Woot!
I'd like to thank whoever did a Yahoo search for "classy common redhead". Considering the freakish (and sometimes disgusting) search hits I get; reading this one in my site stats was a pleasure. It gets better, though. I clicked the link, expecting to show up on page 16 or so... nope! I'm Number One!
Wootwootwoot!
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Living in the State of Virginity
My sister and I kinda stood apart from the rest of the neighborhood, in that we weren't going to have sex until we were damn good and ready. You would not believe the peer pressure involved. By the time I was 12, everyone I knew (except my sister, and the girl next door) had done it, or was actively trying to do it.
At twelve years of age, I didn't even want to think about sex. I wanted to ride my bike and play at the park. I wanted to climb trees in the middle of winter and catch snowflakes on my tongue. I wasn't ready to grow up. And I was smart enough to know it.
For the next year, I watched my friends chase down boys and step into that unknown world. I watched them drift away from the things I considered fun; and frankly, it scared me. Virginity is a one time thing. Once it's gone, there's no going back. It should be something more than another mark on a bedpost.
I actually had a friend who wrote on her wall the names of every eligible guy in the neighborhood. Her goal was to fuck them all. There were 22 guys on the list. It took her 6 years, but she got them all. And each time she put a little star by a name, I scratched that name off my mental list of men worthy of my virginity.
(I probably sound righteous, and I'm fine with that. I don't know where her crotch has been, and I'm certainly not going to give myself to someone who doesn't see me as the god send that I am. So there! Anyway...)
By the time I was 13, I was getting desperate. I still wasn't ready to take that big step, but the pool of males was shrinking daily. The good looking guys would screw anything, so it had to be someone average or ugly. Acne was a plus, because it made it more likely that they would cherish the act. I really wanted my first time to be good. I knew there was no knight in shining armor for me. My neighborhood didn't hold any Prince Charmings. I knew it wouldn't be perfect, and that was ok. I would settle for someone (anyone) who would treat me well, give me time to perfect my skills, and not smirk about it to his friends.
Believe it or not, that was a tall order.
I finally found someone to fit the bill. My friend BG. The guy who, later that Summer, would share his front steps with my sister and I while we watched a man get beaten nearly to death.
I chased BG relentlessly, dogging his every step. It was harder than I'd thought. First, I had to get him to notice me. I needed him to see that I was an interesting female creature with, you know... tits and stuff. I got a haircut and started wearing makeup. I paid attention to how my friends let guys know they were interested, and began mimicking them. I tried standing really close to him, ohhing and ahhing over his prowess at Pac Man. I tried pretending like I was too good for him. I tried just hanging out, "being his friend", acting like I gave a crap about the stupid things he was interested in. And all of it failed miserably.
I started to think that I would actually have to wait for marriage. And boy, did that make me feel pathetic. Nobody in my neighborhood stayed a virgin until they were married. Not even the fat girls.
So I got really depressed and gave up. I scratched BG off my list. I scratched everybody off my list. Either I was going to lose my virginity in a fit of drunken stupidity, or I was going to lose it on my wedding night and that was that!
None of these guys were good enough for me anyway. Nyeah.
And then BG started hitting on me. Literally. He would pass me in the game room and whop me (gently) upside the head. That just added injury to insult, in my book. First he ignores every attempt I make, and then he starts smacking me? What a jerk!
My friends all said, "He likes you." They were certain of it. I couldn't see how a guy could 'like you' when they were hurting you. That was just bullshit.
I tolerated his hitting because when I tried to fight back I looked and felt like a fool. BG had been practicing martial arts for years. He was too quick, and I never laid a hand on him.
Well, I'd be damned if he made himself look slick by blocking my punches. So I ignored him, or at least tried to. It's not in my nature to take that kind of crap. He'd poke me, or slap me, and eventually (inevitably) I'd fight back. It infuriated me that I couldn't get past his guard. It infuriated me that he was picking on me, and it enraged me that he didn't see me as a woman.
One day, after I had yet again taken a swing at him, and he had grabbed my wrist and was making me slap myself... "Stop hittin' yourself...Stop hittin' yourself"
With me resisting for all I was worth, and trying so hard not to look stupid... I had a moment of clarity.
I let my arm go limp, (which didn't stop him, of course) and said, "You know, BG. You're a real asshole. And I think you need to get off my porch and not come back. You can have the Game Room (the local hangout), just stay away from me."
I said it the way you might comment on the weather. He just didn't matter anymore. I was done with him. There was a nanosecond of grief for the years of growing up together, but really- he'd devolved into an asshole like the rest of the guys and he wasn't worth a thought.
BG didn't get it. He kept making my limp hand contact my face as I rolled my eyes away from him and stared at a tree across the street. I knew he'd go away sooner or later, and eventually he did. I stayed out of the Game Room for the next couple of weeks. I sat on my porch and listened to the radio instead. If BG came up on the porch, I'd take the radio inside. I could listen just as well on the balcony in back. As a matter of fact, the balcony was even better, because we had a hammock to lay in. Mom had bought it at the carnival supply store for $7, and it was quite comfortable, thank you very much.
Five weeks later, BG stood on the sidewalk and apologized to me. A few weeks after that, we were dating. Sort of.
I don't think anybody knew. Perhaps the proper term would be expressing an interest in each other. I went over to his house a couple of times. First we kissed, then we petted, then we petted heavily. The third or fourth trip to his house, I had decided that today was the day.
On that day, I would give BG my virginity.
It never occurred to me that he might not want it.
We reached a point where I was entirely naked, and we were taking his pants off -when I had to go and open my big mouth. I said, "I realize that this was kind of a surprise. I'm a virgin, so I'm not on the pill or anything. You don't have any condoms, do you?" He said, "No."
Then I had to make a choice. Risk pregnancy, or stop it right there. With my hormones raging and my body on fire, I decided to take the risk. I felt that in the interests of fairness, I should let him off the hook, so I said, "I'm the one who started this, so if anything happens, it's my problem. I'll take care of it."
I thought I was being responsible. I thought I was doing the right thing. Apparently that wasn't the case, because he laid back on the bed, flung an arm over his eyes, and stayed that way.
"Um. B?" I asked, "BG?"
nothing. No response whatsoever. He just shut me out.
I sat naked on the bed for what seems like an eternity. Then I spent another eternity screwing up the courage to ask him the question I so didn't want to ask... Well, there was nothing to be done about it. I could sit there in the buff or I could find out what I'd done wrong. (sigh)
So I asked, "Um. Do you still want to have sex with me?"
He replied, "No."
I felt absolutely worthless.
I slowly put my clothes back on. I wanted to give him every opportunity to come to his senses. After all, how often does a guy get this kind of offer?
As I was buttoning my shirt, I asked, "You're sure?"
No response.
So I left.
I stepped out into the bright January sunshine, lifted my chin proudly to the world and went home.
(And then I pretended to let my best friend talk me out of suicide, while I secretly chewed aspirin after aspirin in an attempt to kill myself. Aspirin being the only thing in the medicine cabinet.)
My sister and I kinda stood apart from the rest of the neighborhood, in that we weren't going to have sex until we were damn good and ready. You would not believe the peer pressure involved. By the time I was 12, everyone I knew (except my sister, and the girl next door) had done it, or was actively trying to do it.
At twelve years of age, I didn't even want to think about sex. I wanted to ride my bike and play at the park. I wanted to climb trees in the middle of winter and catch snowflakes on my tongue. I wasn't ready to grow up. And I was smart enough to know it.
For the next year, I watched my friends chase down boys and step into that unknown world. I watched them drift away from the things I considered fun; and frankly, it scared me. Virginity is a one time thing. Once it's gone, there's no going back. It should be something more than another mark on a bedpost.
I actually had a friend who wrote on her wall the names of every eligible guy in the neighborhood. Her goal was to fuck them all. There were 22 guys on the list. It took her 6 years, but she got them all. And each time she put a little star by a name, I scratched that name off my mental list of men worthy of my virginity.
(I probably sound righteous, and I'm fine with that. I don't know where her crotch has been, and I'm certainly not going to give myself to someone who doesn't see me as the god send that I am. So there! Anyway...)
By the time I was 13, I was getting desperate. I still wasn't ready to take that big step, but the pool of males was shrinking daily. The good looking guys would screw anything, so it had to be someone average or ugly. Acne was a plus, because it made it more likely that they would cherish the act. I really wanted my first time to be good. I knew there was no knight in shining armor for me. My neighborhood didn't hold any Prince Charmings. I knew it wouldn't be perfect, and that was ok. I would settle for someone (anyone) who would treat me well, give me time to perfect my skills, and not smirk about it to his friends.
Believe it or not, that was a tall order.
I finally found someone to fit the bill. My friend BG. The guy who, later that Summer, would share his front steps with my sister and I while we watched a man get beaten nearly to death.
I chased BG relentlessly, dogging his every step. It was harder than I'd thought. First, I had to get him to notice me. I needed him to see that I was an interesting female creature with, you know... tits and stuff. I got a haircut and started wearing makeup. I paid attention to how my friends let guys know they were interested, and began mimicking them. I tried standing really close to him, ohhing and ahhing over his prowess at Pac Man. I tried pretending like I was too good for him. I tried just hanging out, "being his friend", acting like I gave a crap about the stupid things he was interested in. And all of it failed miserably.
I started to think that I would actually have to wait for marriage. And boy, did that make me feel pathetic. Nobody in my neighborhood stayed a virgin until they were married. Not even the fat girls.
So I got really depressed and gave up. I scratched BG off my list. I scratched everybody off my list. Either I was going to lose my virginity in a fit of drunken stupidity, or I was going to lose it on my wedding night and that was that!
None of these guys were good enough for me anyway. Nyeah.
And then BG started hitting on me. Literally. He would pass me in the game room and whop me (gently) upside the head. That just added injury to insult, in my book. First he ignores every attempt I make, and then he starts smacking me? What a jerk!
My friends all said, "He likes you." They were certain of it. I couldn't see how a guy could 'like you' when they were hurting you. That was just bullshit.
I tolerated his hitting because when I tried to fight back I looked and felt like a fool. BG had been practicing martial arts for years. He was too quick, and I never laid a hand on him.
Well, I'd be damned if he made himself look slick by blocking my punches. So I ignored him, or at least tried to. It's not in my nature to take that kind of crap. He'd poke me, or slap me, and eventually (inevitably) I'd fight back. It infuriated me that I couldn't get past his guard. It infuriated me that he was picking on me, and it enraged me that he didn't see me as a woman.
One day, after I had yet again taken a swing at him, and he had grabbed my wrist and was making me slap myself... "Stop hittin' yourself...Stop hittin' yourself"
With me resisting for all I was worth, and trying so hard not to look stupid... I had a moment of clarity.
I let my arm go limp, (which didn't stop him, of course) and said, "You know, BG. You're a real asshole. And I think you need to get off my porch and not come back. You can have the Game Room (the local hangout), just stay away from me."
I said it the way you might comment on the weather. He just didn't matter anymore. I was done with him. There was a nanosecond of grief for the years of growing up together, but really- he'd devolved into an asshole like the rest of the guys and he wasn't worth a thought.
BG didn't get it. He kept making my limp hand contact my face as I rolled my eyes away from him and stared at a tree across the street. I knew he'd go away sooner or later, and eventually he did. I stayed out of the Game Room for the next couple of weeks. I sat on my porch and listened to the radio instead. If BG came up on the porch, I'd take the radio inside. I could listen just as well on the balcony in back. As a matter of fact, the balcony was even better, because we had a hammock to lay in. Mom had bought it at the carnival supply store for $7, and it was quite comfortable, thank you very much.
Five weeks later, BG stood on the sidewalk and apologized to me. A few weeks after that, we were dating. Sort of.
I don't think anybody knew. Perhaps the proper term would be expressing an interest in each other. I went over to his house a couple of times. First we kissed, then we petted, then we petted heavily. The third or fourth trip to his house, I had decided that today was the day.
On that day, I would give BG my virginity.
It never occurred to me that he might not want it.
We reached a point where I was entirely naked, and we were taking his pants off -when I had to go and open my big mouth. I said, "I realize that this was kind of a surprise. I'm a virgin, so I'm not on the pill or anything. You don't have any condoms, do you?" He said, "No."
Then I had to make a choice. Risk pregnancy, or stop it right there. With my hormones raging and my body on fire, I decided to take the risk. I felt that in the interests of fairness, I should let him off the hook, so I said, "I'm the one who started this, so if anything happens, it's my problem. I'll take care of it."
I thought I was being responsible. I thought I was doing the right thing. Apparently that wasn't the case, because he laid back on the bed, flung an arm over his eyes, and stayed that way.
"Um. B?" I asked, "BG?"
nothing. No response whatsoever. He just shut me out.
I sat naked on the bed for what seems like an eternity. Then I spent another eternity screwing up the courage to ask him the question I so didn't want to ask... Well, there was nothing to be done about it. I could sit there in the buff or I could find out what I'd done wrong. (sigh)
So I asked, "Um. Do you still want to have sex with me?"
He replied, "No."
I felt absolutely worthless.
I slowly put my clothes back on. I wanted to give him every opportunity to come to his senses. After all, how often does a guy get this kind of offer?
As I was buttoning my shirt, I asked, "You're sure?"
No response.
So I left.
I stepped out into the bright January sunshine, lifted my chin proudly to the world and went home.
(And then I pretended to let my best friend talk me out of suicide, while I secretly chewed aspirin after aspirin in an attempt to kill myself. Aspirin being the only thing in the medicine cabinet.)
Monday, October 04, 2004
18
On May 14th, 1987, I celebrated my 18th birthday. There was no big party, no cake. I had something better. I had my temporary voter registration card. It was a moment I'd been looking forward to since mom took me to the polls with her before I started school.
I remember the voting place in the basement of Long School. We walked to the school, and there were people everywhere. I remember the orange and black fall out shelter sign. It was the first one I'd ever noticed. I asked mom what it meant. I could read, of course, but that sign made no sense. I imagined people falling out of the world, and falling into the school. Mom said it meant that in an emergency, people could go to the school for shelter and food. That gave me plenty to think about as mom worked her way through the crowd and talked to some people at a table. Then she took me to the voting booth.
I regret the loss of those old voting booths. They were a great place for a fertile imagination. Behind a curtain was a box full of levers. Somehow flipping those levers recorded your vote. But to a child, it was a space ship -a time machine -a magic box of fun.
Mom wouldn't let me flip any levers.
She said it was her time to vote, and I couldn't touch the levers until I was 18. Nobody wanted to grow up faster than me that day.
Unfortunately, time moves at it's own pace; and I had to wait 14 years for my own chance to vote. The old lever booths were gone by then. My first vote was recorded on a yellow punch card that was slid into a book. How dissappointing! I didn't even get to go behind a curtain. My vote was cast at a crappy wire podium. There was no privacy, and no magic.
But I always vote anyway. I'm an optimist. I believe my vote could, just maybe, make a difference.
*grunts while pulling out soap box*
Your vote could make a difference. You'll never know if you don't vote.
*puts soap box away*
On May 14th, 1987, I celebrated my 18th birthday. There was no big party, no cake. I had something better. I had my temporary voter registration card. It was a moment I'd been looking forward to since mom took me to the polls with her before I started school.
I remember the voting place in the basement of Long School. We walked to the school, and there were people everywhere. I remember the orange and black fall out shelter sign. It was the first one I'd ever noticed. I asked mom what it meant. I could read, of course, but that sign made no sense. I imagined people falling out of the world, and falling into the school. Mom said it meant that in an emergency, people could go to the school for shelter and food. That gave me plenty to think about as mom worked her way through the crowd and talked to some people at a table. Then she took me to the voting booth.
I regret the loss of those old voting booths. They were a great place for a fertile imagination. Behind a curtain was a box full of levers. Somehow flipping those levers recorded your vote. But to a child, it was a space ship -a time machine -a magic box of fun.
Mom wouldn't let me flip any levers.
She said it was her time to vote, and I couldn't touch the levers until I was 18. Nobody wanted to grow up faster than me that day.
Unfortunately, time moves at it's own pace; and I had to wait 14 years for my own chance to vote. The old lever booths were gone by then. My first vote was recorded on a yellow punch card that was slid into a book. How dissappointing! I didn't even get to go behind a curtain. My vote was cast at a crappy wire podium. There was no privacy, and no magic.
But I always vote anyway. I'm an optimist. I believe my vote could, just maybe, make a difference.
*grunts while pulling out soap box*
Your vote could make a difference. You'll never know if you don't vote.
*puts soap box away*
Sunday, September 12, 2004
On Dealers
On my street, most of the apartment dwellers sold drugs. I remained unaware of this until I transferred to public school. Oh, I knew that a few people sold drugs; and I knew that everyone owned a gun or two. But I didn't realize how readily available drugs were on my block.
That all changed when I invited my friend (the one who died in the previous story) over to my house. He told me his mom wouldn't let him. So I asked him why not? And he said, "Because of the dealers, of course."
"What dealers?" I asked.
Yeah, my street was so notorious, it even had a nickname. They called it Drug Alley. And no, it doesn't make sense. California Avenue is not an alley. Not only did my little stretch of land between Sidney and Lynch have the distinction of sheltering the California Bum, it was also the place where most of my friends' parents bought their drugs. Wow.
Of course, "drugs" back then are not the same as "drugs" you hear about on the news now. In my neighborhood, everyone smoked pot and most adults bought painkillers on occasion. LSD and mushrooms were taken exclusively indoors; and only with close friends. Really, the only daily drug was beer. Everybody drank beer. (except my mom, who hated beer. But mom never fit in with the neighbors anyway.)
Hard-core drugs were for junkies and yuppies. We couldn't afford cocaine, the rich man's drug. Nobody was stupid enough, or desperate enough to try heroin. Meth meant a kind of moonshine.
It was an eye-opener for me; realizing that the stuff everybody did classified as scary dangerous drugs. My neighbors weren't drug addicts! They were Hoosiers! They fought and drank and got stoned. So what? Didn't everybody? Who the hell gets to decide that my street is worse than any other, anyway?
... And I promptly got to know who sold what, and at which times. I had no use for drugs while in the 7th grade, but I knew I'd buy them eventually. Everyone did. It was just another rite of passage. You get a job, you buy drugs.
My freshman year of high school, I did buy a drug. I went to an apartment with the 9 year old prostitute and bought a pair of pink and blue pills. One for me, one for her. It was a surreal experience. I told the dealer that this was my first time buying speed. I let her know that I'd been getting high for a while now, and wanted to try something different. I told the dealer that I didn't want to try anything too strong, and she suggested "speckled eggs". My friend the prostitute said, "Oooh, those are fun. They're kinda wimpy, but I think you'll like them."
(note: "Getting high for a while now" translates to 3 occasions over 5 months. Oh, yeah; I was so experienced.)
I bought the speckled eggs for 50 cents a piece, and we downed them the minute we walked out the door.
And nothing happened.
So I waited.
Pills need time to dissolve, right?
(sigh)
Now, I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe bright colors and hippy-trippy music. What I got was a caffeine rush of the worst magnitude.
I got jumpy, and being jumpy made me mad. It built to a barely controllable rage. I. Don't. Like. Being out of control.
I told my friend what was going on in my body, thinking, "She has more experience. She'll know what to do."
She said, "You need to get in a fight. That'll help."
Yeah. A fight. I'd like to beat someone up. My fist smashing into someone's helpless face would be just the ticket. Yeah.
I spent the next eternity looking for someone to beat the snot out of. I was on a quest. It didn't matter that I'd never started a fight before in my life. It didn't matter that I held no grudges against anyone at the moment. The only thing that mattered was that there was no one out on the street. I mean nobody. We tried the park, the school, everywhere; and there was not a soul to be seen.
I took to pounding my fist into my other hand, while my friend skipped alongside with her eyes twinkling. She was enjoying seeing me be violent. Eventually it sunk in that I wasn't going to find anyone to beat up. So I went home.
When the singular speckled egg wore off, I went to bed. I was so tired. I had a flu-like exhaustion. All I wanted was to sleep. I told my mom that I didn't feel well, and that I wouldn't be eating dinner. I was just going to sleep. Mom gave me a worried look, and I knew that she knew I'd taken something.
When I got up later, all she said was, "I hope you're feeling better. And I hope you won't ever feel that bad again." Yes, she knew.
I never did feel that bad again. I felt worse when I drank so much that I threw up. And I felt even worse than that when I drank so much that I couldn't throw up. But that's another story.
This story is about the one and only time I bought drugs for my personal use. It was a waste of money, and a waste of time. I wonder, If I'd had a pleasant experience, would I be a druggie now? Probably. If you didn't do drugs, you were harassed by your peers. They would hunt you in packs and beat you up for thinking you were superior. It was far easier to smoke a little pot and drink a little beer, even if you didn't like it. At least you fit in, and you didn't have to be afraid to go out of the house. I never did a lot of drugs, just enough to get by.
On my street, most of the apartment dwellers sold drugs. I remained unaware of this until I transferred to public school. Oh, I knew that a few people sold drugs; and I knew that everyone owned a gun or two. But I didn't realize how readily available drugs were on my block.
That all changed when I invited my friend (the one who died in the previous story) over to my house. He told me his mom wouldn't let him. So I asked him why not? And he said, "Because of the dealers, of course."
"What dealers?" I asked.
Yeah, my street was so notorious, it even had a nickname. They called it Drug Alley. And no, it doesn't make sense. California Avenue is not an alley. Not only did my little stretch of land between Sidney and Lynch have the distinction of sheltering the California Bum, it was also the place where most of my friends' parents bought their drugs. Wow.
Of course, "drugs" back then are not the same as "drugs" you hear about on the news now. In my neighborhood, everyone smoked pot and most adults bought painkillers on occasion. LSD and mushrooms were taken exclusively indoors; and only with close friends. Really, the only daily drug was beer. Everybody drank beer. (except my mom, who hated beer. But mom never fit in with the neighbors anyway.)
Hard-core drugs were for junkies and yuppies. We couldn't afford cocaine, the rich man's drug. Nobody was stupid enough, or desperate enough to try heroin. Meth meant a kind of moonshine.
It was an eye-opener for me; realizing that the stuff everybody did classified as scary dangerous drugs. My neighbors weren't drug addicts! They were Hoosiers! They fought and drank and got stoned. So what? Didn't everybody? Who the hell gets to decide that my street is worse than any other, anyway?
... And I promptly got to know who sold what, and at which times. I had no use for drugs while in the 7th grade, but I knew I'd buy them eventually. Everyone did. It was just another rite of passage. You get a job, you buy drugs.
My freshman year of high school, I did buy a drug. I went to an apartment with the 9 year old prostitute and bought a pair of pink and blue pills. One for me, one for her. It was a surreal experience. I told the dealer that this was my first time buying speed. I let her know that I'd been getting high for a while now, and wanted to try something different. I told the dealer that I didn't want to try anything too strong, and she suggested "speckled eggs". My friend the prostitute said, "Oooh, those are fun. They're kinda wimpy, but I think you'll like them."
(note: "Getting high for a while now" translates to 3 occasions over 5 months. Oh, yeah; I was so experienced.)
I bought the speckled eggs for 50 cents a piece, and we downed them the minute we walked out the door.
And nothing happened.
So I waited.
Pills need time to dissolve, right?
(sigh)
Now, I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe bright colors and hippy-trippy music. What I got was a caffeine rush of the worst magnitude.
I got jumpy, and being jumpy made me mad. It built to a barely controllable rage. I. Don't. Like. Being out of control.
I told my friend what was going on in my body, thinking, "She has more experience. She'll know what to do."
She said, "You need to get in a fight. That'll help."
Yeah. A fight. I'd like to beat someone up. My fist smashing into someone's helpless face would be just the ticket. Yeah.
I spent the next eternity looking for someone to beat the snot out of. I was on a quest. It didn't matter that I'd never started a fight before in my life. It didn't matter that I held no grudges against anyone at the moment. The only thing that mattered was that there was no one out on the street. I mean nobody. We tried the park, the school, everywhere; and there was not a soul to be seen.
I took to pounding my fist into my other hand, while my friend skipped alongside with her eyes twinkling. She was enjoying seeing me be violent. Eventually it sunk in that I wasn't going to find anyone to beat up. So I went home.
When the singular speckled egg wore off, I went to bed. I was so tired. I had a flu-like exhaustion. All I wanted was to sleep. I told my mom that I didn't feel well, and that I wouldn't be eating dinner. I was just going to sleep. Mom gave me a worried look, and I knew that she knew I'd taken something.
When I got up later, all she said was, "I hope you're feeling better. And I hope you won't ever feel that bad again." Yes, she knew.
I never did feel that bad again. I felt worse when I drank so much that I threw up. And I felt even worse than that when I drank so much that I couldn't throw up. But that's another story.
This story is about the one and only time I bought drugs for my personal use. It was a waste of money, and a waste of time. I wonder, If I'd had a pleasant experience, would I be a druggie now? Probably. If you didn't do drugs, you were harassed by your peers. They would hunt you in packs and beat you up for thinking you were superior. It was far easier to smoke a little pot and drink a little beer, even if you didn't like it. At least you fit in, and you didn't have to be afraid to go out of the house. I never did a lot of drugs, just enough to get by.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
The Day My Best Friend Died
Sometimes people can be horribly cruel; and for no better reason than that their own lives are miserable. If you haven't guessed from reading this blog, I saw a lot of cruelty... But this story is about the cruelest thing that happened to me.
When I transferred to public school, I made a friend. Well, ok; I made several friends and one best friend. We hung out after school. We hung out during summer vacation. Although we never dated, he was my first kiss. We worked at the same pizza place, just so we could be together. I watched him date my friends, and I forgave him when he broke up with them. I let him sleep in my car when his aunt kicked him out of the house and greeted him every morning with breakfast and a pack of smokes. Friends carry no debts.
I knew he was depressed. I mean homeless and unemployed; who wouldn't be depressed? But then his aunt let him back in the house, and he was actively looking for a job; I thought the worst was over. The day after he moved back to his aunt's house, he came to me with a bottle of pills. They were unlike any pills I'd seen before. He had made them himself. He had taken some household ingredients and mixed them with stuff from his old chemistry set. (You know, the kind of set that actually had toxic stuff in it? The kind they don't sell anymore?) He had put the mix into gelcaps, but his aunt had kicked him out before he could take them. Separated from his chosen method of surcease, he'd slept in my car and never said a word.
I made him promise me that he would call before he took the pills. I told him that I would try to talk him through it; and if I couldn't, then I would stay on the phone and keep him company while he died. He didn't want me to keep him company, he said the mix was designed to make sure he died; but it would be painful. I insisted that when you're in pain is when you need company the most. I reminded him of the day he'd talked to me for 7 hours while I'd secretly chewed up aspirin, trying to kill myself because BG wouldn't take my virginity when I'd offered it to him. (side note: 14 yr. olds are not very rational) But he kept me company, and talked to me until I fell asleep. He brought me back to my senses. How could I do less for him?
He did not call me the next day. He didn't come by to visit, either. I was confident that he hadn't taken the pills. During the 6 years we had been friends, he'd never broken his word. So I called his house to see how he was doing. His aunt answered the phone; and when I asked if my friend was available, she told me that he had killed himself last night.
I was stunned. My world became very quiet. I kept trying to think of something to say that would make it not so, and no words would bring him back.
Finally, I asked, "When is the funeral? I'd like to say goodbye."
His aunt replied, "You fucking bitch. You knew about those pills, and you didn't tell me! Now he's dead and it's all your fault!"
I tried again, "Please, when is the funeral?"
I'll never forget what she said to me next, "You can find out in the obituaries!"
Then she hung up on me.
I slammed down the phone, and sat looking at my hands and thinking. My best friend was dead. He didn't feeldead, but there was no reason for her to lie to me. I knew I should call our mutual friends, and see if they could find out when the funeral was. Maybe that bitter dishrag of a human being would tell them. I couldn't call his mom; she would be grieving, and I didn't want to dump this new problem on her. My mind was running in circles. I needed to call people... How could she say that to me?... Maybe K would talk to her... He can't be dead, he promised me!... How could he break his promise?... I need to call someone... an endless loop.
I did eventually call K, who called the aunt for me. She wouldn't tell him anything either. After that, she stopped answering her phone. K called all of our mutual friends, and they trickled in throughout the evening. We sat on my car for most of the night. We talked and we grieved. I should say they grieved. I was just numb. I kept thinking how surreal this was. Everything had the same weird quality as an uncomfortable dream.
It was a typical hazy summer night, which made the street look shrouded. It didn't help that the city had recently installed those nasty orange streetlights which bleed the color out of everything.
Once in a while I would say, "I can't believe it. He just doesn't feel dead to me. I would know if he were dead."
My friends said, "You have to face it and move on. He's dead. And you're in denial."
A good friend will say harsh things when they need to be said. They were good friends, indeed.
The next morning, he still didn't seem dead. I could feel him out there, alive. My gut said, "He lives!" while my head said, "Quit being stupid. Accept it and move on."
The morning after that, I had begun to come to terms with it. It was hard. I felt like I was going crazy. After all, only crazy people have delusions, and I was deluding myself thinking that he was alive. When in reality, my best friend was gone forever; but I was still here. Some part of me would probably always feel like he was alive; like he had moved to another state, and we just didn't talk anymore.
I had to separate that part of me, and I spent the day doing just that. Every time I thought, "He's alive", I would suppress it and think, "No, he's dead."
I guess it worked, because the thoughts came less frequently as the day went on. They started to be thoughts of, "I must go on", instead.
That afternoon the phone rang. A strange voice on the other end said, "Sharon? Hi! How are you?"
I said, "Who is this?"
The voice said, "This is (name)."
I said, "(Name) who?"
Here was this stranger on the phone insisting that he was my dead friend!
I said, "That's not funny. What kind of twisted fuck are you? (Name)'s dead!"
Ooh, I was mad. What kind of perv makes calls like this? How did he get my number, and how did he know my friend's name?
The voice said, "I'm not dead. I checked myself into Malcolm Bliss Hospital, so that I wouldn't kill myself."
And, oh my god, it was him!
His aunt, the bitch, had lied to me.
lied
to
me!
I didn't go and murder her.
I wouldn't, couldn't murder someone in cold blood.
However.
If I ever see her on the street begging for food, I will pass her by.
And if I see her trapped in the wreckage of a car, I'm likely to lean in real close and say, "You deserve it" before I walk away.
Sometimes people can be horribly cruel; and for no better reason than that their own lives are miserable. If you haven't guessed from reading this blog, I saw a lot of cruelty... But this story is about the cruelest thing that happened to me.
When I transferred to public school, I made a friend. Well, ok; I made several friends and one best friend. We hung out after school. We hung out during summer vacation. Although we never dated, he was my first kiss. We worked at the same pizza place, just so we could be together. I watched him date my friends, and I forgave him when he broke up with them. I let him sleep in my car when his aunt kicked him out of the house and greeted him every morning with breakfast and a pack of smokes. Friends carry no debts.
I knew he was depressed. I mean homeless and unemployed; who wouldn't be depressed? But then his aunt let him back in the house, and he was actively looking for a job; I thought the worst was over. The day after he moved back to his aunt's house, he came to me with a bottle of pills. They were unlike any pills I'd seen before. He had made them himself. He had taken some household ingredients and mixed them with stuff from his old chemistry set. (You know, the kind of set that actually had toxic stuff in it? The kind they don't sell anymore?) He had put the mix into gelcaps, but his aunt had kicked him out before he could take them. Separated from his chosen method of surcease, he'd slept in my car and never said a word.
I made him promise me that he would call before he took the pills. I told him that I would try to talk him through it; and if I couldn't, then I would stay on the phone and keep him company while he died. He didn't want me to keep him company, he said the mix was designed to make sure he died; but it would be painful. I insisted that when you're in pain is when you need company the most. I reminded him of the day he'd talked to me for 7 hours while I'd secretly chewed up aspirin, trying to kill myself because BG wouldn't take my virginity when I'd offered it to him. (side note: 14 yr. olds are not very rational) But he kept me company, and talked to me until I fell asleep. He brought me back to my senses. How could I do less for him?
He did not call me the next day. He didn't come by to visit, either. I was confident that he hadn't taken the pills. During the 6 years we had been friends, he'd never broken his word. So I called his house to see how he was doing. His aunt answered the phone; and when I asked if my friend was available, she told me that he had killed himself last night.
I was stunned. My world became very quiet. I kept trying to think of something to say that would make it not so, and no words would bring him back.
Finally, I asked, "When is the funeral? I'd like to say goodbye."
His aunt replied, "You fucking bitch. You knew about those pills, and you didn't tell me! Now he's dead and it's all your fault!"
I tried again, "Please, when is the funeral?"
I'll never forget what she said to me next, "You can find out in the obituaries!"
Then she hung up on me.
I slammed down the phone, and sat looking at my hands and thinking. My best friend was dead. He didn't feeldead, but there was no reason for her to lie to me. I knew I should call our mutual friends, and see if they could find out when the funeral was. Maybe that bitter dishrag of a human being would tell them. I couldn't call his mom; she would be grieving, and I didn't want to dump this new problem on her. My mind was running in circles. I needed to call people... How could she say that to me?... Maybe K would talk to her... He can't be dead, he promised me!... How could he break his promise?... I need to call someone... an endless loop.
I did eventually call K, who called the aunt for me. She wouldn't tell him anything either. After that, she stopped answering her phone. K called all of our mutual friends, and they trickled in throughout the evening. We sat on my car for most of the night. We talked and we grieved. I should say they grieved. I was just numb. I kept thinking how surreal this was. Everything had the same weird quality as an uncomfortable dream.
It was a typical hazy summer night, which made the street look shrouded. It didn't help that the city had recently installed those nasty orange streetlights which bleed the color out of everything.
Once in a while I would say, "I can't believe it. He just doesn't feel dead to me. I would know if he were dead."
My friends said, "You have to face it and move on. He's dead. And you're in denial."
A good friend will say harsh things when they need to be said. They were good friends, indeed.
The next morning, he still didn't seem dead. I could feel him out there, alive. My gut said, "He lives!" while my head said, "Quit being stupid. Accept it and move on."
The morning after that, I had begun to come to terms with it. It was hard. I felt like I was going crazy. After all, only crazy people have delusions, and I was deluding myself thinking that he was alive. When in reality, my best friend was gone forever; but I was still here. Some part of me would probably always feel like he was alive; like he had moved to another state, and we just didn't talk anymore.
I had to separate that part of me, and I spent the day doing just that. Every time I thought, "He's alive", I would suppress it and think, "No, he's dead."
I guess it worked, because the thoughts came less frequently as the day went on. They started to be thoughts of, "I must go on", instead.
That afternoon the phone rang. A strange voice on the other end said, "Sharon? Hi! How are you?"
I said, "Who is this?"
The voice said, "This is (name)."
I said, "(Name) who?"
Here was this stranger on the phone insisting that he was my dead friend!
I said, "That's not funny. What kind of twisted fuck are you? (Name)'s dead!"
Ooh, I was mad. What kind of perv makes calls like this? How did he get my number, and how did he know my friend's name?
The voice said, "I'm not dead. I checked myself into Malcolm Bliss Hospital, so that I wouldn't kill myself."
And, oh my god, it was him!
His aunt, the bitch, had lied to me.
lied
to
me!
I didn't go and murder her.
I wouldn't, couldn't murder someone in cold blood.
However.
If I ever see her on the street begging for food, I will pass her by.
And if I see her trapped in the wreckage of a car, I'm likely to lean in real close and say, "You deserve it" before I walk away.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
More writing is forthcoming, I promise
Right now I'm busy setting up an online storefront. Heck, that makes for a good story...
When my dad left, we moved in with Grandma (as you may recall from the archives). I think mom sent us to ballet class out of guilt. I know she couldn't afford it. It's possible that her brothers and sisters chipped in. They are those kind of people.
However it came about, my sister and I got to take ballet and tap lessons for almost a year. Every Tuesday we would run home from school, drop off our books, grab our dance bags, and catch the Gravois bus to go to dance class.
The school was on Gravois, between the White Castle and K-Mart. The reception area had pale violet carpeting and dark red chairs. I barely noticed the clashing decor, however; because my eyes were inevitably drawn to the photos on the walls. There were hundreds of framed 5x7 photos of girls in dance costumes. These were the real dancers. The ones who had actually been on stage, in front of an audience. I so my picture on one of those walls. There were more pictures lining the halls to the changing room. Every time I passed beneath them, I'd think, "I'm going to be better than you. They're going to hang my picture right out front.
I worked myself silly learning to shuffle-ball-change. I lost my baby fat doing tedius plie's. Up and down, up and down. Turn out your feet, tuck in your butt. Straighten your back. Up and down.
Our teacher had a cane that she would tap you with if your form was wrong. Her gentle taps never hurt, but it was humiliating to have your positioning corrected in front of the whole class. It didn't matter that she tapped everyone equally. What mattered was that she was tapping you.
And, oh! The pain of those excercises. First the warm-up stretches (no problem), then moving through the 5 positions (pain in the back, pain in the ankles, knees aching, arms turned to jelly, straighten your back, lift your chin and smile!) -followed by a million plie's.
But I was going to be a dancer. I was going to be on stage. My daddy would see my name in lights, and he would be proud of me.
Yeah, that was a nice fantasy.
I loved all that hard work. I loved finally getting my chance to tap dance to a bit of music on stage. I loved the costume that mom had to borrow money to pay for; and I didn't understand when the dance lessons stopped.
My sister and I begged to be allowed to go back. We swore we would scrub floors or work in factories to pay for it. Our pleas must have broken my mom's heart; but the dance lessons were too expensive, and we just couldn't do it anymore.
I wouldn't give up my tap shoes, though.
My first year at Visual and Performing Arts magnet school, I took acting and art. The next year I took acting and dance. I kept up the exercises when I changed schools. In total, I spent 5 years doing ballet exercises for 2 hours a day, 5 days a week.
As a result, I have arthritis in both my knees. I'm 35 years old, and there are days when the only thing that gets me moving is the need to get my son to school. In the winter time, it feels like a dozen icepicks are shoved into my knees. I (sometimes) do physical therapy exercises with 10 lb weights on my ankles to strengthen my legs.
It's funny, in a way. In order to slow the deterioration from too many years of dancing, I have to maintain dancer's muscles.
Which leads me to my store. I make an arthritis salve from shea butter and comfrey, I also make an oil. This stuff keeps me moving on my bad days. It enables me to do my PT, to walk without limping, to drive. Ahhh, comfrey.
As an added benefit, it's shrinking the stretch marks on my belly. (because, I just had to try it everywhere)
I used my friends as guinea-pigs, and put comfrey on everything from tendonitis to gout, and by god-it works! At the urging of my hubby and friends, I've started selling it online.
I hope you enjoyed my story, and I realized I forgot the best part about dance class. We would use our bus fare to buy white castles, and walk the 3 miles home in the dark. I was 8 and my sister was 9.
Right now I'm busy setting up an online storefront. Heck, that makes for a good story...
When my dad left, we moved in with Grandma (as you may recall from the archives). I think mom sent us to ballet class out of guilt. I know she couldn't afford it. It's possible that her brothers and sisters chipped in. They are those kind of people.
However it came about, my sister and I got to take ballet and tap lessons for almost a year. Every Tuesday we would run home from school, drop off our books, grab our dance bags, and catch the Gravois bus to go to dance class.
The school was on Gravois, between the White Castle and K-Mart. The reception area had pale violet carpeting and dark red chairs. I barely noticed the clashing decor, however; because my eyes were inevitably drawn to the photos on the walls. There were hundreds of framed 5x7 photos of girls in dance costumes. These were the real dancers. The ones who had actually been on stage, in front of an audience. I so my picture on one of those walls. There were more pictures lining the halls to the changing room. Every time I passed beneath them, I'd think, "I'm going to be better than you. They're going to hang my picture right out front.
I worked myself silly learning to shuffle-ball-change. I lost my baby fat doing tedius plie's. Up and down, up and down. Turn out your feet, tuck in your butt. Straighten your back. Up and down.
Our teacher had a cane that she would tap you with if your form was wrong. Her gentle taps never hurt, but it was humiliating to have your positioning corrected in front of the whole class. It didn't matter that she tapped everyone equally. What mattered was that she was tapping you.
And, oh! The pain of those excercises. First the warm-up stretches (no problem), then moving through the 5 positions (pain in the back, pain in the ankles, knees aching, arms turned to jelly, straighten your back, lift your chin and smile!) -followed by a million plie's.
But I was going to be a dancer. I was going to be on stage. My daddy would see my name in lights, and he would be proud of me.
Yeah, that was a nice fantasy.
I loved all that hard work. I loved finally getting my chance to tap dance to a bit of music on stage. I loved the costume that mom had to borrow money to pay for; and I didn't understand when the dance lessons stopped.
My sister and I begged to be allowed to go back. We swore we would scrub floors or work in factories to pay for it. Our pleas must have broken my mom's heart; but the dance lessons were too expensive, and we just couldn't do it anymore.
I wouldn't give up my tap shoes, though.
My first year at Visual and Performing Arts magnet school, I took acting and art. The next year I took acting and dance. I kept up the exercises when I changed schools. In total, I spent 5 years doing ballet exercises for 2 hours a day, 5 days a week.
As a result, I have arthritis in both my knees. I'm 35 years old, and there are days when the only thing that gets me moving is the need to get my son to school. In the winter time, it feels like a dozen icepicks are shoved into my knees. I (sometimes) do physical therapy exercises with 10 lb weights on my ankles to strengthen my legs.
It's funny, in a way. In order to slow the deterioration from too many years of dancing, I have to maintain dancer's muscles.
Which leads me to my store. I make an arthritis salve from shea butter and comfrey, I also make an oil. This stuff keeps me moving on my bad days. It enables me to do my PT, to walk without limping, to drive. Ahhh, comfrey.
As an added benefit, it's shrinking the stretch marks on my belly. (because, I just had to try it everywhere)
I used my friends as guinea-pigs, and put comfrey on everything from tendonitis to gout, and by god-it works! At the urging of my hubby and friends, I've started selling it online.
I hope you enjoyed my story, and I realized I forgot the best part about dance class. We would use our bus fare to buy white castles, and walk the 3 miles home in the dark. I was 8 and my sister was 9.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
The Decay Of The Olympic Torch
When I was a kid, I got to see a runner carrying the Olympic torch. We had to get our parents' permission, because it meant leaving school grounds and walking 2 blocks through a crummy neighborhood in order to see a bit of flame for a few seconds. Mom got all excited when I brought the permission form home. She had to tell me all about the history of the carrying of the torch, where it had been, where it was going, and how fortunate out city was to have the flame pass through. My teacher had already covered this; with the same level of enthusiasm, and more historical accuracy.
I was in the 7th grade at the time, and thought that standing on the sidewalk was better than sitting at a desk any day. That was about the extent of my interest.
So the big day came, and after lunch we hiked off to watch the torch go by. Interestingly enough; while my teacher and my mom both thought this was a big deal, they were in the minority. My class was one of the 3 that even bothered to watch.
There were a scattering of people waiting with us. Most had brought lawn chairs. After about 5 minutes of standing there, I started wishing that I had brought a lawn chair too. It was boring, standing around in the hot sun. This was before St. Louis got serious with it's tree-planting program. There was no shade, and nothing to look at beyond a few run-down apartment buildings.
I started thinking about the history class I was missing. My desk was looking better and better to me. I could be learning something, darn it! All my friends were in the other 7th grade class, so I didn't have anyone to talk to. No one was stirring in the apartments, and there wasn't even so much as a pidgeon to stare at. (sigh)
I was terribly bored.
Then the people around me became restless. Word began to spread... The torch was coming. "Finally!" I thought.
I has assumed that all torch bearers were Olympic caliber runners, and I couldn't figure out what was taking so long. I mean, Olympic sprinters ran at least as fast as a car, right? (And that just goes to show you what 7th graders know about physics)
I looked down the street. Nothing.
I listened for the sound of running feet. Nothing.
More people were showing up, so I knew somethingwas happening. By the time the runner got there, the street was crowded. I was being squeezed from all sides, and couldn't see a damned thing. Fortunately, the teachers noticed this and started spreading us kids out. I don't know how it happened; but I wound up right at the curb, with a clear view.
A feeling of awe had spread up the street. I was standing with my toes hanging over the curb, and I was afraid of being pushed into the street. I couldn't fall into the street! It had turned into Holy Ground.
The crowd began clapping, and I could see someone jogging down the road carrying what looked like a short, white, whiffle-ball bat. It was pretty sunny out, and I couldn't see the flame. All that standing around to see a sweaty jogger? What a waste!
And then he ran past.
I had expected someone proud. I had expected the runner to look around self-importantly. Instead, I got the feeling that the runner barely noticed us. His sole focus was that flame. The flame I couldn't see. I couldn't see it, but wow! I could feel it.
And I began to understand. This flame, that had begun as the rays of the sun, was as pure as it was when it began it's trip in Athens. Passed from torch to torch, runner to runner, it was essentially the same fire.
He was followed by a pack of joggers. Some of them were replacement runners, some were everyday people. After them came a van with a police escort. It was carrying a back-up flame; for the flame must never go out.
There was something magical about that little bit if fire, and I'll never forget how it made me feel.
That was then. Nowadays, they have torch bearers in several cities, all running at the same time. That sacred flame is divided, and used to light stupid little cauldrons designed to look just like the big one at the Olympics. The last time the flame went out during a run, it was relit with a propane torch, because the "back-up flame" was in another city!
I personally believe that each time the flame is divided, each time it's used to light a little cauldron; it's strength is diminished.
I hate commercialism.
When I was a kid, I got to see a runner carrying the Olympic torch. We had to get our parents' permission, because it meant leaving school grounds and walking 2 blocks through a crummy neighborhood in order to see a bit of flame for a few seconds. Mom got all excited when I brought the permission form home. She had to tell me all about the history of the carrying of the torch, where it had been, where it was going, and how fortunate out city was to have the flame pass through. My teacher had already covered this; with the same level of enthusiasm, and more historical accuracy.
I was in the 7th grade at the time, and thought that standing on the sidewalk was better than sitting at a desk any day. That was about the extent of my interest.
So the big day came, and after lunch we hiked off to watch the torch go by. Interestingly enough; while my teacher and my mom both thought this was a big deal, they were in the minority. My class was one of the 3 that even bothered to watch.
There were a scattering of people waiting with us. Most had brought lawn chairs. After about 5 minutes of standing there, I started wishing that I had brought a lawn chair too. It was boring, standing around in the hot sun. This was before St. Louis got serious with it's tree-planting program. There was no shade, and nothing to look at beyond a few run-down apartment buildings.
I started thinking about the history class I was missing. My desk was looking better and better to me. I could be learning something, darn it! All my friends were in the other 7th grade class, so I didn't have anyone to talk to. No one was stirring in the apartments, and there wasn't even so much as a pidgeon to stare at. (sigh)
I was terribly bored.
Then the people around me became restless. Word began to spread... The torch was coming. "Finally!" I thought.
I has assumed that all torch bearers were Olympic caliber runners, and I couldn't figure out what was taking so long. I mean, Olympic sprinters ran at least as fast as a car, right? (And that just goes to show you what 7th graders know about physics)
I looked down the street. Nothing.
I listened for the sound of running feet. Nothing.
More people were showing up, so I knew somethingwas happening. By the time the runner got there, the street was crowded. I was being squeezed from all sides, and couldn't see a damned thing. Fortunately, the teachers noticed this and started spreading us kids out. I don't know how it happened; but I wound up right at the curb, with a clear view.
A feeling of awe had spread up the street. I was standing with my toes hanging over the curb, and I was afraid of being pushed into the street. I couldn't fall into the street! It had turned into Holy Ground.
The crowd began clapping, and I could see someone jogging down the road carrying what looked like a short, white, whiffle-ball bat. It was pretty sunny out, and I couldn't see the flame. All that standing around to see a sweaty jogger? What a waste!
And then he ran past.
I had expected someone proud. I had expected the runner to look around self-importantly. Instead, I got the feeling that the runner barely noticed us. His sole focus was that flame. The flame I couldn't see. I couldn't see it, but wow! I could feel it.
And I began to understand. This flame, that had begun as the rays of the sun, was as pure as it was when it began it's trip in Athens. Passed from torch to torch, runner to runner, it was essentially the same fire.
He was followed by a pack of joggers. Some of them were replacement runners, some were everyday people. After them came a van with a police escort. It was carrying a back-up flame; for the flame must never go out.
There was something magical about that little bit if fire, and I'll never forget how it made me feel.
That was then. Nowadays, they have torch bearers in several cities, all running at the same time. That sacred flame is divided, and used to light stupid little cauldrons designed to look just like the big one at the Olympics. The last time the flame went out during a run, it was relit with a propane torch, because the "back-up flame" was in another city!
I personally believe that each time the flame is divided, each time it's used to light a little cauldron; it's strength is diminished.
I hate commercialism.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Ways to make money
Last weekend, we went to pick out a kitten. Driving through the subdivision that held the kitten's home; we passed a lemonade stand. I insisted we stop so I could buy some lemonade. The hubby-man thought I was nuts, but he dutifully pulled over so I could trade a quarter for a 10 oz. cup of lukewarm Crystal Light. (bleah)
So why did I do this? Why did I buy, and then drink, something I had no desire for?
Because I remember the pleasure of a handful of change that I earned myself.
My sister and I tried selling lemonade, snow cones, and ice cream. When that didn't earn enough to make it worth the effort, we mowed lawns and worked at the bingo hall in the Church basement. Bingo players are weird. Each person has their own little ritual for playing. They have a "lucky seat" and a "lucky number", and lucky doo-dads that they spread around their cards. Each knick-knack must be touched a certain number of times before the game commences. Everything must be in a certain order, so as to insure a good day. Some players liked to pick out their own bingo cards, but others preferred to have children do it for them. So, one of our jobs was to sit by the bins and pick "lucky" cards. For this service, we would receive a tip. Usually a nickel, sometimes the tip was as large as a quarter. Once gaming commenced, we ran errands for the customers. We would fetch food and drink for the players, so they needn't interrupt their game. This also usually earned a tip.
We would work for 3 hours or so, and come home with a few dollars worth of change. The work really paid off during Girl Scout Cookie time. We sold cookies door-to-door, and we also ordered extra cookies; which we sold before bingo. Mom was our troop leader, and she was really cool about the cookie sales. She would set a goal for the troop -enough to cover an educational field trip- and anything above that goal went into our personal accounts. We could use it to buy badges, new uniforms, or a trip to Girl Scout camp.
My sister and I figured the profit from cookie sales, and ordered the amount we would need to sell in order to go to camp. This meant 200 boxes of cookies. It wasn't too bad, really; because we could count on at least 100 boxes from door-to-door sales. Cookies were $1.75 at the time. Of that amount, 75 cents went to the troop. So 100 boxes equaled $75. And that was enough to get us to camp, since mom's income qualified us for a partial scholarship.
We sold cookies like crazy, until my neighbors ran out of money. President Reagan's "trickle down" theory never trickled into my neighborhood. It was embarrassing to knock on a door and have someone look wistfully at your order sheet and say, "I just can't this year. I'm sorry." My sister and I knocked on door after door, and we were turned away time and again. The people who used to order 10 boxes, began ordering one or two instead. To meet our goals, we ranged far beyond the neighborhood; taking orders as far away as Meremec Park. It was great in theory... but actually delivering 200 boxes of cookies was another matter.
Every day, for 3 solid weeks we hung bags of cookies off the handlebars of our bikes; for delivery to the far flung corners of South St. Louis. When your customer lives a block away, it's no big deal if they're not home. You just deliver on another day. But when you have to bike for 2 miles, balancing bags of cookies on your handlebars; to be greeted by an empty house... it kind of sucks.
Some of our customers were only home at night, and mom wouldn't let us bike at night; so those deliveries had to be made on the weekends. In the end, we were rescued by mom's boyfriend. He spent the last few days of our delivery time driving us to the various houses. Oh, the luxury of a car!
Last weekend, we went to pick out a kitten. Driving through the subdivision that held the kitten's home; we passed a lemonade stand. I insisted we stop so I could buy some lemonade. The hubby-man thought I was nuts, but he dutifully pulled over so I could trade a quarter for a 10 oz. cup of lukewarm Crystal Light. (bleah)
So why did I do this? Why did I buy, and then drink, something I had no desire for?
Because I remember the pleasure of a handful of change that I earned myself.
My sister and I tried selling lemonade, snow cones, and ice cream. When that didn't earn enough to make it worth the effort, we mowed lawns and worked at the bingo hall in the Church basement. Bingo players are weird. Each person has their own little ritual for playing. They have a "lucky seat" and a "lucky number", and lucky doo-dads that they spread around their cards. Each knick-knack must be touched a certain number of times before the game commences. Everything must be in a certain order, so as to insure a good day. Some players liked to pick out their own bingo cards, but others preferred to have children do it for them. So, one of our jobs was to sit by the bins and pick "lucky" cards. For this service, we would receive a tip. Usually a nickel, sometimes the tip was as large as a quarter. Once gaming commenced, we ran errands for the customers. We would fetch food and drink for the players, so they needn't interrupt their game. This also usually earned a tip.
We would work for 3 hours or so, and come home with a few dollars worth of change. The work really paid off during Girl Scout Cookie time. We sold cookies door-to-door, and we also ordered extra cookies; which we sold before bingo. Mom was our troop leader, and she was really cool about the cookie sales. She would set a goal for the troop -enough to cover an educational field trip- and anything above that goal went into our personal accounts. We could use it to buy badges, new uniforms, or a trip to Girl Scout camp.
My sister and I figured the profit from cookie sales, and ordered the amount we would need to sell in order to go to camp. This meant 200 boxes of cookies. It wasn't too bad, really; because we could count on at least 100 boxes from door-to-door sales. Cookies were $1.75 at the time. Of that amount, 75 cents went to the troop. So 100 boxes equaled $75. And that was enough to get us to camp, since mom's income qualified us for a partial scholarship.
We sold cookies like crazy, until my neighbors ran out of money. President Reagan's "trickle down" theory never trickled into my neighborhood. It was embarrassing to knock on a door and have someone look wistfully at your order sheet and say, "I just can't this year. I'm sorry." My sister and I knocked on door after door, and we were turned away time and again. The people who used to order 10 boxes, began ordering one or two instead. To meet our goals, we ranged far beyond the neighborhood; taking orders as far away as Meremec Park. It was great in theory... but actually delivering 200 boxes of cookies was another matter.
Every day, for 3 solid weeks we hung bags of cookies off the handlebars of our bikes; for delivery to the far flung corners of South St. Louis. When your customer lives a block away, it's no big deal if they're not home. You just deliver on another day. But when you have to bike for 2 miles, balancing bags of cookies on your handlebars; to be greeted by an empty house... it kind of sucks.
Some of our customers were only home at night, and mom wouldn't let us bike at night; so those deliveries had to be made on the weekends. In the end, we were rescued by mom's boyfriend. He spent the last few days of our delivery time driving us to the various houses. Oh, the luxury of a car!
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
More On Prostitutes
Recently, Channel 2 news "exposed" prostitution in Creve Couer Park. Golly! There are men having sex with other men? In a public park? Here... in St. Louis? *gasp* I never knew!
Get over yourselves, channel 2. Go back to chasing Alderwomen who pee in trash cans. Quit scaring the many citizens who enjoy their parks. Better yet, use those investigative reporters to cover what's being done about the problem. Give us some good news for a change.
One day, C and I skipped school and went to Tower Grove Park. She wanted me to meet some friends of hers. So we went to the park and walked up to a group of guys who were sitting on a bridge. As we were talking, a car pulled up and a young man got out. My friend said, "This is the guy I really wanted you to meet. Isn't he cute?" If I could put little anime hearts all around the word cute, I would. I could certainly see them hanging in the air around her.
He was cute, with his blonde hair and blue eyes. He was tall and well muscled too. I could see why she was crushing on him. And, of course, her crush made him off-limits for me. None of the other guys had any interest in me, so I stared at the trickle of muddy water beneath the bridge while she giggled and posed.
I was starting to think it would have been more exciting to be at school. This staring-at-the-water shit was boring. I started praying for a fish, a frog, even a mosquito to liven the scenery; when something even better happened.
A car came cruising slowly down the road, the driver staring confusedly at me and C as he passed. He turned around and passed us again, then parked about 50 feet away from us. One of the guys said to us, "Hey! You need to go somewhere else. You're scaring away the customers!" Suddenly, the light dawned. These guys were prostitutes. I didn't even know boys could be prostitutes. I thought it was solely women's work, like dishes or childcare. I mentally scoffed at any woman who would buy sex, and then realized that C's "cute guy" hadn't gotten out of a car with a woman; and the parked car didn't hold a woman, either.
Well! That was an eye-opener!
The whole way home, I tried to get my friend to give up her crush. "He's a faggot! You can't date a faggot!" I exclaimed.
She replied, as if this made perfect sense, "He's not a faggot. He just fucks faggots and takes their money."
She thought it was funny; her guy ripping off the gay men. She laughed over how they got "taken"; thinking he was gay, when in reality he wasn't. I totally didn't get it. If he were ripping them off, then he would be beating them up and taking their money, not getting paid for a service he provided... And if he wasn't gay, wasn't he the one getting ripped off? Sex is supposed to be enjoyable. I just couldn't imagine him working at a job he hated, when there were less invasive jobs available. Even at 16, I had a lot to learn about the world.
The next time we skipped school together, we went back to the park. We sat on one side of the bridge and the guys sat on the other side. That way, we could talk without interrupting their flow of business. We became somewhat accepted when we helped pick gravel out of the cute guy's back. He had been car surfing, and gotten a nasty case of road rash, so we cleaned him up. I started carrying Bactine and bandages, after one of the guys had gotten beat up by a customer.
In the neighborhood; if you'd been beat up, your friends would have hunted the bastard down and delivered retribution. These guys just took it as a hazard of the job. They never stood up for each other. It sickened me that they would just shrug off a "fag bashing", nurse their cuts until they were healed, and go back to work. If the beatings weren't too bad, they would be working the next day. They said it brought bigger tips sometimes.
I hung out with the prostitutes long after C had given up her crush, and moved on. The funny thing was, the park was the only safe place for me. Walking down the street, I'd get propositioned left and right; but in the park, they were only interested in the boys.
Recently, Channel 2 news "exposed" prostitution in Creve Couer Park. Golly! There are men having sex with other men? In a public park? Here... in St. Louis? *gasp* I never knew!
Get over yourselves, channel 2. Go back to chasing Alderwomen who pee in trash cans. Quit scaring the many citizens who enjoy their parks. Better yet, use those investigative reporters to cover what's being done about the problem. Give us some good news for a change.
One day, C and I skipped school and went to Tower Grove Park. She wanted me to meet some friends of hers. So we went to the park and walked up to a group of guys who were sitting on a bridge. As we were talking, a car pulled up and a young man got out. My friend said, "This is the guy I really wanted you to meet. Isn't he cute?" If I could put little anime hearts all around the word cute, I would. I could certainly see them hanging in the air around her.
He was cute, with his blonde hair and blue eyes. He was tall and well muscled too. I could see why she was crushing on him. And, of course, her crush made him off-limits for me. None of the other guys had any interest in me, so I stared at the trickle of muddy water beneath the bridge while she giggled and posed.
I was starting to think it would have been more exciting to be at school. This staring-at-the-water shit was boring. I started praying for a fish, a frog, even a mosquito to liven the scenery; when something even better happened.
A car came cruising slowly down the road, the driver staring confusedly at me and C as he passed. He turned around and passed us again, then parked about 50 feet away from us. One of the guys said to us, "Hey! You need to go somewhere else. You're scaring away the customers!" Suddenly, the light dawned. These guys were prostitutes. I didn't even know boys could be prostitutes. I thought it was solely women's work, like dishes or childcare. I mentally scoffed at any woman who would buy sex, and then realized that C's "cute guy" hadn't gotten out of a car with a woman; and the parked car didn't hold a woman, either.
Well! That was an eye-opener!
The whole way home, I tried to get my friend to give up her crush. "He's a faggot! You can't date a faggot!" I exclaimed.
She replied, as if this made perfect sense, "He's not a faggot. He just fucks faggots and takes their money."
She thought it was funny; her guy ripping off the gay men. She laughed over how they got "taken"; thinking he was gay, when in reality he wasn't. I totally didn't get it. If he were ripping them off, then he would be beating them up and taking their money, not getting paid for a service he provided... And if he wasn't gay, wasn't he the one getting ripped off? Sex is supposed to be enjoyable. I just couldn't imagine him working at a job he hated, when there were less invasive jobs available. Even at 16, I had a lot to learn about the world.
The next time we skipped school together, we went back to the park. We sat on one side of the bridge and the guys sat on the other side. That way, we could talk without interrupting their flow of business. We became somewhat accepted when we helped pick gravel out of the cute guy's back. He had been car surfing, and gotten a nasty case of road rash, so we cleaned him up. I started carrying Bactine and bandages, after one of the guys had gotten beat up by a customer.
In the neighborhood; if you'd been beat up, your friends would have hunted the bastard down and delivered retribution. These guys just took it as a hazard of the job. They never stood up for each other. It sickened me that they would just shrug off a "fag bashing", nurse their cuts until they were healed, and go back to work. If the beatings weren't too bad, they would be working the next day. They said it brought bigger tips sometimes.
I hung out with the prostitutes long after C had given up her crush, and moved on. The funny thing was, the park was the only safe place for me. Walking down the street, I'd get propositioned left and right; but in the park, they were only interested in the boys.
Friday, April 16, 2004
The Thing About Hoosiers
I've taught my son a bad word, and I'm not proud of it. It worked it's way in when I wasn't looking. It never even occurred to me, because it's such a common term in St. Louis.
The word is "Hoosier", and it doesn't mean "A graduate from the Universtity of Indiana". At least not in St. Louis, it doesn't. All my life, I've heard this word used daily. I never thought twice about it. Hell, I never thought once about it; until I met someone who was born and raised in Indiana. I was chatting with this person, when a car full of young adults came down the street. The radio was blaring Black Sabbath or some such, every person in the car was smoking, and the vehicle was more rust than steel. I muttered the phrase I'd heard my entire life, "Goddam hoosiers."
My friend from Indiana lifted his eyebrows and said, "...Um... I'm a Hoosier."
I said, "No you're not! You have a college degree. You have a good job. You own your own home, for god's sake. You are not a hoosier."
This led to an edifying conversation. I learned that, outside of St. Louis, "Hoosier" is something to be proud of. My friend learned that, within St. Louis, "hoosier" meant "lowlife caucasion scum with no ambition". Yes, St. Louisans have a different phrase for non-caucasions living below the poverty level. I won't go into them here. They are all derogatory. And that's entirely my point. My mother taught me to judge a person by their actions, not their income or skin color. But when she was teaching me that, she meant that I should not judge anyone but hoosiers. Anyone with a clear ethnic background was potentially a human being, but when you see someone with pale skin and an indeterminate ethnicity -the judgement is on.
It's what I was taught. It's ingrained in me, and I'm not proud of it. I resist it. And every time I think I've got it conquered, every time I cease my vigilance; my bigotry sneaks in the back door.
Over the years, it's snuck in often enough, that my son has a clear definition of the word "hoosier", and it's not pretty. To be fair, the only time I've heard him say "hoosier" is when talking to grown-ups. So I hope his definition is not as restrictive as mine. But it galls me that I've been oblivious to my bias for so long.
Even my friend from Indiana uses "hoosier" now. I asked him why, once; and he responded, "When you don't say hoosier, people see you as an outsider. It's clear you're not from St. Louis. When I say it, I'm accepted."
He now says it as casually as the rest of us do.
Goddam hoosiers.
I've taught my son a bad word, and I'm not proud of it. It worked it's way in when I wasn't looking. It never even occurred to me, because it's such a common term in St. Louis.
The word is "Hoosier", and it doesn't mean "A graduate from the Universtity of Indiana". At least not in St. Louis, it doesn't. All my life, I've heard this word used daily. I never thought twice about it. Hell, I never thought once about it; until I met someone who was born and raised in Indiana. I was chatting with this person, when a car full of young adults came down the street. The radio was blaring Black Sabbath or some such, every person in the car was smoking, and the vehicle was more rust than steel. I muttered the phrase I'd heard my entire life, "Goddam hoosiers."
My friend from Indiana lifted his eyebrows and said, "...Um... I'm a Hoosier."
I said, "No you're not! You have a college degree. You have a good job. You own your own home, for god's sake. You are not a hoosier."
This led to an edifying conversation. I learned that, outside of St. Louis, "Hoosier" is something to be proud of. My friend learned that, within St. Louis, "hoosier" meant "lowlife caucasion scum with no ambition". Yes, St. Louisans have a different phrase for non-caucasions living below the poverty level. I won't go into them here. They are all derogatory. And that's entirely my point. My mother taught me to judge a person by their actions, not their income or skin color. But when she was teaching me that, she meant that I should not judge anyone but hoosiers. Anyone with a clear ethnic background was potentially a human being, but when you see someone with pale skin and an indeterminate ethnicity -the judgement is on.
It's what I was taught. It's ingrained in me, and I'm not proud of it. I resist it. And every time I think I've got it conquered, every time I cease my vigilance; my bigotry sneaks in the back door.
Over the years, it's snuck in often enough, that my son has a clear definition of the word "hoosier", and it's not pretty. To be fair, the only time I've heard him say "hoosier" is when talking to grown-ups. So I hope his definition is not as restrictive as mine. But it galls me that I've been oblivious to my bias for so long.
Even my friend from Indiana uses "hoosier" now. I asked him why, once; and he responded, "When you don't say hoosier, people see you as an outsider. It's clear you're not from St. Louis. When I say it, I'm accepted."
He now says it as casually as the rest of us do.
Goddam hoosiers.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Congrats to Josh and Nats
Their baby girl was born Sunday, she's a whopping 10 lbs 7 oz. So pop over and offer them congratulations!
Their baby girl was born Sunday, she's a whopping 10 lbs 7 oz. So pop over and offer them congratulations!
Friday, April 09, 2004
Trying my hand at poetry. Visit St. Louis Bloggers to read some others' poetry
St. Louis Sunset
The setting sun
Touches the facade
Of my 19th century apartment
Painting the limestone
With red and gold hues
Works of man
Reflecting nature
St. Louis Sunset
The setting sun
Touches the facade
Of my 19th century apartment
Painting the limestone
With red and gold hues
Works of man
Reflecting nature
Friday, April 02, 2004
Fixing Up Cars
There were 3 classes of teenagers in my neighborhood; kids with no car, kids with a car that went nowhere, and kids with freedom -aka a car that runs. Thus a favored pastime was fixing up cars. I participated in it myself. The idea was to spend an entire paycheck on a car that didn't run, then have your friends push it to your house. Sometimes they pushed that car for miles. It didn't matter to them. All that did matter was having a status symbol. Boys with cars were a step up from boys who walked. Even if the car didn't have an engine, it might have an engine someday.
It showed that here was a guy who was going somewhere.
So, every once in a while, the whole neighborhood was entertained with the arrival of a new car. They'd come down California Avenue; one proud driver and 4 sweaty friends, pushing like mad. They always came down California, because that took them past the Game Room. It served a dual purpose in that, not only did you get to show off, you got more help to push your car home. Boys would pour out of the Game Room to ooh and aah over the rust bucket before them. They would spend an hour or so discussing the finer points of car restoration, eyes glazing over with dreams of what their own car might look like someday; living vicariously through others.
They always believed that this car would run again; they helped push it so they could share in the glory. Once home, the wheels would be taken off and the car would be put on blocks in the yard. For the next month, everyone would take turns sitting in the drivers seat and dreaming. This was called fixing up the car. As in, "We're going over to so-and-so's house, we're gonna help fix up his car." Sometimes they would get high, sometimes they wouldn't; but they always sat and dreamed.
Most of those old cars were eventually sold or traded when the owners' parents said they'd had enough, and to get that @&#^$ car outta the backyard. A rare few actually became drivable. That was pretty entertaining, too. We'd see our friends pull up in a car that was mostly body putty, blue smoke pouring out the back end, and usually running on less cylinders than should be possible. We'd all climb in the car and go for a ride. Then we would help push the car home. (snicker)
When I finally bought a car, I bought one that ran. Sure I had to replace a few things over time. Like the water pump, alternator, starter and one of the push rods. But I never needed my friends to help me push my car home.
I still grieve over that car. My much-beloved 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus was murdered by a drunk driver on the 4th of July, 1990. Two months later, the city towed it away and crushed it into a cube. We had moved to a better neighborhood, you see; and the neighbors complained about the ugly old wreck that was messing up their street.
On California Avenue, no one would have done that. They would have helped me bang out the dents and fix my baby's shattered frame. And they would have sat in the driver's seat and dreamed.
There were 3 classes of teenagers in my neighborhood; kids with no car, kids with a car that went nowhere, and kids with freedom -aka a car that runs. Thus a favored pastime was fixing up cars. I participated in it myself. The idea was to spend an entire paycheck on a car that didn't run, then have your friends push it to your house. Sometimes they pushed that car for miles. It didn't matter to them. All that did matter was having a status symbol. Boys with cars were a step up from boys who walked. Even if the car didn't have an engine, it might have an engine someday.
It showed that here was a guy who was going somewhere.
So, every once in a while, the whole neighborhood was entertained with the arrival of a new car. They'd come down California Avenue; one proud driver and 4 sweaty friends, pushing like mad. They always came down California, because that took them past the Game Room. It served a dual purpose in that, not only did you get to show off, you got more help to push your car home. Boys would pour out of the Game Room to ooh and aah over the rust bucket before them. They would spend an hour or so discussing the finer points of car restoration, eyes glazing over with dreams of what their own car might look like someday; living vicariously through others.
They always believed that this car would run again; they helped push it so they could share in the glory. Once home, the wheels would be taken off and the car would be put on blocks in the yard. For the next month, everyone would take turns sitting in the drivers seat and dreaming. This was called fixing up the car. As in, "We're going over to so-and-so's house, we're gonna help fix up his car." Sometimes they would get high, sometimes they wouldn't; but they always sat and dreamed.
Most of those old cars were eventually sold or traded when the owners' parents said they'd had enough, and to get that @&#^$ car outta the backyard. A rare few actually became drivable. That was pretty entertaining, too. We'd see our friends pull up in a car that was mostly body putty, blue smoke pouring out the back end, and usually running on less cylinders than should be possible. We'd all climb in the car and go for a ride. Then we would help push the car home. (snicker)
When I finally bought a car, I bought one that ran. Sure I had to replace a few things over time. Like the water pump, alternator, starter and one of the push rods. But I never needed my friends to help me push my car home.
I still grieve over that car. My much-beloved 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus was murdered by a drunk driver on the 4th of July, 1990. Two months later, the city towed it away and crushed it into a cube. We had moved to a better neighborhood, you see; and the neighbors complained about the ugly old wreck that was messing up their street.
On California Avenue, no one would have done that. They would have helped me bang out the dents and fix my baby's shattered frame. And they would have sat in the driver's seat and dreamed.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
80's Clothes
Writing about my childhood during the 1980's just wouldn't be writing without the obligatory "I can't believe I wore that" entry. So for all you fans of 80's fashion; here ya go!
My earliest fashion memories stem from the late 1970's. Back then, clothing was comfortable and casual. Much like it is today. Children wore t-shirts and terry cloth, denim and velour. The colors were bland and earthy.
The advent of MTV changed all that.
We didn't have cable or satellite. Paying for television? What a frivolous expense! Yet, MTV style clothing began showing up in the stores. Matching sweatbands and legwarmers, previously available only at Danskin; were now everywhere. Colored tights, once the provence of little girls in cute dresses; were all the rage. It seems everyone was trying their hand at fashion design, and an entire generation suffered because of it. I'm not talking about the late 1980's, either. I mean the horrible, scary, early 1980's. The part of the decade that required you to change your style every month or so.
I remember babysitting all summer long so I could buy a pair on Nike shoes. Two months after I bought them, everyone was wearing Reebok. I was stuck with outdated shoes for an entire school year. But I learned a valuable lesson. I had 9 months to observe a fashion dance that I could never afford to keep up with, and I learned that dressing uniquely gives you more clout that dressing like the crowd. I would always be a fashion wanna-be, if I bought what we could afford. So, while others wore ruffled blouses with matching ruffled skirts, poufy sleeves and string ties; I wore what I liked.
I liked blue jeans and tee shirts without a logo. I liked deep, classy colors like emerald green, royal blue and chocolate brown. I only wore neon as an under tee shirt; so that when you roll up the sleeves, you see neon trim. I don't look good in neon.
Most of the kids in the neighborhood began wearing concert tee shirts. The problem with this was, each style had a stereotype attached to it. Polo shirts and khaki's were preppy, meaning you had tastes beyond your parents' income. Concert shirts were for burnouts, meaning you did a lot of drugs. Whatever was in that year was New Wave or Trendy, meaning you had no imagination. A mish-mosh of everything was low-grade Punk and a mish-mosh of clothes that clashed were hard core Punk. I fell into the low-grade Punk category. People thought I wanted to be Punk, but couldn't get away with dressing too crazy because my mom would kill me if I did.
Writing about my childhood during the 1980's just wouldn't be writing without the obligatory "I can't believe I wore that" entry. So for all you fans of 80's fashion; here ya go!
My earliest fashion memories stem from the late 1970's. Back then, clothing was comfortable and casual. Much like it is today. Children wore t-shirts and terry cloth, denim and velour. The colors were bland and earthy.
The advent of MTV changed all that.
We didn't have cable or satellite. Paying for television? What a frivolous expense! Yet, MTV style clothing began showing up in the stores. Matching sweatbands and legwarmers, previously available only at Danskin; were now everywhere. Colored tights, once the provence of little girls in cute dresses; were all the rage. It seems everyone was trying their hand at fashion design, and an entire generation suffered because of it. I'm not talking about the late 1980's, either. I mean the horrible, scary, early 1980's. The part of the decade that required you to change your style every month or so.
I remember babysitting all summer long so I could buy a pair on Nike shoes. Two months after I bought them, everyone was wearing Reebok. I was stuck with outdated shoes for an entire school year. But I learned a valuable lesson. I had 9 months to observe a fashion dance that I could never afford to keep up with, and I learned that dressing uniquely gives you more clout that dressing like the crowd. I would always be a fashion wanna-be, if I bought what we could afford. So, while others wore ruffled blouses with matching ruffled skirts, poufy sleeves and string ties; I wore what I liked.
I liked blue jeans and tee shirts without a logo. I liked deep, classy colors like emerald green, royal blue and chocolate brown. I only wore neon as an under tee shirt; so that when you roll up the sleeves, you see neon trim. I don't look good in neon.
Most of the kids in the neighborhood began wearing concert tee shirts. The problem with this was, each style had a stereotype attached to it. Polo shirts and khaki's were preppy, meaning you had tastes beyond your parents' income. Concert shirts were for burnouts, meaning you did a lot of drugs. Whatever was in that year was New Wave or Trendy, meaning you had no imagination. A mish-mosh of everything was low-grade Punk and a mish-mosh of clothes that clashed were hard core Punk. I fell into the low-grade Punk category. People thought I wanted to be Punk, but couldn't get away with dressing too crazy because my mom would kill me if I did.
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