faced with a fight or flight situation, my response has always been to stare it down. The first real fight I got into was with my best friend, Carol. If you've been reading this, then you already know that Carol hits like a freight train. This story is about how I found that out.
Carol had introduced me to the concept of skipping school. One day we were supposed to skip school together and hang out at the park. I "accidentally" missed my bus, and waited for my friend to come knocking on my door. She never knocked. Around about noon, I was thoroughly pissed; so I wrote her a note and stuck it in her door. Now here's the thing... My mom would never read a note addressed to me, and I assumed that Carol's parents wouldn't either. It never occurred to me that her parents had less than perfect trust in their youngest daughter. So her mom read the note, of course. In my house, this would result in a lecture, and perhaps some grounding. In Carol's house, this meant her dad came home from work early, and was waiting at the front door with the belt. Needless to say, Carol wanted revenge for getting her ass whipped.
I knew nothing of this when mom sent us out to buy a tub of margarine. My sister and I always shopped together, there was safety in numbers. We headed off to the store with a handful of change, and I did not notice Carol lurking on her front steps. The first I knew of any conflict was when she ran up and shoved me from behind. That was Carol to a T. She always struck from behind. She got in my face and started yelling at me because her dad had beaten her ass for skipping school. Idiot me says, "How did he find out?" I was stunned to hear that her mom had actually opened the note.
I told her that we were going to the store, and I'd talk to her after I got back. I also told her that I was sorry she'd gotten a beating. She left, and I thought the matter was over.
We had the store in our sights when Carol came back. She had half the neighborhood kids with her. Shit! Shitshitshit! We dashed into the store, bought the margarine, and then had a discussion about what to do. We couldn't run all the way home; running only makes it worse. We couldn't stay in the store until they all went away, and the pay phone was outside, so we couldn't call for help. I finally decided I'd have to fight her, and probably get the shit kicked out of me. This was gonna suck. I told my sister to take the "butter" home to mom, hoping that my mom would rescue me before I'd lost any teeth. J staunchly refused to leave my side. She said, "I'll help you get home when it's over".
J and I left the store and walked past the waiting throng like they didn't exist. Southside fighting follows a rigid pattern, and we had a chance -although slight- that we'd make it home before the pattern had played out. First is the intimidation phase. The victim walks along while the crowd tells them how bad their beating is going to be. The aggressor says nothing, they let the mob get their 2 cents in. Next the aggressor explains to the victim why they're about to get their ass kicked. This is how you justify the impending bloodshed, and make sure that your audience stays on your side. I had tattled on her, thus breaking our friendship. An ass-kicking was the only way to right the situation. Once everyone is in agreement that a fight should take place, the aggressor shoves her victim. The victim should either shove back or plead their case to try and convert some of the crowd to their side. Then came posing and knuckle cracking, and more threats. The shoving, talking, posing cycle could take 15 or 20 minutes, which was plenty of time for me to make it home; only I didn't play by the rules.
I got half a block from the store, and stopped walking. My sister was pulling on my arm, trying to get me to keep going, but I was full of righteous anger and nothing was going to budge me. I was sick of feeling afraid, sick of the intimidation talk and full of cold, red-headed rage. I said. "Carol. I didn't mean to get you in trouble, and if you feel you need to beat me up because your daddy gave you a whipping then go ahead and try."
I had thrown her off her stride. I wasn't following the pattern. I stared at her and she at me. She didn't know how to proceed. Finally I rolled my eyes and turned to walk home again. She shoved me into the wall. I pushed off the wall and stared up into her face, waiting to see if I'd have to fight yet, or listen to her crack her knuckles. She said, "I'm gonna kick your ass." and raised her fists in a classic pugilist's stance. Before I could think she had hit me. One, two! My lip was bleeding and my right cheekbone was on fire. She paused to see what I would do. She knew I'd never been in a fight before, not a real one at least. Everything around her turned red, and I could see brilliant glowing targets on her body. Places where hitting would do the most damage. A part of me was revelling in the power of my anger, the rest of me was cold and numb. I tried to punch her in the throat. I was playing for keeps. She blocked it, so I raked my fingernails down her breasts and grabbed her by her low cut shirt. I was going for a headbutt, but she was taller than me so my forehead bounced off her teeth instead. We broke apart for a second, and I saw how wide her eyes had gotten. Good! I hope I left scars! She hit me in the face again, but I didn't feel it. I know I was smiling when I kicked her knee. I remember landing a good one in her stomach, but everything gets blurry after that. The red faded after a while, and I realized she was banging my head into the wall. I thought that it should hurt, and wondered why it didn't. Then I pushed her away and started walking home again like nothing had happened.
I was done. I wasn't afraid anymore, and I didn't want to fight my best friend. I just wanted to go home.
She pushed me from behind, and screamed, "Fight me!"
I said, "No."
She pushed me again, and I just kept walking. She pushed me a third tims and I turned around and said, "You got your fight. I'm going home." I stood there waiting to see if she was going to hit me some more, and when she went into posing mode I walked away. A few seconds later she ran up and hit me from behind again, so I turned around and said, "Do I have to walk backwards to keep you from hitting me?"
I was putting action to my words, walking backwards as I spoke. The mood of the mob began to shift. Suddenly, someone in the crowd said, "You leave her alone! You guys is supposed to be friends!" Relief washed over me, and tears started to run down my face. I kept talking as I was moving. "You won't hit me to my face. You have to hit me when my back is turned. Whyn't you face me? You gotta hit me from behind. Some friend you are. I can't believe I have to walk home backwards because you're too cowardly to hit me to my face."
I don't have the slightest idea where all this came from. Clearly she was not afraid to hit me. She already had, repeatedly. Yet for some reason she couldn't hit me anymore. I wasn't trying to taunt her into another fight, but I was trying to punish her for fighting me in the first place. I don't know why, but this swayed the opinion of the kids around us and suddenly Carol was in the wrong for wanting to beat me up.
Some of the kids went home, and the rest split into 2 groups. One berating Carol for fighting, the other telling me how cool I was. To this day, I don't get it. We travelled the rest of the way home unmolested. I was told to go ahead and walk forward, because they'd be watching my back.
When we got home, mom freaked. She took me into the bathroom and washed my split lip with peroxide, then she taught me how to fight. I'll never forget my good, christian mom telling me to fight dirty if I had to fight at all.
Violence was part of life for me. I saw it daily, and learned that the human body can take a lot of damage before it gives out on a person. I never wanted to inflict that kind of harm on my neighbors, and sometimes it gets thrown in your face. When faced with a fight or flight situation, my response has always been to stare it down. The first real fight I got into was with my best friend, Carol. If you've been reading this, then you already know that Carol hits like a freight train. This story is about how I found that out.
Carol had introduced me to the concept of skipping school. One day we were supposed to skip school together and hang out at the park. I "accidentally" missed my bus, and waited for my friend to come knocking on my door. She never knocked. Around about noon, I was thoroughly pissed; so I wrote her a note and stuck it in her door. Now here's the thing... My mom would never read a note addressed to me, and I assumed that Carol's parents wouldn't either. It never occurred to me that her parents had less than perfect trust in their youngest daughter. So her mom read the note, of course. In my house, this would result in a lecture, and perhaps some grounding. In Carol's house, this meant her dad came home from work early, and was waiting at the front door with the belt. Needless to say, Carol wanted revenge for getting her ass whipped.
I knew nothing of this when mom sent us out to buy a tub of margarine. My sister and I always shopped together, there was safety in numbers. We headed off to the store with a handful of change, and I did not notice Carol lurking on her front steps. The first I knew of any conflict was when she ran up and shoved me from behind. That was Carol to a T. She always struck from behind. She got in my face and started yelling at me because her dad had beaten her ass for skipping school. Idiot me says, "How did he find out?" I was stunned to hear that her mom had actually opened the note.
I told her that we were going to the store, and I'd talk to her after I got back. I also told her that I was sorry she'd gotten a beating. She left, and I thought the matter was over.
We had the store in our sights when Carol came back. She had half the neighborhood kids with her. Shit! Shitshitshit! We dashed into the store, bought the margarine, and then had a discussion about what to do. We couldn't run all the way home; running only makes it worse. We couldn't stay in the store until they all went away, and the pay phone was outside, so we couldn't call for help. I finally decided I'd have to fight her, and probably get the shit kicked out of me. This was gonna suck. I told my sister to take the "butter" home to mom, hoping that my mom would rescue me before I'd lost any teeth. J staunchly refused to leave my side. She said, "I'll help you get home when it's over".
J and I left the store and walked past the waiting throng like they didn't exist. Southside fighting follows a rigid pattern, and we had a chance -although slight- that we'd make it home before the pattern had played out. First is the intimidation phase. The victim walks along while the crowd tells them how bad their beating is going to be. The aggressor says nothing, they let the mob get their 2 cents in. Next the aggressor explains to the victim why they're about to get their ass kicked. This is how you justify the impending bloodshed, and make sure that your audience stays on your side. I had tattled on her, thus breaking our friendship. An ass-kicking was the only way to right the situation. Once everyone is in agreement that a fight should take place, the aggressor shoves her victim. The victim should either shove back or plead their case to try and convert some of the crowd to their side. Then came posing and knuckle cracking, and more threats. The shoving, talking, posing cycle could take 15 or 20 minutes, which was plenty of time for me to make it home; only I didn't play by the rules.
I got half a block from the store, and stopped walking. My sister was pulling on my arm, trying to get me to keep going, but I was full of righteous anger and nothing was going to budge me. I was sick of feeling afraid, sick of the intimidation talk and full of cold, red-headed rage. I said. "Carol. I didn't mean to get you in trouble, and if you feel you need to beat me up because your daddy gave you a whipping then go ahead and try."
I had thrown her off her stride. I wasn't following the pattern. I stared at her and she at me. She didn't know how to proceed. Finally I rolled my eyes and turned to walk home again. She shoved me into the wall. I pushed off the wall and stared up into her face, waiting to see if I'd have to fight yet, or listen to her crack her knuckles. She said, "I'm gonna kick your ass." and raised her fists in a classic pugilist's stance. Before I could think she had hit me. One, two! My lip was bleeding and my right cheekbone was on fire. She paused to see what I would do. She knew I'd never been in a fight before, not a real one at least. Everything around her turned red, and I could see brilliant glowing targets on her body. Places where hitting would do the most damage. A part of me was revelling in the power of my anger, the rest of me was cold and numb. I tried to punch her in the throat. I was playing for keeps. She blocked it, so I raked my fingernails down her breasts and grabbed her by her low cut shirt. I was going for a headbutt, but she was taller than me so my forehead bounced off her teeth instead. We broke apart for a second, and I saw how wide her eyes had gotten. Good! I hope I left scars! She hit me in the face again, but I didn't feel it. I know I was smiling when I kicked her knee. I remember landing a good one in her stomach, but everything gets blurry after that. The red faded after a while, and I realized she was banging my head into the wall. I thought that it should hurt, and wondered why it didn't. Then I pushed her away and started walking home again like nothing had happened.
I was done. I wasn't afraid anymore, and I didn't want to fight my best friend. I just wanted to go home.
She pushed me from behind, and screamed, "Fight me!"
I said, "No."
She pushed me again, and I just kept walking. She pushed me a third tims and I turned around and said, "You got your fight. I'm going home." I stood there waiting to see if she was going to hit me some more, and when she went into posing mode I walked away. A few seconds later she ran up and hit me from behind again, so I turned around and said, "Do I have to walk backwards to keep you from hitting me?"
I was putting action to my words, walking backwards as I spoke. The mood of the mob began to shift. Suddenly, someone in the crowd said, "You leave her alone! You guys is supposed to be friends!" Relief washed over me, and tears started to run down my face. I kept talking as I was moving. "You won't hit me to my face. You have to hit me when my back is turned. Whyn't you face me? You gotta hit me from behind. Some friend you are. I can't believe I have to walk home backwards because you're too cowardly to hit me to my face."
I don't have the slightest idea where all this came from. Clearly she was not afraid to hit me. She already had, repeatedly. Yet for some reason she couldn't hit me anymore. I wasn't trying to taunt her into another fight, but I was trying to punish her for fighting me in the first place. I don't know why, but this swayed the opinion of the kids around us and suddenly Carol was in the wrong for wanting to beat me up.
Some of the kids went home, and the rest split into 2 groups. One berating Carol for fighting, the other telling me how cool I was. To this day, I don't get it. We travelled the rest of the way home unmolested. I was told to go ahead and walk forward, because they'd be watching my back.
When we got home, mom freaked. She took me into the bathroom and washed my split lip with peroxide, then she taught me how to fight. I'll never forget my good, christian mom telling me to fight dirty if I had to fight at all.
Why You Shouldn't Skip School or How I Lost My Virginity
It was a good day to cut school. The sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky. The air was warm, but not muggy. Being in a river valley, St. Louis tends to have air thick enough to swim in. I decided to walk to N's bus stop instead of mine that day. If I got out of the house early enough, I'd take her bus. I got to walk past run-down victorian homes with huge windows and cute little turrets. I would always imagine living in one of those architectural wonders someday. I had dreams of buying a whole block, and returning them to their original state. I was a 15 year old kid, so functional obsolescence was not a part of my vocabulary.
I met N at her bus stop, and she was deep in conversation with another friend. T had a new boyfriend, but she wasn't sure she could trust him, so she was looking for someone to check him out for her. N and I happily volunteered for the job. Everyone in my neighborhood had skipped school at least once to spend the day with a friends' boyfriend or girlfriend. This was called "checking them out". It was a way to keep your friends from getting involved with someone not worthy of them. Never mind that you were putting your own self at risk. You checked out their dates, and they checked out yours. It was part of the South Side Code.
We hid behind some bushes when the bus came, then wandered around looking for something to do until N's mom left for work. When the coast was clear we headed to her house. N lived in a section 8 townhome, and if we weren't great friends I would have been jealous. Her mom paid $64 a month for a thousand square feet of sheer luxury. They had 2 bathrooms and own washer and dryer! We made breakfast, watched some tv and then headed out to the boyfriend's place. Along the way we ran into Joyce. She had actually graduated high school, and I idolized her for her common sense and maturity. She decided to come along with us. She thought it was a bad idea for two adolescent girls to go to a strange boys apartment.
G lived over by Roosevelt High, so we had to walk across several grassy medians to get there. I always look at the grass when I walk across it, and I spotted a four leaf clover. I stopped, and thought about picking it, then decided to let it be. Perhaps the mutation would spread, and the next spring would see a whole median of four leaf clovers.
G invited us in and offered us beer. N and Joyce each had one, while G and I opted for wine coolers. He was hispanic, that was a surprise. We didn't usually date other races, but, to each her own. His hair was thick and glossy, and he seemed reasonably fit. So far, so good. The apartment was cleanish, I didn't see too many roaches... he even rolled a joint for us. Pot smoking was one of those ways you could get acquainted with someone. I took a puff every time it was passed to me, even though I didn't care for the effects. Joyce was doing it, so it must be ok. I thought. I was already tipsy, and now I was stoned on top of it. Joyce and I went to sit in the living room, while N stayed to chat with G in the kitchen.
Some time later, I went looking for them and found them smootching in his bedroom. That was unacceptable! You don't kiss on your friend's boyfriend! I knew N was drunk and stoned, and therefore she couldn't be held responsible for her behavior. I broke them up saying, "Hey, why don't you guys come into the living room. Or do you expect us to entertain ourselves?" I pretended not to notice her smeared lipstick or flustered appearance. She dragged me into the bathroom and thanked me for stopping her. She didn't want to lose her virginity to this guy, and she was afraid she would have. we left the bathroom and found G kissing on Joyce! N said "Huh uh! You're supposed to be dating T!" and dragged him by his hair off of her. We decided it was time to go home. G decided to tag along. I don't know why we let him, but we did.
We headed back to N's house, me drinking wine coolers the whole way. They were so tasty! We chatted as we walked, all of us acting like nothing had happened. The conversation turned to sex, and I stated that I was a virgin. I was saving myself for the right time. I chattered on about how I would know when the time came, and that I hoped I wouldn't be stupid enough to lose it to some guy at a party. I guess G took that for an invitation.
When we got to N's, she went upstairs to plug in her curling iron so we could fix our hair. I decided to sit downstairs with Joyce. I wasn't about to leave her alone with this guy. I thoroughly distrusted him at this point, so I played watchdog while N did her hair. She returned, freshly moussed and curled, and I turned the guard duty over to her. I just wanted to get away from him. I went upstairs to N's bedroom, and started curling my bangs. G came up the stairs and stood in her doorway. I felt like a trapped rabbit. I said, "Excuse me." and tried to squeeze past him. He pressed me against the door jamb and kissed me. I shoved him away and went into the bathroom, and he followed me. "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!" I thought. I was not stuck in an even smaller space than before. Something clicked in my head and I started poking him in the chest while berating him for his attitude. The poking caused him to back off, but he was blocking the stairs, so I returned to N's room. My plan was to lock the door and wait him out. I wasn't fast enough. He was in the room and closing the door before I could react. I sized him up, and decided I could get to the door and scream before anything happened. I'd look like a fool, but I wouldn't be trapped anymore. It was a fair trade.
I grabbed the door handle and he spun me around and pinned me to the door. I went to shove my knee in his balls, but it didn't work. He stuck his tongue down my throat and pulled down my jeans. God he was quick. I didn't know what to do. My usually agile mind was blank. I pushed on his chest and said, "No!" The next thing I knew, I was falling toward the floor with him on top of me. I thought, "Oh, God. He's going to rape me." He was still french kissing me, so I bit his tongue as hard as I could. He pulled back, and I thought for a second that he'd go away, then I saw that he was going to punch me for biting him.
Visions of other rape victims flashed through my head. I saw their brutally beaten faces, and heard some anchor man saying, "Most victims of rape are brutally beaten for resisting." And I froze. I just kind of dropped into shock and didn't move as he penetrated me. I was stuck in my head, thinking odd random thoughts while he did his thing. I wondered where my underpants had gone to. I considered the rug-burn I was getting on my back, butt and thighs. I worried that N would see the blood from my broken hymen on her carpet, and tried to imagine cleaning it up before she saw. I replayed the whole day in my mind. Seeing points where I could have stopped this in little flash-clips of memory.
...If I had taken the bus...If N's mom left for work late...If I had picked that 4 leaf clover... Then he was done, and kindly re-buttoning my jeans. He smiled and offered me a hand up off the floor. He said, "That was great, wasn't it?" then, "How do you feel?" I got up and said, "You raped me, how am I supposed to feel?" He at least had the decency to blush. He said, "I didn't rape you." And I replied, "Yes. You did." There was an uncomfortable pause, then I stated, "I told you no. You didn't listen. I bit your tongue and you raped me." He responded with, "I pulled out before I came, so you don't have to worry about getting pregnant." I coldly thought how ironic it was that I had gone on the pill a month and a half earlier, because one day I'd want to give my virginity to my boyfriend, and I wanted nothing to stand in my way.
I wasn't angry, I wasn't weepy, I was just numb. I looked for something good in the situation. Mom taught me that every bad has a good to go with it. She also taught me to be polite under any circumstances. I searched and searched, and found only one thing. I said to him, "Thank you. Now it won't hurt when I have sex with someone I love." After that he left the room, and I went back to curling my hair. I needed to finish curling my hair. I needed to look normal. I needed to wake up and feel something. When my hair was done, and I couldn't stall any longer, I went downstairs. That bastard was still there. I was 15, I was skipping school, and I'd been drinking. I couldn't go to the police. If they don't jump out of the bushes at you, is it still rape? I knew in my heart that it was, but would the cops see it that way? I felt displaced. My friends sat there having normal conversation with my rapist, and they didn't know what had just happened. There was no sign that I had just shed the last piece of my childhood.
I sat on the arm of the sofa, feeling a squishy bruised wetness in my vagina. Nobody had ever told me that sex was wet. I wondered where all the wetness had come from. It didn't feel like a period, it felt like slug slime. I watched my friends joke and laugh, and joined in while silently wishing G would just leave already. He stayed for an hour and a half. I kept debating whether it was rape or just sex-I-didn't-want-to-have. I wanted to laugh out loud because I had thanked him, but it wasn't funny. Nothing was funny.
When he finally went home, N said to me, "Well? What did you think of him?" I said, "He raped me."
Joyce stared, and N laughed one short bark of laughter. I just looked at her as the truth dawned on her. Her eyes grew round and she said, "Oh my God, you're serious." Then I cried. I told them the whole story, crying the whole time. N scavenged up some vodka while Joyce held me and let me cry it out.
They walked me home in silence. The sky was still a beautiful bright blue, the air was still pleasantly warm without a trace of humidity. The world around me was still the same, but I could finally see how run down and crappy my neighborhood was. There were no more gemstones in the gutters, only broken glass. The setting sun didn't light up the buildings with it's rosy glow, it made them bloody. I wanted it to hurt, and I still felt nothing. The sun was too bright because my pupils were dilated from shock.
It took a couple of weeks for me to get back to normal. The shock wore off after a few days, but I still needed to put the event in it's place in my head. I told my boyfriend what had happened about 3 weeks afterward. He broke up with me. My friends called him up and told him what kind of scum he was, so he came back and told me he would "forgive me". Excuse me? Forgive me for what? Going into shock? His arrogance really helped snap me back to myself. I had a choice. I could mourn 15 minutes of my life forever, or I could get over it. I chose to get over it.
For those of you who've been there, you know that's not as easy as it sounds. I acted like I'd gotten over it, until I finally had. I had flashbacks for years. A look, or a scent or a texture would send me back; and I would lash out at my partner, then cry all over him. For a while, I let myself flash back. I used it as a litmus test for my boyfriends. If they responded appropriately, I'd keep them a while. If they weren't understanding, I'd ditch them. All that ended when I befriended JW. He heard the story from his girlfriend, and pumped me for information. JW actually found G. He told me he knew where the bastard was, and asked me what kind of revenge would be appropriate. Oh, yeah! I'd been planning this one for 3 years!!! I listed the tortures I had imagined for him. JW said that could be arranged, and he would even pay for it. It wasn't right, a great girl like me getting raped. Then he said, "Of course...They'd have to kill him afterwards. They can't do all that stuff and let him go."
I recoiled from the thought. How could I ask for his death, when I not only lived -but thrived? Nope. It was time to give up my desire for vengance. Although there's a secret part of me that still hopes a truckload of men anally violate him some bright sunny day.
It was a good day to cut school. The sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky. The air was warm, but not muggy. Being in a river valley, St. Louis tends to have air thick enough to swim in. I decided to walk to N's bus stop instead of mine that day. If I got out of the house early enough, I'd take her bus. I got to walk past run-down victorian homes with huge windows and cute little turrets. I would always imagine living in one of those architectural wonders someday. I had dreams of buying a whole block, and returning them to their original state. I was a 15 year old kid, so functional obsolescence was not a part of my vocabulary.
I met N at her bus stop, and she was deep in conversation with another friend. T had a new boyfriend, but she wasn't sure she could trust him, so she was looking for someone to check him out for her. N and I happily volunteered for the job. Everyone in my neighborhood had skipped school at least once to spend the day with a friends' boyfriend or girlfriend. This was called "checking them out". It was a way to keep your friends from getting involved with someone not worthy of them. Never mind that you were putting your own self at risk. You checked out their dates, and they checked out yours. It was part of the South Side Code.
We hid behind some bushes when the bus came, then wandered around looking for something to do until N's mom left for work. When the coast was clear we headed to her house. N lived in a section 8 townhome, and if we weren't great friends I would have been jealous. Her mom paid $64 a month for a thousand square feet of sheer luxury. They had 2 bathrooms and own washer and dryer! We made breakfast, watched some tv and then headed out to the boyfriend's place. Along the way we ran into Joyce. She had actually graduated high school, and I idolized her for her common sense and maturity. She decided to come along with us. She thought it was a bad idea for two adolescent girls to go to a strange boys apartment.
G lived over by Roosevelt High, so we had to walk across several grassy medians to get there. I always look at the grass when I walk across it, and I spotted a four leaf clover. I stopped, and thought about picking it, then decided to let it be. Perhaps the mutation would spread, and the next spring would see a whole median of four leaf clovers.
G invited us in and offered us beer. N and Joyce each had one, while G and I opted for wine coolers. He was hispanic, that was a surprise. We didn't usually date other races, but, to each her own. His hair was thick and glossy, and he seemed reasonably fit. So far, so good. The apartment was cleanish, I didn't see too many roaches... he even rolled a joint for us. Pot smoking was one of those ways you could get acquainted with someone. I took a puff every time it was passed to me, even though I didn't care for the effects. Joyce was doing it, so it must be ok. I thought. I was already tipsy, and now I was stoned on top of it. Joyce and I went to sit in the living room, while N stayed to chat with G in the kitchen.
Some time later, I went looking for them and found them smootching in his bedroom. That was unacceptable! You don't kiss on your friend's boyfriend! I knew N was drunk and stoned, and therefore she couldn't be held responsible for her behavior. I broke them up saying, "Hey, why don't you guys come into the living room. Or do you expect us to entertain ourselves?" I pretended not to notice her smeared lipstick or flustered appearance. She dragged me into the bathroom and thanked me for stopping her. She didn't want to lose her virginity to this guy, and she was afraid she would have. we left the bathroom and found G kissing on Joyce! N said "Huh uh! You're supposed to be dating T!" and dragged him by his hair off of her. We decided it was time to go home. G decided to tag along. I don't know why we let him, but we did.
We headed back to N's house, me drinking wine coolers the whole way. They were so tasty! We chatted as we walked, all of us acting like nothing had happened. The conversation turned to sex, and I stated that I was a virgin. I was saving myself for the right time. I chattered on about how I would know when the time came, and that I hoped I wouldn't be stupid enough to lose it to some guy at a party. I guess G took that for an invitation.
When we got to N's, she went upstairs to plug in her curling iron so we could fix our hair. I decided to sit downstairs with Joyce. I wasn't about to leave her alone with this guy. I thoroughly distrusted him at this point, so I played watchdog while N did her hair. She returned, freshly moussed and curled, and I turned the guard duty over to her. I just wanted to get away from him. I went upstairs to N's bedroom, and started curling my bangs. G came up the stairs and stood in her doorway. I felt like a trapped rabbit. I said, "Excuse me." and tried to squeeze past him. He pressed me against the door jamb and kissed me. I shoved him away and went into the bathroom, and he followed me. "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!" I thought. I was not stuck in an even smaller space than before. Something clicked in my head and I started poking him in the chest while berating him for his attitude. The poking caused him to back off, but he was blocking the stairs, so I returned to N's room. My plan was to lock the door and wait him out. I wasn't fast enough. He was in the room and closing the door before I could react. I sized him up, and decided I could get to the door and scream before anything happened. I'd look like a fool, but I wouldn't be trapped anymore. It was a fair trade.
I grabbed the door handle and he spun me around and pinned me to the door. I went to shove my knee in his balls, but it didn't work. He stuck his tongue down my throat and pulled down my jeans. God he was quick. I didn't know what to do. My usually agile mind was blank. I pushed on his chest and said, "No!" The next thing I knew, I was falling toward the floor with him on top of me. I thought, "Oh, God. He's going to rape me." He was still french kissing me, so I bit his tongue as hard as I could. He pulled back, and I thought for a second that he'd go away, then I saw that he was going to punch me for biting him.
Visions of other rape victims flashed through my head. I saw their brutally beaten faces, and heard some anchor man saying, "Most victims of rape are brutally beaten for resisting." And I froze. I just kind of dropped into shock and didn't move as he penetrated me. I was stuck in my head, thinking odd random thoughts while he did his thing. I wondered where my underpants had gone to. I considered the rug-burn I was getting on my back, butt and thighs. I worried that N would see the blood from my broken hymen on her carpet, and tried to imagine cleaning it up before she saw. I replayed the whole day in my mind. Seeing points where I could have stopped this in little flash-clips of memory.
...If I had taken the bus...If N's mom left for work late...If I had picked that 4 leaf clover... Then he was done, and kindly re-buttoning my jeans. He smiled and offered me a hand up off the floor. He said, "That was great, wasn't it?" then, "How do you feel?" I got up and said, "You raped me, how am I supposed to feel?" He at least had the decency to blush. He said, "I didn't rape you." And I replied, "Yes. You did." There was an uncomfortable pause, then I stated, "I told you no. You didn't listen. I bit your tongue and you raped me." He responded with, "I pulled out before I came, so you don't have to worry about getting pregnant." I coldly thought how ironic it was that I had gone on the pill a month and a half earlier, because one day I'd want to give my virginity to my boyfriend, and I wanted nothing to stand in my way.
I wasn't angry, I wasn't weepy, I was just numb. I looked for something good in the situation. Mom taught me that every bad has a good to go with it. She also taught me to be polite under any circumstances. I searched and searched, and found only one thing. I said to him, "Thank you. Now it won't hurt when I have sex with someone I love." After that he left the room, and I went back to curling my hair. I needed to finish curling my hair. I needed to look normal. I needed to wake up and feel something. When my hair was done, and I couldn't stall any longer, I went downstairs. That bastard was still there. I was 15, I was skipping school, and I'd been drinking. I couldn't go to the police. If they don't jump out of the bushes at you, is it still rape? I knew in my heart that it was, but would the cops see it that way? I felt displaced. My friends sat there having normal conversation with my rapist, and they didn't know what had just happened. There was no sign that I had just shed the last piece of my childhood.
I sat on the arm of the sofa, feeling a squishy bruised wetness in my vagina. Nobody had ever told me that sex was wet. I wondered where all the wetness had come from. It didn't feel like a period, it felt like slug slime. I watched my friends joke and laugh, and joined in while silently wishing G would just leave already. He stayed for an hour and a half. I kept debating whether it was rape or just sex-I-didn't-want-to-have. I wanted to laugh out loud because I had thanked him, but it wasn't funny. Nothing was funny.
When he finally went home, N said to me, "Well? What did you think of him?" I said, "He raped me."
Joyce stared, and N laughed one short bark of laughter. I just looked at her as the truth dawned on her. Her eyes grew round and she said, "Oh my God, you're serious." Then I cried. I told them the whole story, crying the whole time. N scavenged up some vodka while Joyce held me and let me cry it out.
They walked me home in silence. The sky was still a beautiful bright blue, the air was still pleasantly warm without a trace of humidity. The world around me was still the same, but I could finally see how run down and crappy my neighborhood was. There were no more gemstones in the gutters, only broken glass. The setting sun didn't light up the buildings with it's rosy glow, it made them bloody. I wanted it to hurt, and I still felt nothing. The sun was too bright because my pupils were dilated from shock.
It took a couple of weeks for me to get back to normal. The shock wore off after a few days, but I still needed to put the event in it's place in my head. I told my boyfriend what had happened about 3 weeks afterward. He broke up with me. My friends called him up and told him what kind of scum he was, so he came back and told me he would "forgive me". Excuse me? Forgive me for what? Going into shock? His arrogance really helped snap me back to myself. I had a choice. I could mourn 15 minutes of my life forever, or I could get over it. I chose to get over it.
For those of you who've been there, you know that's not as easy as it sounds. I acted like I'd gotten over it, until I finally had. I had flashbacks for years. A look, or a scent or a texture would send me back; and I would lash out at my partner, then cry all over him. For a while, I let myself flash back. I used it as a litmus test for my boyfriends. If they responded appropriately, I'd keep them a while. If they weren't understanding, I'd ditch them. All that ended when I befriended JW. He heard the story from his girlfriend, and pumped me for information. JW actually found G. He told me he knew where the bastard was, and asked me what kind of revenge would be appropriate. Oh, yeah! I'd been planning this one for 3 years!!! I listed the tortures I had imagined for him. JW said that could be arranged, and he would even pay for it. It wasn't right, a great girl like me getting raped. Then he said, "Of course...They'd have to kill him afterwards. They can't do all that stuff and let him go."
I recoiled from the thought. How could I ask for his death, when I not only lived -but thrived? Nope. It was time to give up my desire for vengance. Although there's a secret part of me that still hopes a truckload of men anally violate him some bright sunny day.
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