surreal moments (non-neighborhood story)
There are moments in my life when I know something is a bad idea, but I'm swept into doing it anyway. When this happens the world seems dark and surreal to me. This story is about one of those times. It's not related to my neighborhood, just a thing that happened to me. It's been sitting in the back of my head since I wrote "The Price of a Good Education".
We moved onto California Avenue when I was in the third grade. It was the first year girls were allowed to wear slacks during winter. The uniform pants were brown polyester, not comfy, but warmer than a skirt. I'm glad mom couldn't afford the more expensive wool ones because what happened was, I needed to go to the bathroom. My teacher gave me a hall pass to go potty, and when I stepped into the hallway I saw Mikey, who had also gotten a potty pass. He wasn't in the bathroom like he should be, he was swinging on his locker door. This was just bizarre. The hall was unusually quiet. I could hear the standard classroom noises, and I could hear Mikey's door squeak, but the air felt very still. It was alot like the feeling before a storm, when the area around you seems to be just waiting. I felt disconnected from the rest of the school. It was just me and the row of lockers, and Mikey didn't seem to fit the picture. He wasn't supposed to be there.
The hallway was dim. The school only turned on the hall lights when they absolutely had to. I really needed to go to the bathroom, but I thought, "I should get my books out of my locker first, it will make it easier when school lets out." (which was in about 15 minutes)
So, instead of going to the bathroom like a good little girl, I went to my locker. As I passed Mikey, I said, "You shouldn't be doing that. You'll get in trouble." He ignored me and continued swinging back and forth on his locker door. I opened my locker, and started rummaging in my book bag. I was really bothered by Mikey swinging on that door. Creak, creak... it wasn't right. I couldn't get my mind around him being there. He was moving the whole row of lockers with his stupid swinging, and it was hard to get my book bag out because of the motion.
I felt my back get all prickly, then suddenly I stood up and turned to walk away from the lockers. I wasn't even thinking, just moving. As I was rising, my eyes noticed the lockers leaning toward me. I tried to pivot and wind up in the open space as I realized the entire row of lockers was coming down on top of me. I sort of made it. I wound up with my upper body and head inside my locker, the rest was being weighed down my a lot of steel. Something was digging into the middle of my spine, and it hurt to breathe. On top of all that, I had the indignity of laying in a puddle of my own urine. (ew) I imagined Mikey stuck in his locker, like I was stuck in mine. I hoped he had made it all the way in; but if he hadn't, at least he was taking some of the weight off my back.
I called out, "Mikey? Are you in your locker?"
He said, "No, just my arm."
I waited for him to ask me if I was hurt, but he didn't ask. He started calling for help, and I just laid there trying to breathe. People came out in the hallway, and someone ran for Father Ross. I started thinking everybody would laugh when they pulled me out and saw all the pee. I willed my polyester pants to soak some of it up, but polyester isn't really absorbent. I couldn't feel my legs very well anymore, and I heard Mikey say, "Sharon's under there." So then they were afraid to move the lockers, and started shooing kids back to class.
Presently, I heard my teacher calling softly, "Sharon? Sharon? Where are you?"
I replied, "I'm in my locker."
She asked, "Are you hurt?"
So I said, "Yes. I can't move my legs, and there's something on my back. Could you get these lockers off me?"
I was scared, and trying not to cry. I thought maybe if I was super-nice and used my please and thank you's they would take these horribly heavy lockers off of me, so I added, "Please?"
She said, "We can't do that, Father Ross is getting help."
I started crying and said, "I'd really like to get out of my locker. It hurts."
Nobody had anything to say to that, then the bell rang for dismissal. I had been stuck for 15 minutes. It seemed like forever, but it also seemed like no time at all. I listened to the children being herded out the door, and wondered if they could smell my pee as they passed. I could sure smell it! I focused on their passage, and thought about the bright sunny day waiting for me. I imagined myself playing at the park. I used those images to calm myself down. Crying didn't do me any good, and it made my back hurt worse than ever. It had gone from a generally squished feeling to a small stabbing pain in my spine. Fr. Ross came back with a bunch of 8th graders, and the lockers shifted for a moment. Mikey had been crying on and off, but now that his arm was freed, he was fine. My teacher said, "Were getting you out next. Are you stuck anywhere?"
I said "I'm stuck under the lockers!"
I know she meant "is some part of you going to get hurt worse if we move these things" and I know I meant "no! now get them off me!" But that's not what either of us said. Father Ross counted to three, then he and five 8th grade boys lifted the lockers and pushed them against the wall. The hallway air never seemed so fresh! They all stared at me, and when I lifted my head to look around they told me not to move. Then the adults debated whether to move me or not. I had a back injury, it could be broken. They couldn't move me, but they couldn't leave me laying there, either. I thought perhaps we should wait for the ambulance, and said so. I don't even know if they heard me. I felt like a particularly difficult engineering problem, not a person. They finally decided the best way to do it would be to roll me onto my back and carry me by my arms and legs. My teacher fussed around the boys, telling them to be careful with me. One of them grabbed my forearms, the other my ankles; they carried me slung between them like a hammock. Every step they took hurt.
I looked back at the puddle of pee I had left, and wondered who would clean it up. Then I looked at the boy holding my ankles. He was trying to be careful, but not get his hands wet. I said to him, "I'm sorry." He replied, "I hope you're ok."
They laid me down in the back seat of Father Ross' car, and he drove me to Cardinal Glennon Hospital. I asked a lot of questions on the way there. "Why did the lockers fall down? Does my mom know? Is Mikey ok? Do you think I'll be ok? I think I'm ok. Did you ever get hurt like this?" and so on. Mom met me at the hospital, she was very calm while we waited for X-rays and such. Nothing was broken. I had bruised my back pretty badly, tho. They thought the thing I felt digging into my back was the handle of the locker next to mine.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Monday, August 25, 2003
They wanted to burn down the Cup Factory
When I was 17, my boyfriend loaned me $800 to buy a car. This led to me working the only job I hated, but that's a different story. When the car was paid off, I became a delivery driver for Dominos Pizza. This was lots of fun, and profitable too. I could bring home $60 to $80 a night on weekends, and I received a paycheck for about $175 every other week. I earned enough for fast food, cigarettes and books with money left over to help mom pay the utilities.
Mom was still working at Royal Papers Inc. She did accounts payable, and was getting paid around seven dollars an hour. Royal Papers was a distribution warehouse for paper and plastic products. They bought from companies like Dixie, Fort and Georgia Paper, and resold it in smaller quantities to local businesses. They had recently been bought by Villa Lighting, and Villa had purchased 5 brand new trucks for the company. Those 5 trucks and the kindness of strangers saved my mom's job one winter night, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
One night I was working at Dominos in the middle of a bitter cold snap. Cold is good for pizza drivers, we get lots of orders in bad weather. I had been called into work even though it was my night off. I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay home with my mom that night, although I had no reason and usually took every opportunity to earn money. I went to work because they needed me, and I went out on a delivery and saw the sky lit up with fire. Big fires are rare in St. Louis, so I turned on the radio to find out what could make that kind of blaze. I heard, "...on Vandeventer, near Choteau... Villa Lighting appears to be on fire. 80 firefighters are on location right now."
And I knew. It wasn't Villa, it was Royal Papers. Villa had nothing that would burn like that, but a warehouse full of paper products would. I rushed back to the store and asked my manager if I could go home, my mom's work was burning down, and she would need me. He said, "We need you here more." I spent that long, long shift trying to talk myself into quitting school so I could work full time. I could always get my GED, and go to college later, I thought. I can't describe how much that hurt to think about. At the time, I had already saved almost a thousand dollars for college. I had priced an associates degree at the community college, and checked out my options for St. Louis University for my Bachelor's Degree. I had it all planned. I needed about three grand to get started, and I could cover the rest with 30 hours a week and maybe a few student loans. I had long since learned that most plans go straight down the tubes when they meet with life, but I've always been an optimist.
My awesome co-workers gave me as many good tipping runs as they could find, and when I finally got off work it was with more than $120 on my pocket. My mom was in tears when I got home, and she wouldn't take the money from me. I insisted, she refused, and then we cried together in front of the television watching her life burn in a beautiful pyromantic display. The phone rang all night long. All the employees were calling each other to worry over their jobs, the company and the valiant firefighters who were trying to keep the blaze from spreading to other buildings. 200 firefighters, some from as far away as Chesterfield came to save what they could, and we prayed for each and every one of them.
Around 11 o'clock, mom got a call from one of the drivers. All the drivers lived in Illinois, and four of them had driven into St. Louis to try to save the brand new trucks. They arrived and told the firefighters they needed to get those trucks! The firefighters said it was too dangerous, they were butted up against the building, and the wall was going to collapse. One driver (who's name I sadly can't remember) said, "Please! You've got to let us in, that's all the inventory we have left!"
One of the firefighters said, "You've got 5 minutes. Save what you can." The drivers needed no more encouragement. They grabbed a tow chain to tie 2 of the trucks together, and hauled ass outta there! It must have been a beautiful sight. Four 18 wheelers smashing through the chain link fence, towing a fifth one behind. Not more than a few minutes later, five stories of brick wall came down where the trucks had been. That must have been a sight too. Royal Papers had inventory! And I could go to school!
Some time after midnight, mom got a call to show up at Villa Lighting for work the next day. It would be their temporary home while the bosses decided whether to try again or just give up. The next day, mom was very busy answering calls from customers. "Yes, that was us on fire. Yes, we are still in business." She stretched the inventory in those 5 trucks to include every customer who called. "The trucks were saved, so you'll get your products on X day." Meanwhile, others were busy talking to their competitors, all of whom gladly helped out. They sold their inventory to Royal at cost, letting Royal's trucks pick up from their warehouses. By the end of the week, management had found a new warehouse; and within 2 weeks, mom had an office to work from again.
The blaze was started by a pair of children, aged 7 and 9. They thought it would be fun to "burn down the cup factory" and they made malotov cocktails out of beer bottles and kerosene. I can't imagine how many of those bottles they must have thrown through the windows, because Royal had a damn good sprinkler system.
One wall survived, and you could see the twisted remnants of the iron elevator shaft.
When I was 17, my boyfriend loaned me $800 to buy a car. This led to me working the only job I hated, but that's a different story. When the car was paid off, I became a delivery driver for Dominos Pizza. This was lots of fun, and profitable too. I could bring home $60 to $80 a night on weekends, and I received a paycheck for about $175 every other week. I earned enough for fast food, cigarettes and books with money left over to help mom pay the utilities.
Mom was still working at Royal Papers Inc. She did accounts payable, and was getting paid around seven dollars an hour. Royal Papers was a distribution warehouse for paper and plastic products. They bought from companies like Dixie, Fort and Georgia Paper, and resold it in smaller quantities to local businesses. They had recently been bought by Villa Lighting, and Villa had purchased 5 brand new trucks for the company. Those 5 trucks and the kindness of strangers saved my mom's job one winter night, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
One night I was working at Dominos in the middle of a bitter cold snap. Cold is good for pizza drivers, we get lots of orders in bad weather. I had been called into work even though it was my night off. I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay home with my mom that night, although I had no reason and usually took every opportunity to earn money. I went to work because they needed me, and I went out on a delivery and saw the sky lit up with fire. Big fires are rare in St. Louis, so I turned on the radio to find out what could make that kind of blaze. I heard, "...on Vandeventer, near Choteau... Villa Lighting appears to be on fire. 80 firefighters are on location right now."
And I knew. It wasn't Villa, it was Royal Papers. Villa had nothing that would burn like that, but a warehouse full of paper products would. I rushed back to the store and asked my manager if I could go home, my mom's work was burning down, and she would need me. He said, "We need you here more." I spent that long, long shift trying to talk myself into quitting school so I could work full time. I could always get my GED, and go to college later, I thought. I can't describe how much that hurt to think about. At the time, I had already saved almost a thousand dollars for college. I had priced an associates degree at the community college, and checked out my options for St. Louis University for my Bachelor's Degree. I had it all planned. I needed about three grand to get started, and I could cover the rest with 30 hours a week and maybe a few student loans. I had long since learned that most plans go straight down the tubes when they meet with life, but I've always been an optimist.
My awesome co-workers gave me as many good tipping runs as they could find, and when I finally got off work it was with more than $120 on my pocket. My mom was in tears when I got home, and she wouldn't take the money from me. I insisted, she refused, and then we cried together in front of the television watching her life burn in a beautiful pyromantic display. The phone rang all night long. All the employees were calling each other to worry over their jobs, the company and the valiant firefighters who were trying to keep the blaze from spreading to other buildings. 200 firefighters, some from as far away as Chesterfield came to save what they could, and we prayed for each and every one of them.
Around 11 o'clock, mom got a call from one of the drivers. All the drivers lived in Illinois, and four of them had driven into St. Louis to try to save the brand new trucks. They arrived and told the firefighters they needed to get those trucks! The firefighters said it was too dangerous, they were butted up against the building, and the wall was going to collapse. One driver (who's name I sadly can't remember) said, "Please! You've got to let us in, that's all the inventory we have left!"
One of the firefighters said, "You've got 5 minutes. Save what you can." The drivers needed no more encouragement. They grabbed a tow chain to tie 2 of the trucks together, and hauled ass outta there! It must have been a beautiful sight. Four 18 wheelers smashing through the chain link fence, towing a fifth one behind. Not more than a few minutes later, five stories of brick wall came down where the trucks had been. That must have been a sight too. Royal Papers had inventory! And I could go to school!
Some time after midnight, mom got a call to show up at Villa Lighting for work the next day. It would be their temporary home while the bosses decided whether to try again or just give up. The next day, mom was very busy answering calls from customers. "Yes, that was us on fire. Yes, we are still in business." She stretched the inventory in those 5 trucks to include every customer who called. "The trucks were saved, so you'll get your products on X day." Meanwhile, others were busy talking to their competitors, all of whom gladly helped out. They sold their inventory to Royal at cost, letting Royal's trucks pick up from their warehouses. By the end of the week, management had found a new warehouse; and within 2 weeks, mom had an office to work from again.
The blaze was started by a pair of children, aged 7 and 9. They thought it would be fun to "burn down the cup factory" and they made malotov cocktails out of beer bottles and kerosene. I can't imagine how many of those bottles they must have thrown through the windows, because Royal had a damn good sprinkler system.
One wall survived, and you could see the twisted remnants of the iron elevator shaft.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Bicycle Freedom
Before we moved onto California Avenue, my sister and I both had bikes. Mom bought them for us the Christmas after dad had left. Mine was electric blue, J's was pink and white. When we moved, J and I immediately set out to explore our new neighborhood. We found a small park 2 blocks to the North, and a candy store 3 blocks West of our new home. Given a choice, we would have biked to school too.
One day, we rode to the candy store with J's best friend D. We left our bikes parked in front like we always did, and when we came out they were gone. We ran to D's house and her mom called the police. I described my bike in detail to them, all the way down to the broken spoke and the scratches in the paint, but I never saw my bike again. A few days later D and her mom were called down to the police station. They had found her bright red Mongoose bike. My mom was livid. She seemed to take it as a personal affront that the expensive bike had been found, yet her children remained bicycle-less. She spent a lunch hour at the police station raising a stink about it, but they couldn't return what they didn't have.
The next spring, Hosea House opened it's doors and I got a replacement bike for $5. It was neon green and the bannana-seat was covered in hippie daisies. I hated the look of that bike. It was so ugly in comparison to my blue one. My sister told me to get over it, at least I had a bike again. She was right, so I took the ugly bike out in public expecting ridicule at every turn. (heh) It never happened. Nobody but me thought my bike was funny looking. I had forgotten how freeing it was to pedal as fast as I could, the air pushing against my body. It felt like flying. Within a month I had come to love that green bike.
Ahhh, freedom!
Before we moved onto California Avenue, my sister and I both had bikes. Mom bought them for us the Christmas after dad had left. Mine was electric blue, J's was pink and white. When we moved, J and I immediately set out to explore our new neighborhood. We found a small park 2 blocks to the North, and a candy store 3 blocks West of our new home. Given a choice, we would have biked to school too.
One day, we rode to the candy store with J's best friend D. We left our bikes parked in front like we always did, and when we came out they were gone. We ran to D's house and her mom called the police. I described my bike in detail to them, all the way down to the broken spoke and the scratches in the paint, but I never saw my bike again. A few days later D and her mom were called down to the police station. They had found her bright red Mongoose bike. My mom was livid. She seemed to take it as a personal affront that the expensive bike had been found, yet her children remained bicycle-less. She spent a lunch hour at the police station raising a stink about it, but they couldn't return what they didn't have.
The next spring, Hosea House opened it's doors and I got a replacement bike for $5. It was neon green and the bannana-seat was covered in hippie daisies. I hated the look of that bike. It was so ugly in comparison to my blue one. My sister told me to get over it, at least I had a bike again. She was right, so I took the ugly bike out in public expecting ridicule at every turn. (heh) It never happened. Nobody but me thought my bike was funny looking. I had forgotten how freeing it was to pedal as fast as I could, the air pushing against my body. It felt like flying. Within a month I had come to love that green bike.
Ahhh, freedom!
Monday, August 18, 2003
Envy Part One
There were many things I envied as a child. I wanted an Atari game system, and a Merlin. I wanted a vacuum cleaner and real gold earrings. I wanted a dad who would go off to work, so I could have my mom at home. Wanting these things wasn't going to bring them into actualization, and I did just fine without them. Sometimes it was painful to see my friends' birthday and christmas presents that far outstripped my own. It was the pain of a child who knows it's just the way things are, yet it still seems unjust. Sometimes I felt very isolated, more often I felt like I somehow wasn't good enough. I did a lot of good deeds hoping that just one more would put us over the top, and presents would flow my family's way.
I didn't get that we got Catholic school instead of expensive presents. I knew mom was making tough choices everyday, and that each choice was intended to give my sister and I a better future. I didn't know why we couldn't have school and an Atari. My sister's best friend had a lot of money, but I wouldn't trade with her for the world. The money came from her dad's pension, because her dad was dead. She had a lot of stuff, but she didn't have joy. I got to see firsthand the difference between earning your toys and having them handed to you on a silver platter. She seemed to get a new, pricey toy every month, and she didn't value any of them. I know she would have given it all up to see her dad's face just one more time.
I thought I knew envy, and then I went to public school. I met kids on welfare, living in section 8 housing with better clothes than me. When I transferred to Waring, it was in the middle of the school year. Mom had already spent her money on school uniforms, and we had very little left. She decided to skip the gas bill for a month and took me shopping for school clothes instead. We bought one pair of jeans and three shirts. The welfare kids teased me because I wore the same pair of jeans every day. We went to the laundromat every other week, so my jeans saw a lot of handwashing in the tub. I went to school with damp jeans quite a bit, because the only way to dry them was to hang them over the heater vent in the hallway. Mom went to the carnival supply store and bought hooks that looked like fingers, and screwed one into the plaster wall. She let me paint the fingernail red, and that became my "jeans hook". It was pretty cool.
One day in January, the seat of my jeans tore. They were so worn out there was no real way to patch them. The fabric wasn't strong enough to hold the stitches. The school wouldn't send me home, so I endured the teasing for the rest of the day and walked home from the bus stop with my winter coat tied around my waist so no one could see. It was one of those moments that still makes me squirm inside when I think about it. I'm a redhead, so I'm used to teasing. Yet, no amount of "carrot top" or "Woo! Red!" had prepared me for ripping my only pair of jeans.
My Aunt came by that night with an armload of clothes for me. She was very angry at my mom for not saying something sooner. All the clothes were hand-me-downs, and I didn't want to wear her bell bottom jeans with stars on the butt. The shirts were pretty cool, and she even brought me a blue fuzzy sweater. I wore the sweater the next day, along with the bell bottoms, and those unmerciful bastard children started calling me "Salvation Army Reject". They probably thought it hurt my feelings, but cast off clothes were better than holey jeans any day, and at least I wasn't on welfare. The first time I opened my mouth and said "Yeah, well, my momma works for a living," I almost got my ass kicked. They didn't want to hear that, and they went in search of easier prey.
I did envy the welfare kids for having things we couldn't afford, but it was still that kind of "somehow I'm not good enough" kind of envy. I experienced the true green-eyed monster when we had a dress-up day at school, everyone was supposed to dress like babies. A friend of mine, who weighed over 300 pounds, came to school in footie pajamas. He was 6'3", and his mother had made them by hand just for the occasion. I was so jealous, because that's the kind of thing my mom would have done for me, if she had had the time - if she weren't working all the time. Nobody teased him - they all thought it was as cool as I did.
There were many things I envied as a child. I wanted an Atari game system, and a Merlin. I wanted a vacuum cleaner and real gold earrings. I wanted a dad who would go off to work, so I could have my mom at home. Wanting these things wasn't going to bring them into actualization, and I did just fine without them. Sometimes it was painful to see my friends' birthday and christmas presents that far outstripped my own. It was the pain of a child who knows it's just the way things are, yet it still seems unjust. Sometimes I felt very isolated, more often I felt like I somehow wasn't good enough. I did a lot of good deeds hoping that just one more would put us over the top, and presents would flow my family's way.
I didn't get that we got Catholic school instead of expensive presents. I knew mom was making tough choices everyday, and that each choice was intended to give my sister and I a better future. I didn't know why we couldn't have school and an Atari. My sister's best friend had a lot of money, but I wouldn't trade with her for the world. The money came from her dad's pension, because her dad was dead. She had a lot of stuff, but she didn't have joy. I got to see firsthand the difference between earning your toys and having them handed to you on a silver platter. She seemed to get a new, pricey toy every month, and she didn't value any of them. I know she would have given it all up to see her dad's face just one more time.
I thought I knew envy, and then I went to public school. I met kids on welfare, living in section 8 housing with better clothes than me. When I transferred to Waring, it was in the middle of the school year. Mom had already spent her money on school uniforms, and we had very little left. She decided to skip the gas bill for a month and took me shopping for school clothes instead. We bought one pair of jeans and three shirts. The welfare kids teased me because I wore the same pair of jeans every day. We went to the laundromat every other week, so my jeans saw a lot of handwashing in the tub. I went to school with damp jeans quite a bit, because the only way to dry them was to hang them over the heater vent in the hallway. Mom went to the carnival supply store and bought hooks that looked like fingers, and screwed one into the plaster wall. She let me paint the fingernail red, and that became my "jeans hook". It was pretty cool.
One day in January, the seat of my jeans tore. They were so worn out there was no real way to patch them. The fabric wasn't strong enough to hold the stitches. The school wouldn't send me home, so I endured the teasing for the rest of the day and walked home from the bus stop with my winter coat tied around my waist so no one could see. It was one of those moments that still makes me squirm inside when I think about it. I'm a redhead, so I'm used to teasing. Yet, no amount of "carrot top" or "Woo! Red!" had prepared me for ripping my only pair of jeans.
My Aunt came by that night with an armload of clothes for me. She was very angry at my mom for not saying something sooner. All the clothes were hand-me-downs, and I didn't want to wear her bell bottom jeans with stars on the butt. The shirts were pretty cool, and she even brought me a blue fuzzy sweater. I wore the sweater the next day, along with the bell bottoms, and those unmerciful bastard children started calling me "Salvation Army Reject". They probably thought it hurt my feelings, but cast off clothes were better than holey jeans any day, and at least I wasn't on welfare. The first time I opened my mouth and said "Yeah, well, my momma works for a living," I almost got my ass kicked. They didn't want to hear that, and they went in search of easier prey.
I did envy the welfare kids for having things we couldn't afford, but it was still that kind of "somehow I'm not good enough" kind of envy. I experienced the true green-eyed monster when we had a dress-up day at school, everyone was supposed to dress like babies. A friend of mine, who weighed over 300 pounds, came to school in footie pajamas. He was 6'3", and his mother had made them by hand just for the occasion. I was so jealous, because that's the kind of thing my mom would have done for me, if she had had the time - if she weren't working all the time. Nobody teased him - they all thought it was as cool as I did.
Friday, August 15, 2003
Shopping
When we were children, back-to-school was an exciting time for us. We would take last year's uniforms out of storage and try them on to see if they still fit. Then we'd go to St. Francis De Sales church and buy used uniforms, if the old ones couldn't be let out any more. We would walk 8 blocks to Cherokee Street and buy our school supplies at Woolworth’s. Then we would wait.
While my child self is waiting, suspended in the airless void that is memory, let me explain about Cherokee Street. It's a 2 mile long stretch of road along which you can buy practically anything. The eastern third of the street is Antique Row. This meant "county people only" in my book. I used to dream about walking down Antique Row with pocketsfull of hundred dollar bills, buying tiffany lamps and hand woven rugs and solid wood furniture older than my grandmother. I shopped there as an adult, and was sorely disappointed. Most of the shops were nothing more than a high priced flea market. I did find, and buy a glorious shag rug covered in earth tone swirls and paisleys. It is without a doubt, the ugliest rug I've ever seen. It looks like psychedelic vomit that has begun to grow orange fur. My husband collects 70's kitsch, and absolutely loves it.
The Western 2/3rds of Cherokee Street held storefronts of all sizes selling anything from rolling papers to fur coats. There still is a store called Globe Drug. I assume at one time, they had a pharmacy, but they didn't when we shopped there. We bought loose leaf paper with printing errors, folders for a penny apiece and sometimes cheap underwear. Globe Drug was dimly lit, with narrow aisles and narrower shelves. The walls were yellow from decades of tobacco smoke, and everything was factory overstock or flawed, but it was all dirt cheap! Mom taught us how to find bargains amid the mountains of junk, how to check the expiration dates on their boxed food and where to draw the line between bargain and waste of money. It was fine to buy irregular towels or panties, but never irregular shirts or pants. If the price was very good, it might be worth your time to buy it and fix it at home. We didn't own a sewing machine; so all tailoring was done by hand.
We never went into the roller skate shop, or the custom T-shirt store. The Head Shops had beautiful hookahs and bongs, and feathers on alligator clips right in the windows. I wanted a hookah because it was pretty, and my child's mind thought it was for making coffee. I remember pleading with my mom, trying to convince her that she was good enough for that fancy coffee service in the window, and how neat it was that you could pour 2 cups at once. (those being the hoses coming off either side) She would smile, or laugh and say, "I really don't want that kind of coffee service. My percolator makes better coffee anyway." I don't know how she kept from bursting with laughter, but she always did.
When the end of the back-to-school season came, our waiting was done. We would get up at 6 in the morning, eat a good breakfast and take a bus to Cherokee street. Taking the bus signified the specialness of the occasion. It meant our time was too valuable to waste on walking. We'd get off the California bus at Cherokee and walk 3 blocks to the 2 story department store. There would be a small crowd of bargain hunters waiting outside and we would join them, sitting with our butts up against the front doors, staking out our turf. We would sing traveling songs or play word games while we waited the 2 or more hours for the doors to open. In hindsight, we were probably pretty annoying. When the doors finally opened we would rush in, along with all the other eager shoppers. We'd split up, Mom would head for whatever we had overheard our neighbors-in-waiting talking about, since she was biggest. J and I would head for other things. Generally one would go for jeans, one for shirts, and one for work clothes. We'd grab all we could then meet by the cash register and start trading. Having lived this experience for several seasons, I would never want to work on the trading floor of Wall Street. J and I would sit on our stash of clothes and Mom would pull an item from the pile. She'd check the size, and if it didn't fit she'd yell out, "I have a 12! Who's got an 8?!" And the bargaining would begin. Women would become convinced that we had already nabbed the best stuff, and do our fighting for us to get the sizes we needed. My sister and I got stepped on and shoved, but we came away with a few pieces of new clothes for each of us. We always checked for tears before we reached the cash register, and the clothes almost always had dirt and footprints on them, but clothes can wash.
When we were children, back-to-school was an exciting time for us. We would take last year's uniforms out of storage and try them on to see if they still fit. Then we'd go to St. Francis De Sales church and buy used uniforms, if the old ones couldn't be let out any more. We would walk 8 blocks to Cherokee Street and buy our school supplies at Woolworth’s. Then we would wait.
While my child self is waiting, suspended in the airless void that is memory, let me explain about Cherokee Street. It's a 2 mile long stretch of road along which you can buy practically anything. The eastern third of the street is Antique Row. This meant "county people only" in my book. I used to dream about walking down Antique Row with pocketsfull of hundred dollar bills, buying tiffany lamps and hand woven rugs and solid wood furniture older than my grandmother. I shopped there as an adult, and was sorely disappointed. Most of the shops were nothing more than a high priced flea market. I did find, and buy a glorious shag rug covered in earth tone swirls and paisleys. It is without a doubt, the ugliest rug I've ever seen. It looks like psychedelic vomit that has begun to grow orange fur. My husband collects 70's kitsch, and absolutely loves it.
The Western 2/3rds of Cherokee Street held storefronts of all sizes selling anything from rolling papers to fur coats. There still is a store called Globe Drug. I assume at one time, they had a pharmacy, but they didn't when we shopped there. We bought loose leaf paper with printing errors, folders for a penny apiece and sometimes cheap underwear. Globe Drug was dimly lit, with narrow aisles and narrower shelves. The walls were yellow from decades of tobacco smoke, and everything was factory overstock or flawed, but it was all dirt cheap! Mom taught us how to find bargains amid the mountains of junk, how to check the expiration dates on their boxed food and where to draw the line between bargain and waste of money. It was fine to buy irregular towels or panties, but never irregular shirts or pants. If the price was very good, it might be worth your time to buy it and fix it at home. We didn't own a sewing machine; so all tailoring was done by hand.
We never went into the roller skate shop, or the custom T-shirt store. The Head Shops had beautiful hookahs and bongs, and feathers on alligator clips right in the windows. I wanted a hookah because it was pretty, and my child's mind thought it was for making coffee. I remember pleading with my mom, trying to convince her that she was good enough for that fancy coffee service in the window, and how neat it was that you could pour 2 cups at once. (those being the hoses coming off either side) She would smile, or laugh and say, "I really don't want that kind of coffee service. My percolator makes better coffee anyway." I don't know how she kept from bursting with laughter, but she always did.
When the end of the back-to-school season came, our waiting was done. We would get up at 6 in the morning, eat a good breakfast and take a bus to Cherokee street. Taking the bus signified the specialness of the occasion. It meant our time was too valuable to waste on walking. We'd get off the California bus at Cherokee and walk 3 blocks to the 2 story department store. There would be a small crowd of bargain hunters waiting outside and we would join them, sitting with our butts up against the front doors, staking out our turf. We would sing traveling songs or play word games while we waited the 2 or more hours for the doors to open. In hindsight, we were probably pretty annoying. When the doors finally opened we would rush in, along with all the other eager shoppers. We'd split up, Mom would head for whatever we had overheard our neighbors-in-waiting talking about, since she was biggest. J and I would head for other things. Generally one would go for jeans, one for shirts, and one for work clothes. We'd grab all we could then meet by the cash register and start trading. Having lived this experience for several seasons, I would never want to work on the trading floor of Wall Street. J and I would sit on our stash of clothes and Mom would pull an item from the pile. She'd check the size, and if it didn't fit she'd yell out, "I have a 12! Who's got an 8?!" And the bargaining would begin. Women would become convinced that we had already nabbed the best stuff, and do our fighting for us to get the sizes we needed. My sister and I got stepped on and shoved, but we came away with a few pieces of new clothes for each of us. We always checked for tears before we reached the cash register, and the clothes almost always had dirt and footprints on them, but clothes can wash.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Walking
Whenever we had extra cash, it was always a toss up as to whether we should spend any of it on bus fare. When it was below 20 degrees, or above 90 degrees, we rode the bus to our destination. Any other time, we walked. (If you're interested in my old neighborhood, you can go to your favorite online map site and get a map centered on a single address. I just went to mapsonus.com, and it gave me a nice map of my old stompin' grounds)
We walked to the Tru-Buy grocery store (2 blocks) and the Free-Dry laundromat (9 blocks). We walked to church and school and Cherokee Street for shopping. As mom's pay scale rose, so did the distances we'd travel. Finally, we could afford to shop at K-Mart. Traveling on foot really broadens your perspective on the world. Distances were not marked by stoplights or main streets; they were marked by hills and houses it was best to avoid. To go to K-Mart, we'd leave the house and walk South to Gravois Ave. Gravois cuts diagonally through the city, so our route would then lead South West to Grand Ave. There was a flat stretch past the used car dealership and the Laclede Gas building. Then it was a slight rise past another used car place and the soft serve ice cream store. (now Cardinal Motors, yet another used car dealership) We went to the soft serve ice cream place every Monday night, during summer, and it always gave me a good feeling to pass it. Next came several blocks uphill, and we'd pass the public grade school (have to drive past it and remember the name) and Roosevelt High School. Then a beautiful downhill stretch that would quicken our pace and revive our flagging energies. This section had nice houses, and grass instead of weeds. People actually grew flowers in their front yards, and the air had a cool, fresh scent because there were huge shade trees here and there. From the bottom of that beautiful hill, you could look up and see the stoplights at Grand and Gravois. We were half way to our destination. Climbing the next hill took us away from the nice homes with their shady trees. The higher we climbed, the closer the houses grew to the street. From this point on, we actually zigzagged across Gravois. We would cross to the South East side to avoid the apartments with tenants, but no windows. The windows having been long since broken out, and the shards used as weapons. The drunken hoosiers who lived in these buildings used the same temperature scale we did, so any time we were out walking, they were out drinking on their steps. We could hear their catcalls from across the street. "Wooo! Baby! Whyn'tchoo come over here and sit on my face for a bit?" And such. This was far better than the alternative. My sister and I had walked this route a few times alone, and had occasionally refused to cross the street. We were tough, and no 300 lb drunken fool was going to have us running to the safe side of the street. The result was always the same. Walking past meant getting your ass grabbed as you went by. We'd pretend not to notice, our faces burning in shame, while the hoosiers would laugh and call out their tiny repertoire of "compliments". The first time this happened I was 10 years old.
I need to sidetrack here, for a moment. To the men that read these stories- Has any woman smiled and accepted a crude proposition from you? I don't know of any women who have. I can accept it as the compliment it is, you find me attractive... thanks! In a small minded way, it is a compliment, but it's never going to get you anything. The whole process seems like a waste of breath to me. OK, back to the story
So, we crossed the street. We'd cross again at the Velvet Freeze, to avoid the bored teenagers hanging out in front of the place, then half a block later cross again to avoid more drinkers. The ugly stretch was maybe 1/4 mile, probably less, but it was all up hill. So there we were, 2 small kids and one short adult, tacking our way uphill to K-Mart.
Sometimes we'd stop in at the White Castles at Grand and Gravois and enjoy a 20 cent burger and the colorful mix of homeless, shoppers and bus-people. The air conditioning was nice too. From there it was a 3 block hop to the K-Mart Plaza. The walk usually took about 40 minutes. We would spend all day shopping, waiting for the sun to go down. This served multiple purposes. By 7 o' clock, the drunks were usually passed out or gone to the nearest bar so we could travel home relatively unmolested. Also the walk home was cooler (in winter, this meant a rare and joyful bus ride) and shopping all day meant 5 hours of decent climate control. Nice!
Whenever we had extra cash, it was always a toss up as to whether we should spend any of it on bus fare. When it was below 20 degrees, or above 90 degrees, we rode the bus to our destination. Any other time, we walked. (If you're interested in my old neighborhood, you can go to your favorite online map site and get a map centered on a single address. I just went to mapsonus.com, and it gave me a nice map of my old stompin' grounds)
We walked to the Tru-Buy grocery store (2 blocks) and the Free-Dry laundromat (9 blocks). We walked to church and school and Cherokee Street for shopping. As mom's pay scale rose, so did the distances we'd travel. Finally, we could afford to shop at K-Mart. Traveling on foot really broadens your perspective on the world. Distances were not marked by stoplights or main streets; they were marked by hills and houses it was best to avoid. To go to K-Mart, we'd leave the house and walk South to Gravois Ave. Gravois cuts diagonally through the city, so our route would then lead South West to Grand Ave. There was a flat stretch past the used car dealership and the Laclede Gas building. Then it was a slight rise past another used car place and the soft serve ice cream store. (now Cardinal Motors, yet another used car dealership) We went to the soft serve ice cream place every Monday night, during summer, and it always gave me a good feeling to pass it. Next came several blocks uphill, and we'd pass the public grade school (have to drive past it and remember the name) and Roosevelt High School. Then a beautiful downhill stretch that would quicken our pace and revive our flagging energies. This section had nice houses, and grass instead of weeds. People actually grew flowers in their front yards, and the air had a cool, fresh scent because there were huge shade trees here and there. From the bottom of that beautiful hill, you could look up and see the stoplights at Grand and Gravois. We were half way to our destination. Climbing the next hill took us away from the nice homes with their shady trees. The higher we climbed, the closer the houses grew to the street. From this point on, we actually zigzagged across Gravois. We would cross to the South East side to avoid the apartments with tenants, but no windows. The windows having been long since broken out, and the shards used as weapons. The drunken hoosiers who lived in these buildings used the same temperature scale we did, so any time we were out walking, they were out drinking on their steps. We could hear their catcalls from across the street. "Wooo! Baby! Whyn'tchoo come over here and sit on my face for a bit?" And such. This was far better than the alternative. My sister and I had walked this route a few times alone, and had occasionally refused to cross the street. We were tough, and no 300 lb drunken fool was going to have us running to the safe side of the street. The result was always the same. Walking past meant getting your ass grabbed as you went by. We'd pretend not to notice, our faces burning in shame, while the hoosiers would laugh and call out their tiny repertoire of "compliments". The first time this happened I was 10 years old.
I need to sidetrack here, for a moment. To the men that read these stories- Has any woman smiled and accepted a crude proposition from you? I don't know of any women who have. I can accept it as the compliment it is, you find me attractive... thanks! In a small minded way, it is a compliment, but it's never going to get you anything. The whole process seems like a waste of breath to me. OK, back to the story
So, we crossed the street. We'd cross again at the Velvet Freeze, to avoid the bored teenagers hanging out in front of the place, then half a block later cross again to avoid more drinkers. The ugly stretch was maybe 1/4 mile, probably less, but it was all up hill. So there we were, 2 small kids and one short adult, tacking our way uphill to K-Mart.
Sometimes we'd stop in at the White Castles at Grand and Gravois and enjoy a 20 cent burger and the colorful mix of homeless, shoppers and bus-people. The air conditioning was nice too. From there it was a 3 block hop to the K-Mart Plaza. The walk usually took about 40 minutes. We would spend all day shopping, waiting for the sun to go down. This served multiple purposes. By 7 o' clock, the drunks were usually passed out or gone to the nearest bar so we could travel home relatively unmolested. Also the walk home was cooler (in winter, this meant a rare and joyful bus ride) and shopping all day meant 5 hours of decent climate control. Nice!
Saturday, August 09, 2003
The Price of a Good Education
My sister went to St. Elizabeth's High School. It was an all-girls Catholic school. It offered Latin as a language, that's how elite this school was. She bought her uniforms herself. She did charity work to help offset the cost. She worked as a coat check girl on the weekends and baby-sat weeknights and did all her homework and kept her grades up. Her eyes were fixed firmly on that most miraculous of prizes -College. She never wavered from that goal. She was proud of her school, and proud of herself... and she deserved it!
She saved her money and bought a St. Elizabeth's jacket, it cost $40. She wore it all the time. I think that jacket was a statement for her, but it was practical too. It was warm and it was weather resistant. She had earned the right to wear her bright red St. Elizabeth's jacket. Earned or not, it brought all sorts of trouble to her.
There was a girl in our neighborhood named S. S was tall and fat and filled with bitterness. Oh, and she was a slut too. She had no future and an ugly past, and she hated my sister. J was everything S was not. J was slender and petite and popular because she was fun to be around. S was only popular because she would beat you up if you didn't kiss her ass. The neighborhood kids breathed a collective sigh of relief when S came of age. Once you turn 18, if you beat up someone younger you go to jail. For about a minute, we all thought we were safe. Then S found people to do her fighting for her. She would go behind the scenes, spreading discontent and lies until it would erupt into violence.
Bitch.
She was the kind of person who would kick you when you're down and aim for your teeth or your uterus. She was one of the few people in this world that I actually pitied... Until she went after my sister.
She told my best friend (coincidentally the most vicious fighter in the neighborhood, after S) that my sister thought she was too good for the neighborhood. Everywhere I went, for weeks, S was chatting with C (my best friend) to the point where I hardly ever talked to her myself. All that time she was feeding the beast named Righteous Indignation. I'm actually surprised C held out as long as she did.
One night, we're sitting on our front porch, and S calls us down to her. It was a cool autumn evening, so of course J was wearing her Lizzies jacket.
We step onto the sidewalk, and see the whole neighborhood bunched up by the entrance to the Game Room. The air was filled with that particular kind of tension that signals a fight. The pack starts to move forward, and I have an internal conversation with myself about the wisdom of running for the house and hoping whatever it is this time blows over. C steps forward from the group and she's wearing her fighting clothes. Shit! This is gonna be bad.
She confronts my sister and starts to point out all the ways J supposedly rubs everyone’s nose in the fact that she's better than them. The jacket is the major bone of contention; J's snootiness is a more minor argument. The rant went something like this, "You walk down the street with your snobby-assed jacket and your nose in the air like you're too good for the world. You think you're better than us? You ain't better than anybody you fucking bitch. You ain't nothin' but trash like the rest of us and I'm gonna put you in your place!"
My sister calmly says, "I wouldn't sully my hands on you."
I started getting really afraid for her then. Before, my primary concern was for the jacket. That was her winter coat, and it was intended to last for four years. I was busy thinking of some way to help buy a new jacket for her, sure that this one was toast. Then she goes and opens her big, fat mouth. I don't know if C had ever heard the term "sully" before, and it certainly pissed her off. Her skin actually got all red and she punched my sister square in the face. I've been punched by C, she hits like a freight train.
I'm shaking with adrenaline and fear, my stomach is all fluttery and it's hard for me to think clearly. Every instinct I have is telling me to run, and there's not one friendly face around. They're all enjoying seeing my sister get her come-uppance. These are the same people she hangs with every day. How could they turn on her so suddenly?
Again my sister states, "I won't hit you. You're not worth the effort."
"Jesus Christ! She is a snob!" I think. C punches her again and almost knocks her down. It was well past time to put a stop to this. One of the mottoes of my neighborhood is "blood is thicker than water" meaning you can hate your family as much as you want in private, but you put your neck on the chopping block to save them in public. I met the guillotine by getting between then and saying, "You have to go through me first." I had hoped that this would bring some sense to her. I hoped in vain. C said, "My fight's not with you, and she's had this commin' for a long time." I replied, "Blood is thicker than water. You have to go through me first." C knows the rules as well as anybody else. She was psyching herself up to hit me when some guy grabbed me and put something cold against the side of my head.
An interesting thing happened then. My fear was gone. There was no nervousness or anger. I thought, "NO." And then I was facing him, staring down the barrel of a tiny little handgun. While my brain was thinking, "You are not allowed to decide (when I die)", my mouth said, "Shoot me, or put it away." I was very calm about this. And I meant it with every fiber of my being. I looked straight into his eyes, calmly expecting death at any moment, not caring, doing nothing but looking into his eyes. I must have stared him down for a whole 2 seconds. During that time, he broke out in a sweat, his eyes flickered to the gun, then to the wall of the Bar, and then he blinked. I knew in that instant that he was not going to shoot me.
He stuffed the gun in his pocket, it was probably unloaded anyway.
He had broken a cardinal rule about neighborhood fighting. You don't bring a gun to a fistfight. When all is said and done, you don't kill a member of your community. We were all in this together, and you don't decrease the numbers. Taking out one person drags the whole neighborhood over that invisible line between decency and scum. You don't bring a gun to a fistfight. Ever. When I turned away from the idiot with the not-so deadly weapon, most of the audience was gone. The rest were standing around chatting like nothing had happened. Some were even approaching my sister to talk with her and express their support for her. They were praising her for boldly standing up to C, and laughing over her soon to be infamous words- "I wouldn't sully my hands on you".
I went and sat in the shadows of my front step and waited for the world to snap back to reality. Ms. Bitch walked away, up the street, her only companion the fool with the gun in his pocket. I found out later that he was her boyfriend, and not from our neighborhood.
C came over and tried to apologize for wanting to beat up my sister, even though she had it coming. I told her she was not allowed to beat up J. If she had a problem with any member of my family, she had best take it to me first, because I'd be watching my sister's back every time.
The up side to it was that my sister escaped relatively unscathed, and her jacket lived to be worn another day.
My sister went to St. Elizabeth's High School. It was an all-girls Catholic school. It offered Latin as a language, that's how elite this school was. She bought her uniforms herself. She did charity work to help offset the cost. She worked as a coat check girl on the weekends and baby-sat weeknights and did all her homework and kept her grades up. Her eyes were fixed firmly on that most miraculous of prizes -College. She never wavered from that goal. She was proud of her school, and proud of herself... and she deserved it!
She saved her money and bought a St. Elizabeth's jacket, it cost $40. She wore it all the time. I think that jacket was a statement for her, but it was practical too. It was warm and it was weather resistant. She had earned the right to wear her bright red St. Elizabeth's jacket. Earned or not, it brought all sorts of trouble to her.
There was a girl in our neighborhood named S. S was tall and fat and filled with bitterness. Oh, and she was a slut too. She had no future and an ugly past, and she hated my sister. J was everything S was not. J was slender and petite and popular because she was fun to be around. S was only popular because she would beat you up if you didn't kiss her ass. The neighborhood kids breathed a collective sigh of relief when S came of age. Once you turn 18, if you beat up someone younger you go to jail. For about a minute, we all thought we were safe. Then S found people to do her fighting for her. She would go behind the scenes, spreading discontent and lies until it would erupt into violence.
Bitch.
She was the kind of person who would kick you when you're down and aim for your teeth or your uterus. She was one of the few people in this world that I actually pitied... Until she went after my sister.
She told my best friend (coincidentally the most vicious fighter in the neighborhood, after S) that my sister thought she was too good for the neighborhood. Everywhere I went, for weeks, S was chatting with C (my best friend) to the point where I hardly ever talked to her myself. All that time she was feeding the beast named Righteous Indignation. I'm actually surprised C held out as long as she did.
One night, we're sitting on our front porch, and S calls us down to her. It was a cool autumn evening, so of course J was wearing her Lizzies jacket.
We step onto the sidewalk, and see the whole neighborhood bunched up by the entrance to the Game Room. The air was filled with that particular kind of tension that signals a fight. The pack starts to move forward, and I have an internal conversation with myself about the wisdom of running for the house and hoping whatever it is this time blows over. C steps forward from the group and she's wearing her fighting clothes. Shit! This is gonna be bad.
She confronts my sister and starts to point out all the ways J supposedly rubs everyone’s nose in the fact that she's better than them. The jacket is the major bone of contention; J's snootiness is a more minor argument. The rant went something like this, "You walk down the street with your snobby-assed jacket and your nose in the air like you're too good for the world. You think you're better than us? You ain't better than anybody you fucking bitch. You ain't nothin' but trash like the rest of us and I'm gonna put you in your place!"
My sister calmly says, "I wouldn't sully my hands on you."
I started getting really afraid for her then. Before, my primary concern was for the jacket. That was her winter coat, and it was intended to last for four years. I was busy thinking of some way to help buy a new jacket for her, sure that this one was toast. Then she goes and opens her big, fat mouth. I don't know if C had ever heard the term "sully" before, and it certainly pissed her off. Her skin actually got all red and she punched my sister square in the face. I've been punched by C, she hits like a freight train.
I'm shaking with adrenaline and fear, my stomach is all fluttery and it's hard for me to think clearly. Every instinct I have is telling me to run, and there's not one friendly face around. They're all enjoying seeing my sister get her come-uppance. These are the same people she hangs with every day. How could they turn on her so suddenly?
Again my sister states, "I won't hit you. You're not worth the effort."
"Jesus Christ! She is a snob!" I think. C punches her again and almost knocks her down. It was well past time to put a stop to this. One of the mottoes of my neighborhood is "blood is thicker than water" meaning you can hate your family as much as you want in private, but you put your neck on the chopping block to save them in public. I met the guillotine by getting between then and saying, "You have to go through me first." I had hoped that this would bring some sense to her. I hoped in vain. C said, "My fight's not with you, and she's had this commin' for a long time." I replied, "Blood is thicker than water. You have to go through me first." C knows the rules as well as anybody else. She was psyching herself up to hit me when some guy grabbed me and put something cold against the side of my head.
An interesting thing happened then. My fear was gone. There was no nervousness or anger. I thought, "NO." And then I was facing him, staring down the barrel of a tiny little handgun. While my brain was thinking, "You are not allowed to decide (when I die)", my mouth said, "Shoot me, or put it away." I was very calm about this. And I meant it with every fiber of my being. I looked straight into his eyes, calmly expecting death at any moment, not caring, doing nothing but looking into his eyes. I must have stared him down for a whole 2 seconds. During that time, he broke out in a sweat, his eyes flickered to the gun, then to the wall of the Bar, and then he blinked. I knew in that instant that he was not going to shoot me.
He stuffed the gun in his pocket, it was probably unloaded anyway.
He had broken a cardinal rule about neighborhood fighting. You don't bring a gun to a fistfight. When all is said and done, you don't kill a member of your community. We were all in this together, and you don't decrease the numbers. Taking out one person drags the whole neighborhood over that invisible line between decency and scum. You don't bring a gun to a fistfight. Ever. When I turned away from the idiot with the not-so deadly weapon, most of the audience was gone. The rest were standing around chatting like nothing had happened. Some were even approaching my sister to talk with her and express their support for her. They were praising her for boldly standing up to C, and laughing over her soon to be infamous words- "I wouldn't sully my hands on you".
I went and sat in the shadows of my front step and waited for the world to snap back to reality. Ms. Bitch walked away, up the street, her only companion the fool with the gun in his pocket. I found out later that he was her boyfriend, and not from our neighborhood.
C came over and tried to apologize for wanting to beat up my sister, even though she had it coming. I told her she was not allowed to beat up J. If she had a problem with any member of my family, she had best take it to me first, because I'd be watching my sister's back every time.
The up side to it was that my sister escaped relatively unscathed, and her jacket lived to be worn another day.
Public School
When I was young and went to Catholic school, there was never a question about whether I would actually go or not go. School was school. It was the way of the world. Mom went to work and we went to school. Then one day I overheard mom stressing about our tuition payments. It was going to cost $3000 next year, and she wasn't sure she could get enough assistance. This was in the early 80's and Reaganomics hadn't trickled down to our neighborhood yet. The church didn't have much money to pass around to the hundred or so families that used the school.
My sister had chosen her high school when she was in the fifth grade, and was working her butt off to get a scholarship. She took her entire set of textbooks home every night to study. She sweated every detail of every report she had to write. A mediocre grade could mean the difference between St. Elizabeth's High School and public high school. Saint Lizzies was $4000 a year. There was no way mom could pay for that and my education too. So I made a sacrifice and turned it into a "brilliant idea".
I have always had a talent for art, and FAME was a big hit on T.V., so I decided I wanted to go to Visual and Performing Arts public school. I was confident that I was good enough to get in, and going there would ensure my sister's ability to attend St. Elizabeth's. Now, don't get me wrong, I didn't think saving $1500 a year would cover the expense. I fully expected my sister would get at least a partial scholarship, and she had been working part time jobs since she was 12. I really believed that me going to public school would be best for everybody.
The St. Louis City Magnet (read: public) School system sucks. It was intended to promote integration without encouraging black people to move into white neighborhoods. They called this "desegregation", and it was a disaster. In order to get into the magnet school system, I had to take whatever was available, then work my way up the list to the school of my choice. So I left my 20 or so classmates behind and went to Waring Academy of Basic Instruction. Each magnet school had a specialty. Some offered foreign languages, some offered the arts, some specialized in math and science. Waring offered a no-frills education, and two history books. We had history and (I'm not kidding you here) Afro-American history. This was a thick black textbook with silver drawings of people with afro's on it. I asked my teacher why we needed two versions of history segregated by color? Didn't we all live through the same things? In Catholic school, this may have earned me half an hour of kneeling in the corner. At Waring, my teacher told me "because" and kept her eye on me for the rest of the year.
I came to dread the 45 minutes each day we spent with that awful black book. All I learned from it is that history book writers are terribly biased. I started looking for bias in our "white" history book, and I found it. That one was titled "American History" and really was a white book with an eagle and a flag in it. It had 2 paragraphs on the Korean conflict, and referred to Vietnam as an ongoing police action. That's how old this book was. I changed schools in 1981. Our class never made it past the great depression, however, because we opened the white book on Tuesdays and Fridays only. The other 3 days a week were devoted to PE or double math.
At Notre Dame Elementary, lunch was cooked by neighborhood moms who worked in the cafeteria to help pay the tuition for their children. We had a food mom, a milk mom, a money mom and a playground mom. At Waring Academy of Basic instruction, lunch came in a little paper box with no lid. It was served to us by 2 nice ladies with hairnets, and we paid with tickets we had bought Monday morning. You could not go back for seconds and you could not buy extra milk. I would sometimes swipe my mom's cigarettes and trade them for extra food tickets. Apparently our government thought a microwaved chili dog and 5 fat french fries constituted a balanced meal. We never knew what would be served until we smelled it. There was a 6th grader who would sell counterfeit tickets on pizza day. The school tried to outsmart him by changing the colors each week, but he made up food tickets in all 4 colors we used. The lunch ladies didn't care either way. Perhaps they were doing their part to fill the bellies of hungry kids everywhere, and went home happy. I don't know.
Recess was spent on an acre of blacktop with no shade and very little to play with. The school had 5 double dutch ropes and 2 dodge balls. This was our playground equipment. Everyone went out at the same time. Kindergarten through 8th grade spread out across the pavement, the little ones huddled in defensive groups, the big ones running roughshod over them, while the eldest smoked cigarettes on the side of the building. We were sent out in rain or shine. The only time we weren't let out was when there was snow.
It took 2 1/2 years for me to get out of this armpit of education, but I finally reached my dream and went to Visual and Performing Arts Middle School. VAPA middle was like a breath of fresh air after Waring. It was cleaner and rigorous and history was history, not pap about the history of oppression that put you where you are today. My Afro-American history book had 2 chapters on Malcolm X, but only one for Dr. Martin Luther King. Every chapter had something inflammatory in it, and whoever wrote it needs to be publicly flogged.
When I was young and went to Catholic school, there was never a question about whether I would actually go or not go. School was school. It was the way of the world. Mom went to work and we went to school. Then one day I overheard mom stressing about our tuition payments. It was going to cost $3000 next year, and she wasn't sure she could get enough assistance. This was in the early 80's and Reaganomics hadn't trickled down to our neighborhood yet. The church didn't have much money to pass around to the hundred or so families that used the school.
My sister had chosen her high school when she was in the fifth grade, and was working her butt off to get a scholarship. She took her entire set of textbooks home every night to study. She sweated every detail of every report she had to write. A mediocre grade could mean the difference between St. Elizabeth's High School and public high school. Saint Lizzies was $4000 a year. There was no way mom could pay for that and my education too. So I made a sacrifice and turned it into a "brilliant idea".
I have always had a talent for art, and FAME was a big hit on T.V., so I decided I wanted to go to Visual and Performing Arts public school. I was confident that I was good enough to get in, and going there would ensure my sister's ability to attend St. Elizabeth's. Now, don't get me wrong, I didn't think saving $1500 a year would cover the expense. I fully expected my sister would get at least a partial scholarship, and she had been working part time jobs since she was 12. I really believed that me going to public school would be best for everybody.
The St. Louis City Magnet (read: public) School system sucks. It was intended to promote integration without encouraging black people to move into white neighborhoods. They called this "desegregation", and it was a disaster. In order to get into the magnet school system, I had to take whatever was available, then work my way up the list to the school of my choice. So I left my 20 or so classmates behind and went to Waring Academy of Basic Instruction. Each magnet school had a specialty. Some offered foreign languages, some offered the arts, some specialized in math and science. Waring offered a no-frills education, and two history books. We had history and (I'm not kidding you here) Afro-American history. This was a thick black textbook with silver drawings of people with afro's on it. I asked my teacher why we needed two versions of history segregated by color? Didn't we all live through the same things? In Catholic school, this may have earned me half an hour of kneeling in the corner. At Waring, my teacher told me "because" and kept her eye on me for the rest of the year.
I came to dread the 45 minutes each day we spent with that awful black book. All I learned from it is that history book writers are terribly biased. I started looking for bias in our "white" history book, and I found it. That one was titled "American History" and really was a white book with an eagle and a flag in it. It had 2 paragraphs on the Korean conflict, and referred to Vietnam as an ongoing police action. That's how old this book was. I changed schools in 1981. Our class never made it past the great depression, however, because we opened the white book on Tuesdays and Fridays only. The other 3 days a week were devoted to PE or double math.
At Notre Dame Elementary, lunch was cooked by neighborhood moms who worked in the cafeteria to help pay the tuition for their children. We had a food mom, a milk mom, a money mom and a playground mom. At Waring Academy of Basic instruction, lunch came in a little paper box with no lid. It was served to us by 2 nice ladies with hairnets, and we paid with tickets we had bought Monday morning. You could not go back for seconds and you could not buy extra milk. I would sometimes swipe my mom's cigarettes and trade them for extra food tickets. Apparently our government thought a microwaved chili dog and 5 fat french fries constituted a balanced meal. We never knew what would be served until we smelled it. There was a 6th grader who would sell counterfeit tickets on pizza day. The school tried to outsmart him by changing the colors each week, but he made up food tickets in all 4 colors we used. The lunch ladies didn't care either way. Perhaps they were doing their part to fill the bellies of hungry kids everywhere, and went home happy. I don't know.
Recess was spent on an acre of blacktop with no shade and very little to play with. The school had 5 double dutch ropes and 2 dodge balls. This was our playground equipment. Everyone went out at the same time. Kindergarten through 8th grade spread out across the pavement, the little ones huddled in defensive groups, the big ones running roughshod over them, while the eldest smoked cigarettes on the side of the building. We were sent out in rain or shine. The only time we weren't let out was when there was snow.
It took 2 1/2 years for me to get out of this armpit of education, but I finally reached my dream and went to Visual and Performing Arts Middle School. VAPA middle was like a breath of fresh air after Waring. It was cleaner and rigorous and history was history, not pap about the history of oppression that put you where you are today. My Afro-American history book had 2 chapters on Malcolm X, but only one for Dr. Martin Luther King. Every chapter had something inflammatory in it, and whoever wrote it needs to be publicly flogged.
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