The Fall Of Saigon
I would have been not quite six years old at the time. I remember that mom and dad would watch the evening news, and sometimes they'd argue about it. Saigon falling to the North Vietnamese definitely sparked an argument. Mom and dad would go into the dining room to argue, and I'd be left to watch the news alone. At least until mom sent me to play elsewhere. She didn't think a 5 year old should be watching the news.
*break for a rant about my father*
My father was, among other things, a Marine. He served in Vietnam, somewhere around 1967 or 1968. His mother was hospitalized during his tour, and he was given leave to visit her. She recovered from her whatever-it-was, and dad never went back to the military. He came to St. Louis instead. A mutual "friend" made a bet with my dad. He bet that dad couldn't get my mom to agree to marry him.
A few months later, dad won a measly $5 and a wife. They had a little honeymoon, conceived myself, and only then did he tell my mom that he was AWOL from the Marines. He told her because he had decided to turn himself in. He was court-marshaled and sentenced to 2 1/2 years in the brig. When he was released, he had his dishonorable discharge papers framed and hung on the wall behind his recliner.
*end rant*
Somehow, my father thought that spending 4 months as a stock clerk in a large, safe city in Asia entitled him to opine about Vietnam. My mother disagreed.
So I got to watch a few news clips while my parents argued. All I remember seeing was helicopters and crowds of people. I didn't understand any of it.
Some months (or years) later, I earned a spanking for asking ceaseless questions about the Vietnamese children that were coming to America on a plane.
My parent's did not understand that I felt I'd missed a turning point in history, with the fall of Saigon; and that I wanted to know what was going on now. I thought those Orphan Flights would be just as historic as Saigon, and I didn't want to miss it!
Yeah, so I was wrong. Oh well.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Monday, April 11, 2005
Music
.
If you check my profile, you'll see that I'm not a fan of country music. That's because I associate it with the bar across the street.
We could hear the jukebox from our front porch; they always turned the music up on the weekends. As the night would wear on and the drinking would get heavier, the music would become more and more maudlin. There were endless versions of some poor slob who's dog had died, or his wife had left him, and he was walking down the train tracks, because he'd just got outta jail... Songs with the corniest lyrics, I swear!
As long as the music was maudlin, the bar would stay pretty quiet. But sooner or later someone would play "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino" and follow it up with "You're Cheatin' Heart"; and we knew it was just about time to go inside and call the cops. Because those two songs in combination meant that some woman was fed up with her no-good-drunk-of-a-man; and she was right that instant sitting on some other guy's lap.
The noise level would rise to a point that we couldn't hear the music anymore, and then bodies would come tumbling out of the bar. A knot of people beating on each other would be surrounded by a larger group of observers. Some would try to interject a bit of drunken wisdom, "Hey, man. You can't be doin' that." or "She ain't worth it." Others would join in the fray. Lord knows why. Still others would wail at the sky, bemoaning their fate.
The funniest one I ever saw was a woman jump into the mess of people and shove her husband out of the fight so that she could start a new one. She yelled, "GodDAMN you, Greg! Now we can't drink no more!"
This caused a mass exodus back into the bar; people having realized they were jeopardizing their own drinking privileges for the night.
In case you're unfamiliar with the song "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino"; here are David Frizzell's classic words:
I came crawling home last night, like many nights before:
I finally made it to my feet as she opened up the door.
And she said, "You're not gonna do this anymore."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "Just bring your Friday paycheck, and I'll cash them all right here.
"And I'll keep on tap - for all your friends, their favorite kinds of beer.
"And for you, I'll always keep in stock, those soft aluminum cans.
"And when you're feeling macho, you can crush them like a man."
She said: "We'll rip out all the carpet, and put sawdust on the floor.
"Serve hard boiled eggs and pretzels, and I won't cook no more.
"There'll be Monday night football, on T.V. above the bar.
"And a pay phone in the hallway, when your friends can't find their car."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "You'll get friendly service, and for added atmosphere.
"I'll slip on something sexy, and I'll cut it clear to here.
"Then you can slap my bottom, every time you tell a joke.
"Just as long as you keep tipping, well, I'll laugh until you're broke."
She said: "Instead of family quarrels, we'll have a bar-room brawl,
"When the Ham's bear say's its closing time, you won't have far to crawl.
"And when you run out of money, you'll have me to thank.
"You can sleep it off next morning, when I'm putting it in the bank."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino, to decorate our home,
"So you can feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"When you and your friends get off from work, and have a powerful thirst.
"There won't be any reason, why you can't stop off here first."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
.
If you check my profile, you'll see that I'm not a fan of country music. That's because I associate it with the bar across the street.
We could hear the jukebox from our front porch; they always turned the music up on the weekends. As the night would wear on and the drinking would get heavier, the music would become more and more maudlin. There were endless versions of some poor slob who's dog had died, or his wife had left him, and he was walking down the train tracks, because he'd just got outta jail... Songs with the corniest lyrics, I swear!
As long as the music was maudlin, the bar would stay pretty quiet. But sooner or later someone would play "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino" and follow it up with "You're Cheatin' Heart"; and we knew it was just about time to go inside and call the cops. Because those two songs in combination meant that some woman was fed up with her no-good-drunk-of-a-man; and she was right that instant sitting on some other guy's lap.
The noise level would rise to a point that we couldn't hear the music anymore, and then bodies would come tumbling out of the bar. A knot of people beating on each other would be surrounded by a larger group of observers. Some would try to interject a bit of drunken wisdom, "Hey, man. You can't be doin' that." or "She ain't worth it." Others would join in the fray. Lord knows why. Still others would wail at the sky, bemoaning their fate.
The funniest one I ever saw was a woman jump into the mess of people and shove her husband out of the fight so that she could start a new one. She yelled, "GodDAMN you, Greg! Now we can't drink no more!"
This caused a mass exodus back into the bar; people having realized they were jeopardizing their own drinking privileges for the night.
In case you're unfamiliar with the song "I'm Gonna Hire A Wino"; here are David Frizzell's classic words:
I came crawling home last night, like many nights before:
I finally made it to my feet as she opened up the door.
And she said, "You're not gonna do this anymore."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "Just bring your Friday paycheck, and I'll cash them all right here.
"And I'll keep on tap - for all your friends, their favorite kinds of beer.
"And for you, I'll always keep in stock, those soft aluminum cans.
"And when you're feeling macho, you can crush them like a man."
She said: "We'll rip out all the carpet, and put sawdust on the floor.
"Serve hard boiled eggs and pretzels, and I won't cook no more.
"There'll be Monday night football, on T.V. above the bar.
"And a pay phone in the hallway, when your friends can't find their car."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
She said: "You'll get friendly service, and for added atmosphere.
"I'll slip on something sexy, and I'll cut it clear to here.
"Then you can slap my bottom, every time you tell a joke.
"Just as long as you keep tipping, well, I'll laugh until you're broke."
She said: "Instead of family quarrels, we'll have a bar-room brawl,
"When the Ham's bear say's its closing time, you won't have far to crawl.
"And when you run out of money, you'll have me to thank.
"You can sleep it off next morning, when I'm putting it in the bank."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino, to decorate our home,
"So you can feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"When you and your friends get off from work, and have a powerful thirst.
"There won't be any reason, why you can't stop off here first."
She said: "I'm gonna' hire a wino to decorate our home,
"So you'll feel more at ease here, and you won't have to roam.
"We'll take out the dining room table, and put a bar along that wall.
"And a neon sign, to point the way, to our bathroom down the hall."
Thursday, April 07, 2005
The Worst Thing I've Ever Done
.
This month's Blogging For Books subject is ... Cruelty.
What a quandary! To tell, or not to tell? If I bare my deepest act of cruelty, I could lose every friend I have. But if I don't take this opportunity... It's the old "tree falling in the woods" thing. You know, if I did something awful, but no one knows... will I still be seen as good? I guess I'll never know unless I hit that "publish" button at the bottom of my blog.
"We like to think of ourselves as nice people. Yet even the nicest person can engage in cruel, vindictive, or just plain mean behavior.
For this Blogging for Books, write about the meanest thing you have ever done - either to another person or to yourself. (Topic idea credit: Jenorama)"
I've fried ants with a magnifying glass and fed nasty food to my dog. Who hasn't? I've said hurtful things, deliberately; with the sole intention of making someone miserable. I've even thrown rocks at children.
But all those things had a reason behind them. A justification, if you will. Each one carried it's own lesson, too. Your dog will eat anything. Ants run from heat. Sometimes you have to choose between a power trip, and having your own power. Throwing rocks won't change the fact that you're mom is getting the shit beat out of her at home... Or that the only reason your sister is throwing rocks along with you is that your mother is taking the blows in her place.
None of those things shame me. It's all stuff I'll happily talk about, if you're interested in the sordid details of my childhood. And there's one thing I will not happily talk about. It makes me sick to my stomach when I remember it. It's the thing I did that taught me the definition of "cruelty".
I helped beat up "the retarded kid".
It doesn't matter that I was in the 4th grade at the time. It doesn't matter that I had been the victim of escalating abuses at school. It doesn't even matter that a teacher had just that week plucked a splinter of my own broken glasses out of my eye, yet continued to have me fend for myself on the playground.
What mattered was that for once, they were beating up someone else. And I rushed across the street to join in.
I wanted to know what it was like from the other side. I wanted so badly to be part of a group, just once. I thought maybe they would like me if I did a good job on this poor kid.
So I ran across the street and whacked him with my bag full of homework.
I was aiming for his head. I wanted to knock him down so the kids could see that it was me with all that power. But he was tall and I wasn't strong enough. My book bag bounced ineffectually off of his back and tears were running down my face. (Yes. I hit him from behind. Not only did I attack a mentally deficient child, I did it from behind. If there's a hell, I'll be there along with Hitler and those guys who wore black hats on the Lone Ranger show.)
I expected the kids to start laughing any minute. I was afraid they might turn on me next. A part of me thought that wouldn't be a bad thing. At least I would deserve it for thinking I was in any way socially acceptable.
I still had a chance to show how tough I was, though; because no one had noticed my feeble attack. I thought I could jump on the kid's back and pound him in the head a few times. Then everybody would see how great I was. Except I couldn't jump that high. My arms weren't strong enough to pull myself up to his shoulders.
I tried again. And I just couldn't do it. He was a 7th grader, for gosh sakes! I just wasn't big enough.
I could still get in a few good blows with my book bag, but first I'd have to re-load it. Everything had fallen out when I'd made my sneak attack. The fight moved down the street as I stuffed my books back in the bag. I'd have to run to catch up.
And then I came to my senses. Instead of running back to the fight, I ran down a gangway. I hid in the shadows and dried my eyes on my sleeve. Then I walked toward home until I was past the fighting. When I got around the corner, I ran.
I ran past the homeless people, fresh tears blurring my vision, terrified that someone would punish me for beating up the retarded kid.
There it is. The worst thing I've ever done. My definition of cruelty.
And Jay? I think this Blogging for Books subject is pretty damn cruel too. :p
.
This month's Blogging For Books subject is ... Cruelty.
What a quandary! To tell, or not to tell? If I bare my deepest act of cruelty, I could lose every friend I have. But if I don't take this opportunity... It's the old "tree falling in the woods" thing. You know, if I did something awful, but no one knows... will I still be seen as good? I guess I'll never know unless I hit that "publish" button at the bottom of my blog.
"We like to think of ourselves as nice people. Yet even the nicest person can engage in cruel, vindictive, or just plain mean behavior.
For this Blogging for Books, write about the meanest thing you have ever done - either to another person or to yourself. (Topic idea credit: Jenorama)"
I've fried ants with a magnifying glass and fed nasty food to my dog. Who hasn't? I've said hurtful things, deliberately; with the sole intention of making someone miserable. I've even thrown rocks at children.
But all those things had a reason behind them. A justification, if you will. Each one carried it's own lesson, too. Your dog will eat anything. Ants run from heat. Sometimes you have to choose between a power trip, and having your own power. Throwing rocks won't change the fact that you're mom is getting the shit beat out of her at home... Or that the only reason your sister is throwing rocks along with you is that your mother is taking the blows in her place.
None of those things shame me. It's all stuff I'll happily talk about, if you're interested in the sordid details of my childhood. And there's one thing I will not happily talk about. It makes me sick to my stomach when I remember it. It's the thing I did that taught me the definition of "cruelty".
I helped beat up "the retarded kid".
It doesn't matter that I was in the 4th grade at the time. It doesn't matter that I had been the victim of escalating abuses at school. It doesn't even matter that a teacher had just that week plucked a splinter of my own broken glasses out of my eye, yet continued to have me fend for myself on the playground.
What mattered was that for once, they were beating up someone else. And I rushed across the street to join in.
I wanted to know what it was like from the other side. I wanted so badly to be part of a group, just once. I thought maybe they would like me if I did a good job on this poor kid.
So I ran across the street and whacked him with my bag full of homework.
I was aiming for his head. I wanted to knock him down so the kids could see that it was me with all that power. But he was tall and I wasn't strong enough. My book bag bounced ineffectually off of his back and tears were running down my face. (Yes. I hit him from behind. Not only did I attack a mentally deficient child, I did it from behind. If there's a hell, I'll be there along with Hitler and those guys who wore black hats on the Lone Ranger show.)
I expected the kids to start laughing any minute. I was afraid they might turn on me next. A part of me thought that wouldn't be a bad thing. At least I would deserve it for thinking I was in any way socially acceptable.
I still had a chance to show how tough I was, though; because no one had noticed my feeble attack. I thought I could jump on the kid's back and pound him in the head a few times. Then everybody would see how great I was. Except I couldn't jump that high. My arms weren't strong enough to pull myself up to his shoulders.
I tried again. And I just couldn't do it. He was a 7th grader, for gosh sakes! I just wasn't big enough.
I could still get in a few good blows with my book bag, but first I'd have to re-load it. Everything had fallen out when I'd made my sneak attack. The fight moved down the street as I stuffed my books back in the bag. I'd have to run to catch up.
And then I came to my senses. Instead of running back to the fight, I ran down a gangway. I hid in the shadows and dried my eyes on my sleeve. Then I walked toward home until I was past the fighting. When I got around the corner, I ran.
I ran past the homeless people, fresh tears blurring my vision, terrified that someone would punish me for beating up the retarded kid.
There it is. The worst thing I've ever done. My definition of cruelty.
And Jay? I think this Blogging for Books subject is pretty damn cruel too. :p
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Desegregation
St. Louis began it's desegregation program when I started the 6th grade. The year was 1981. The city quickly created magnet schools to try and get more volunteer students, and to keep the courts from creating a plan of integration. The kids in my neighborhood attended either Notre Dame Catholic School, or the nearest public school. I didn't know anyone who went to Holy Cross Lutheran School, although that was also an option.
The public school kids walked to school, attended classes with their neighbors, and generally behaved like normal kids. And then the busses came, bringing problems that no one was prepared for. It never occurred to the school board that the deseg students might resent being pulled from their neighborhood schools. They didn't really have a choice. The "black" schools were closed, and the students had to go somewhere. That "somewhere" was predominantly white schools filled with children who had known each other their entire lives. The black students were divided between many schools, meaning they were separated from their friends. They probably felt isolated, and I know they were scared. Some of the new students were agressive; determined not to be pushed around or put down by "whitey". The white students were told fearful stories about how savage "black people" were; how they were all criminals or animals.
None of this was true, of course; but it made for a very bad start.
When I left Notre Dame for a magnet school, I was warned about "black" behaviour. I was told that the girls would steal anything they wanted from me. I was warned not to carry a purse, because the girls would come up to me and say, "What you got girl gimmie some." While taking whatever I had. I was told that "they" would beat me up if I resisted...
Mind you, my neighborhood was filled with some of the meanest, toughest kids I'd ever seen. The kinds of kids who would knock you down and kick your teeth in. Kids who thought that a fight wasn't a fight unless you came away with blood and a trophy. Yet they were afraid to fight the black kids.
Children are good at sensing fear, and when these new students saw the fear in the old students, they took advantage of it. It's what children do across the world.
It took a few years for the neighborhood kids to remember that they were tough. Then they started fighting back. The schools became dangerous. Students of both races started cutting school because the streets were a safer place to be. They also found ways to be safe within the schools. One way was to sell drugs. The drug dealers were cool, and you don't mess with the cool kids. That's how we got 7th and 8th graders selling pot or speed to 5th graders. Smoking was also cool. Smoking meant you were a badass, and therefore less likely to be a victim. The really badass kids would talk back to the teachers, walk out of class, and throw things out the window. Nobody messed with those kids.
Desegregation, at least St. Louis' version of it, created a lot of problems. We still don't have any solutions.
St. Louis began it's desegregation program when I started the 6th grade. The year was 1981. The city quickly created magnet schools to try and get more volunteer students, and to keep the courts from creating a plan of integration. The kids in my neighborhood attended either Notre Dame Catholic School, or the nearest public school. I didn't know anyone who went to Holy Cross Lutheran School, although that was also an option.
The public school kids walked to school, attended classes with their neighbors, and generally behaved like normal kids. And then the busses came, bringing problems that no one was prepared for. It never occurred to the school board that the deseg students might resent being pulled from their neighborhood schools. They didn't really have a choice. The "black" schools were closed, and the students had to go somewhere. That "somewhere" was predominantly white schools filled with children who had known each other their entire lives. The black students were divided between many schools, meaning they were separated from their friends. They probably felt isolated, and I know they were scared. Some of the new students were agressive; determined not to be pushed around or put down by "whitey". The white students were told fearful stories about how savage "black people" were; how they were all criminals or animals.
None of this was true, of course; but it made for a very bad start.
When I left Notre Dame for a magnet school, I was warned about "black" behaviour. I was told that the girls would steal anything they wanted from me. I was warned not to carry a purse, because the girls would come up to me and say, "What you got girl gimmie some." While taking whatever I had. I was told that "they" would beat me up if I resisted...
Mind you, my neighborhood was filled with some of the meanest, toughest kids I'd ever seen. The kinds of kids who would knock you down and kick your teeth in. Kids who thought that a fight wasn't a fight unless you came away with blood and a trophy. Yet they were afraid to fight the black kids.
Children are good at sensing fear, and when these new students saw the fear in the old students, they took advantage of it. It's what children do across the world.
It took a few years for the neighborhood kids to remember that they were tough. Then they started fighting back. The schools became dangerous. Students of both races started cutting school because the streets were a safer place to be. They also found ways to be safe within the schools. One way was to sell drugs. The drug dealers were cool, and you don't mess with the cool kids. That's how we got 7th and 8th graders selling pot or speed to 5th graders. Smoking was also cool. Smoking meant you were a badass, and therefore less likely to be a victim. The really badass kids would talk back to the teachers, walk out of class, and throw things out the window. Nobody messed with those kids.
Desegregation, at least St. Louis' version of it, created a lot of problems. We still don't have any solutions.
Conflicted
I'm really conflicted about what to write next. What started as a series of amusing stories became therapy for me as I worked through my memories.
-I just realized that I still haven't told about skipping school, the disaster that the St. Louis public shool system was in the 1980's, my neighborhood's reaction to desegregation, racing down the highway at 115 mph, the yuppie rehabbers at the neighborhood meetings, how to spot a narc, running away from home because my mom wouldn't let me go to a concert... Yeah, I have a lot more to say.
Somewhere along the line, this blog went from what I observed to more personal stuff. I guess in that way, it reflects life. My childhood was joyful -untouched by what I saw. And as I grew older, what I saw became what I lived. I was no longer the center of my universe. I was just another neighborhood kid trying to stay alive long enough to escape.
I'd never meant to get into the more personal (and painful) aspects of my life story. So if you notice a shift in my writing, that's why.
The completed book will include the story of my rape, because it's integral to the complete picture. My rape changed how I viewed my neighborhood, thereby changing the stories I tell. I think it will make a nice segue into the darker stories.
I'm really conflicted about what to write next. What started as a series of amusing stories became therapy for me as I worked through my memories.
-I just realized that I still haven't told about skipping school, the disaster that the St. Louis public shool system was in the 1980's, my neighborhood's reaction to desegregation, racing down the highway at 115 mph, the yuppie rehabbers at the neighborhood meetings, how to spot a narc, running away from home because my mom wouldn't let me go to a concert... Yeah, I have a lot more to say.
Somewhere along the line, this blog went from what I observed to more personal stuff. I guess in that way, it reflects life. My childhood was joyful -untouched by what I saw. And as I grew older, what I saw became what I lived. I was no longer the center of my universe. I was just another neighborhood kid trying to stay alive long enough to escape.
I'd never meant to get into the more personal (and painful) aspects of my life story. So if you notice a shift in my writing, that's why.
The completed book will include the story of my rape, because it's integral to the complete picture. My rape changed how I viewed my neighborhood, thereby changing the stories I tell. I think it will make a nice segue into the darker stories.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Surprise, Surprise
I was surprised to see hits from Ecology Of Absence, I wondered who had been hitting them from here. I was even more surprised when I saw that I hadn't linked them yet. I had meant to from the first time I visited and saw a post about a place I'll never forget. I'll never forget it because I discovered it by accident while driving with my son. We had gone to a skating party at what used to be Ron's Roller World. On the way home, I realized my son has never wandered his own neighborhood. (being an only child, he has no one to wander with)
I thought about all the wondrous discoveries he'd missed out on, and decided then and there to change it. So I turned right at the next corner, saying, "Let's see where this takes us, ok?"
And so we drove. Always taking the road less traveled (the street less occupied), wending our way toward my beloved Mississippi River. Within minutes, we had found a road that appeared to go nowhere. There were no gates or signs to keep us out, just this scrabbly old road.
To what wonders would this broken pavement lead? We drove along (maybe all of 3 short blocks) and found a magnificent old factory compound. My breath caught in my throat, and I hoped no developer ever discovered this place. It was built when bricklayers were true craftsmen, and it was beautiful. I spied a clearing toward Broadway, and slowly drove in that direction. I was so worried about damage to my tires, or disturbing some vagrant who might consider this place home, that I didn't see it at first. My son whispered, "mom..." and turned his head toward the clearing. And there it was. A young deer. Standing in the bright sunshine and scrubgrass. Staring at us. I wondered if the deer was as awestruck by a truck in this place, as I was by a deer in the middle of the city.
The deer looked his fill and then casually strolled away. After a time, we left too.
In writing this, I figured out that the blog isn't the website, although they're both by the same people. So go read the blog. Ecology Of Absence is so damn good. It's really warming to see people who love St. Louis, and it's glorious architecture, the way I do. Kudos to Michael and Claire for their awesome writing and interest.
I was surprised to see hits from Ecology Of Absence, I wondered who had been hitting them from here. I was even more surprised when I saw that I hadn't linked them yet. I had meant to from the first time I visited and saw a post about a place I'll never forget. I'll never forget it because I discovered it by accident while driving with my son. We had gone to a skating party at what used to be Ron's Roller World. On the way home, I realized my son has never wandered his own neighborhood. (being an only child, he has no one to wander with)
I thought about all the wondrous discoveries he'd missed out on, and decided then and there to change it. So I turned right at the next corner, saying, "Let's see where this takes us, ok?"
And so we drove. Always taking the road less traveled (the street less occupied), wending our way toward my beloved Mississippi River. Within minutes, we had found a road that appeared to go nowhere. There were no gates or signs to keep us out, just this scrabbly old road.
To what wonders would this broken pavement lead? We drove along (maybe all of 3 short blocks) and found a magnificent old factory compound. My breath caught in my throat, and I hoped no developer ever discovered this place. It was built when bricklayers were true craftsmen, and it was beautiful. I spied a clearing toward Broadway, and slowly drove in that direction. I was so worried about damage to my tires, or disturbing some vagrant who might consider this place home, that I didn't see it at first. My son whispered, "mom..." and turned his head toward the clearing. And there it was. A young deer. Standing in the bright sunshine and scrubgrass. Staring at us. I wondered if the deer was as awestruck by a truck in this place, as I was by a deer in the middle of the city.
The deer looked his fill and then casually strolled away. After a time, we left too.
In writing this, I figured out that the blog isn't the website, although they're both by the same people. So go read the blog. Ecology Of Absence is so damn good. It's really warming to see people who love St. Louis, and it's glorious architecture, the way I do. Kudos to Michael and Claire for their awesome writing and interest.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Life As We Know It
I'm having an interesting discussion on my other blog about the situation with our returning soldiers, and it flashed me back to my old neighborhood and all the homeless we had there.
A soldier comes home and discovers that he/she no longer fits in society. They tend to believe that only another soldier understands this feeling. That's not so. I've never been in the military. Because, frankly- basic training scared the crap out of me. The idea of willingly submitting to "being broken" and made into a model soldier was abhorrent to me. So I never signed up. Not even for a chance at college. But I know how it feels to jump to combat readiness because someone nearby is giving off the subtle signals that mean danger.
I used to think my life was not sheltered. If you've read my archives, you might think my life was not sheltered, too. But in it's own wierd way, life was sheltered. We had a code to live by, and if you followed the rules; you were sheltered by the neighborhood. If you didn't follow the code you were abandoned. I followed the code: Acknowledge your betters. Fight when you have to, not when you want to. Keep your nose outta other people's business. Protect anyone who can't protect themselves. Partying is sacred, never mess with The Party... it goes on, but you get the idea. Those were the rules of my world. I had some vague idea that "rich" (i.e. County) people had other rules, but I had no idea what they were. I believed it had something to do with place settings and extended pinky fingers. All that stuff about 2 cars in your garage and having a well landscaped yard was beyond me. I didn't know the "rules" of "society".
The scariest thing I ever did was step out of my own little world, and take on society. It was scarier than going to the abortion clinic, scarier than giving my son up for adoption, and scarier than anything my neighborhood could throw at me. Because while my neighborhood could hurt me, society might break me. Average people do not know that there are people like me around. They don't want to know. I'm a predator, and I recognize other predators. I know when to present a challenging stare and when to lower my eyes and submit. I'm safe with that. I know my place.
Do you know what it's like? If you work at a bar, you do. Ok, I'm ranting. Sorry about that. I meant to talk about my personal evolution. Heh. So here goes...
At first, I just faked it. I dated a county boy and simply did whatever he did. I may not have understood the logic behind the behaviour, but I faked it well enough to pass. Then I started really looking at why middle-class people acted the way they did. Why did they lock their cars then lock the garages that were holding the cars, then carry their keys like a weapon as they walked to their well lit front doors? I mean really! Did they think someone might be lurking in their manicured bushes? What could they possibly fear?
It took me a decade to figure it out. They feared the unknown, the same as everybody else. I feared the unknown of a life beyond my neighborhood. The same holds true for them.
With understanding, comes acceptance. I accept that county fears are just as valid as city fears. My life is no greater than yours, nor is it less.
What does any of this have to do with a soldiers' return, you ask? I say it's the survival factor. Once you've been there, you can't go back. (Let's see if I still believe that when I'm ninety.) You can't just step back to being afraid of your front yard. I don't believe your typical suburbanite wakes in a cold sweat because they were dreaming of stalking an urban landscape; knowing that they were going to take a life, while their spirit cringes inside and quietly wails, "nooo...."
That's one thing soldiers and I share. We know what it's like to do whatever you have to do to survive. We know how it feels to think you've given up a piece of your humanity, and how desperately we want that humanity back.
I'm having an interesting discussion on my other blog about the situation with our returning soldiers, and it flashed me back to my old neighborhood and all the homeless we had there.
A soldier comes home and discovers that he/she no longer fits in society. They tend to believe that only another soldier understands this feeling. That's not so. I've never been in the military. Because, frankly- basic training scared the crap out of me. The idea of willingly submitting to "being broken" and made into a model soldier was abhorrent to me. So I never signed up. Not even for a chance at college. But I know how it feels to jump to combat readiness because someone nearby is giving off the subtle signals that mean danger.
I used to think my life was not sheltered. If you've read my archives, you might think my life was not sheltered, too. But in it's own wierd way, life was sheltered. We had a code to live by, and if you followed the rules; you were sheltered by the neighborhood. If you didn't follow the code you were abandoned. I followed the code: Acknowledge your betters. Fight when you have to, not when you want to. Keep your nose outta other people's business. Protect anyone who can't protect themselves. Partying is sacred, never mess with The Party... it goes on, but you get the idea. Those were the rules of my world. I had some vague idea that "rich" (i.e. County) people had other rules, but I had no idea what they were. I believed it had something to do with place settings and extended pinky fingers. All that stuff about 2 cars in your garage and having a well landscaped yard was beyond me. I didn't know the "rules" of "society".
The scariest thing I ever did was step out of my own little world, and take on society. It was scarier than going to the abortion clinic, scarier than giving my son up for adoption, and scarier than anything my neighborhood could throw at me. Because while my neighborhood could hurt me, society might break me. Average people do not know that there are people like me around. They don't want to know. I'm a predator, and I recognize other predators. I know when to present a challenging stare and when to lower my eyes and submit. I'm safe with that. I know my place.
Do you know what it's like? If you work at a bar, you do. Ok, I'm ranting. Sorry about that. I meant to talk about my personal evolution. Heh. So here goes...
At first, I just faked it. I dated a county boy and simply did whatever he did. I may not have understood the logic behind the behaviour, but I faked it well enough to pass. Then I started really looking at why middle-class people acted the way they did. Why did they lock their cars then lock the garages that were holding the cars, then carry their keys like a weapon as they walked to their well lit front doors? I mean really! Did they think someone might be lurking in their manicured bushes? What could they possibly fear?
It took me a decade to figure it out. They feared the unknown, the same as everybody else. I feared the unknown of a life beyond my neighborhood. The same holds true for them.
With understanding, comes acceptance. I accept that county fears are just as valid as city fears. My life is no greater than yours, nor is it less.
What does any of this have to do with a soldiers' return, you ask? I say it's the survival factor. Once you've been there, you can't go back. (Let's see if I still believe that when I'm ninety.) You can't just step back to being afraid of your front yard. I don't believe your typical suburbanite wakes in a cold sweat because they were dreaming of stalking an urban landscape; knowing that they were going to take a life, while their spirit cringes inside and quietly wails, "nooo...."
That's one thing soldiers and I share. We know what it's like to do whatever you have to do to survive. We know how it feels to think you've given up a piece of your humanity, and how desperately we want that humanity back.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
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!
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!
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.
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