Vendettas
The South Side Code included rules for vengance. It was generally "an eye for an eye" kind of thing, but a few actions went beyond those paramaters. The example I'm thinking of is when a very nice boy from a "mafia" family was found pistol-whipped nearly to death in a park. The whole neighborhood was abuzz with talk about how the L family would get their revenge on the R family. The dispute began before my time. Somebody did something to someone else, and forever afterwards the L's and R's were at war. All I knew was that fighting would occasionally flare up between the families, and we would have something to gossip about for a while. The pistol-whipping of a 15 year old boy was definately an escalation, though. He was a good kid. He didn't get involved in his family's vendetta, and he was handsome. At least he was until someone saw fit to bludgeon his face with the butt-end of a handgun.
Our downstairs neighbors were indirectly related to the R family, and they were a little worried because the boy was from the L family. For the next two weeks, the apartment below us was full of people. The whole clan was rotating shifts, protecting their home. At least once a day someone from the L family would drive down the street shouting threats. My neighbors would shout back, "There's little kids in here!" (that being the reason for the protection. Once you've crossed the invisible age barrier it's no-holds-barred) Then our neighbors would pile into their car and give chase. If it wasn't so scary, it would have been funny. Finally one night around 10 o'clock someone from the L's threw a brick at our window. They thought the cousins to the R's lived upstairs. Mom was pretty mad.
We had been watching the news when the car came roaring down the street. We heard the shouting, knew it would be over in a minute: then heard the brick break our window. Mom ran downstairs just in time to see a carload of stick-waving hoosiers dash off in pursuit of the L's. She went inside the downstairs apartment to comfort the mother and children that had been left behind. I think she did it so she wouldn't have to deal with the window yet. When the menfolk returned after their fruitless chase, she got out the duct tape and patched the window. Then mom sat down and studied the brick. She was still looking at it when I went to bed. I don't know what secrets she gleaned from the brick, but a few days later she and the brick went for a walk together. When she came back, she told us the problem was solved, and we didn't need to worry about any more problems with the L family.
Mom had a special gift for things like that. She could make people park their cars instead of sitting in the street and honking, and she could clear a bar fight with nothing but presence.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Why I hate Spaghetti
Every Sunday, we had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa was born in Sicily, at the turn of the last Century. "Old Fashioned" doesn't even begin to describe him. He served in both World Wars, and was married twice. His first wife died in childbirth. Their son was stillborn. Grandma took cooking lessons from an old Sicilian woman, so she could prepare foods from his homeland. Every other day, she served Italian food, and Sunday was always spaghetti day. I ate spaghetti once a week for 13 years. I will never eat it again.
She would vary the meat to go with the spaghetti. One week we'd cut up 3-5 whole chickens, the next she'd make meatballs. When I was small, I shredded lettuce for the salad. As I grew, I progressed to cutting veggies, skinning tomatoes, and finally, butchering chickens. I'll never forget the day I cut up my first chicken. Grandpa had passed away by this time, so we were only disecting 4 birds. Aunt Petrina told Grandma I was old enough to help cut. They had a little argument, and then Petrina put a nice sharp butcher knife in my 9 year old hands.
I was delighted, but frightened at the same time. I'd seen how cleanly the knife sliced through the chicken. I'd seen how easily it went through the joint between the leg and thigh. And I'd seen numerous Aunts say, "Damn!" and rush off to bandage their hand, because the knife had slipped.
Petrina broke the shoulders of a chicken carcass and showed me where to start. I carefully cut out the wishbone, trying so hard not to crack it prematurely. I succeeded, only to break it as I tried to dislodge it from the breastbone. Petrina told me not to worry. It wasn't my fault. It was a "weak chicken". She said I'd probably need help with the legs too.
Doing the breasts and back were easy. The butcher knife slid right through the rib and back bones. It was easier than cutting cold butter. The legs, however, were a different matter. By the time I had gotten to that point, all the other chickens were done, and all 5 of my uncles were crowded in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching. I bent the "knee" of the bird over the knife blade, gave a good tug upwards and pop!, I had separated a leg from a thigh. Filled with triumph, I sliced off the other leg and went after the thigh.
If you've never cut up a chicken, let me tell you, there's a trick to removing the thighs. A trick which I didn't know at 9 years of age. You have to break the joint first. The knife wouldn't separate the joint. It slipped to one side, or slid to the other, and would not cut where it was supposed to. So, I sat at the kitchen table stubbornly sawing through the thigh bone. This stupid bird was not going to defeat me! I was totally engrossed in my work, and I didn't hear the smothered giggles of my Uncles at first. Aunt Petrina heard them, however; and she came to my rescue.
She said, "There's a faster way, honey." and picked up the chicken by the thighs. She held it up and gave a quick jerk with both hands, cleanly dislocating the joints. Well, dislocating the joint I hadn't been sawing away at, anyway. What was left of the other one wouldn't pop. I had mutiliated it too badly. She taught me how to wedge the knife between the joints properly, and press down to cut through it. About this time, Mom and J finished the salad and came to see what everyone was looking at. She screamed when she saw her "baby" had a butcher knife, and totally missed seeing me cut the last of the chicken. I triumphantly added the thigh to the pile on the table, just as Mom laid into Petrina for letting me grow up a bit.
That night, someone made sure I got the sorry, mutilated thigh for dinner.
Every Sunday, we had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa was born in Sicily, at the turn of the last Century. "Old Fashioned" doesn't even begin to describe him. He served in both World Wars, and was married twice. His first wife died in childbirth. Their son was stillborn. Grandma took cooking lessons from an old Sicilian woman, so she could prepare foods from his homeland. Every other day, she served Italian food, and Sunday was always spaghetti day. I ate spaghetti once a week for 13 years. I will never eat it again.
She would vary the meat to go with the spaghetti. One week we'd cut up 3-5 whole chickens, the next she'd make meatballs. When I was small, I shredded lettuce for the salad. As I grew, I progressed to cutting veggies, skinning tomatoes, and finally, butchering chickens. I'll never forget the day I cut up my first chicken. Grandpa had passed away by this time, so we were only disecting 4 birds. Aunt Petrina told Grandma I was old enough to help cut. They had a little argument, and then Petrina put a nice sharp butcher knife in my 9 year old hands.
I was delighted, but frightened at the same time. I'd seen how cleanly the knife sliced through the chicken. I'd seen how easily it went through the joint between the leg and thigh. And I'd seen numerous Aunts say, "Damn!" and rush off to bandage their hand, because the knife had slipped.
Petrina broke the shoulders of a chicken carcass and showed me where to start. I carefully cut out the wishbone, trying so hard not to crack it prematurely. I succeeded, only to break it as I tried to dislodge it from the breastbone. Petrina told me not to worry. It wasn't my fault. It was a "weak chicken". She said I'd probably need help with the legs too.
Doing the breasts and back were easy. The butcher knife slid right through the rib and back bones. It was easier than cutting cold butter. The legs, however, were a different matter. By the time I had gotten to that point, all the other chickens were done, and all 5 of my uncles were crowded in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching. I bent the "knee" of the bird over the knife blade, gave a good tug upwards and pop!, I had separated a leg from a thigh. Filled with triumph, I sliced off the other leg and went after the thigh.
If you've never cut up a chicken, let me tell you, there's a trick to removing the thighs. A trick which I didn't know at 9 years of age. You have to break the joint first. The knife wouldn't separate the joint. It slipped to one side, or slid to the other, and would not cut where it was supposed to. So, I sat at the kitchen table stubbornly sawing through the thigh bone. This stupid bird was not going to defeat me! I was totally engrossed in my work, and I didn't hear the smothered giggles of my Uncles at first. Aunt Petrina heard them, however; and she came to my rescue.
She said, "There's a faster way, honey." and picked up the chicken by the thighs. She held it up and gave a quick jerk with both hands, cleanly dislocating the joints. Well, dislocating the joint I hadn't been sawing away at, anyway. What was left of the other one wouldn't pop. I had mutiliated it too badly. She taught me how to wedge the knife between the joints properly, and press down to cut through it. About this time, Mom and J finished the salad and came to see what everyone was looking at. She screamed when she saw her "baby" had a butcher knife, and totally missed seeing me cut the last of the chicken. I triumphantly added the thigh to the pile on the table, just as Mom laid into Petrina for letting me grow up a bit.
That night, someone made sure I got the sorry, mutilated thigh for dinner.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Prison Tag
My 5th grade gym teacher taught us a game called "prison tag". The base form of the game is simple. Take a group of kids and split them into 2 teams. Team 1 are jailers, team 2 are prisoners. Everyone starts out standing in the designated jail space, then the prisoners "escape" while the jailers cover their eyes and count. When the count reaches 100, the jailers move out in pairs or groups to catch the escaped prisoners, leaving one person behind to guard the jail. If there's no guard, the prisoners are allowed to go free again. When a jailer touches a prisoner, they're caught, and must submit to being escorted back to jail. Once a prisoner is jailed, the only way out is to have a free prisoner pull him or her out of the designated jail space. When all escaped prisoners are caught, the teams switch sides and begin again. Simple!
When we became teenagers, my sister and I revived the game. The jail was our front porch. The play area was half a block, from the yellow line down the middle of California Ave. to the alley, and anywhere between Sidney street and the yellow brick Victorian house. There was no covering of the eyes, instead we marked 5 minutes on a watch. You were not allowed to climb trees, or go up on anyone's roof. Hiding in your house was also considered cheating.
The game was only played at night; when the white sodium streetlights cast nice, dark shadows. It was fun to hide, but it was even more fun to creep through the darkness, tingling with adrenaline, going quiet as a mouse as a seeker ran past you, or jumping out of your skin when you got caught. We became the masters of invisibility and stealth. I learned that with the proper shadows, you could hide in a 6 inch deep doorway. I learned to hide right out in the open, with jailers passing mere feet in front of me. Any patch of darkness would do, really. The trick was to quiet your presence.
As a jailer, I loved to startle the heck out of some kid in a near-trance of "I'm not here, you don't see me." I knew the best hiding spots, and I never failed to check them. We became so good at the game, that more often than not, we'd have to call a start-over after about 45 minutes. Kids would come creeping out of the strangest places to begin the next game. I remember when Joey had actually jammed himself up in the wheel well of a large car. He wasn't a big kid, but that was still impressive! Another favored hiding spot was the 10 inch space between my house and the bar next door. Kids would work their way almost to the roof, then start wriggling sideways toward the alley. We couldn't reach them to tag them, but they couldn't get out, either. Sometimes I'd hide in that same space, but I was smart. Everyone knew the climbing thing, so I'd get down on the ground instead. Nobody thought to look down, until I came out of there after "were starting over" was called. The gap between the buildings held decades of trash and several inches of compost. I guess it was disgusting. It never bothered me at the time.
Nobody wanted to be the kid left behind, so everyone joined in on shouting the all-clear. We were amazingly civil to each other. We all played by the rules, and there were no arguments. Prison Tag was so much fun, we played it 3 summers in a row.
My 5th grade gym teacher taught us a game called "prison tag". The base form of the game is simple. Take a group of kids and split them into 2 teams. Team 1 are jailers, team 2 are prisoners. Everyone starts out standing in the designated jail space, then the prisoners "escape" while the jailers cover their eyes and count. When the count reaches 100, the jailers move out in pairs or groups to catch the escaped prisoners, leaving one person behind to guard the jail. If there's no guard, the prisoners are allowed to go free again. When a jailer touches a prisoner, they're caught, and must submit to being escorted back to jail. Once a prisoner is jailed, the only way out is to have a free prisoner pull him or her out of the designated jail space. When all escaped prisoners are caught, the teams switch sides and begin again. Simple!
When we became teenagers, my sister and I revived the game. The jail was our front porch. The play area was half a block, from the yellow line down the middle of California Ave. to the alley, and anywhere between Sidney street and the yellow brick Victorian house. There was no covering of the eyes, instead we marked 5 minutes on a watch. You were not allowed to climb trees, or go up on anyone's roof. Hiding in your house was also considered cheating.
The game was only played at night; when the white sodium streetlights cast nice, dark shadows. It was fun to hide, but it was even more fun to creep through the darkness, tingling with adrenaline, going quiet as a mouse as a seeker ran past you, or jumping out of your skin when you got caught. We became the masters of invisibility and stealth. I learned that with the proper shadows, you could hide in a 6 inch deep doorway. I learned to hide right out in the open, with jailers passing mere feet in front of me. Any patch of darkness would do, really. The trick was to quiet your presence.
As a jailer, I loved to startle the heck out of some kid in a near-trance of "I'm not here, you don't see me." I knew the best hiding spots, and I never failed to check them. We became so good at the game, that more often than not, we'd have to call a start-over after about 45 minutes. Kids would come creeping out of the strangest places to begin the next game. I remember when Joey had actually jammed himself up in the wheel well of a large car. He wasn't a big kid, but that was still impressive! Another favored hiding spot was the 10 inch space between my house and the bar next door. Kids would work their way almost to the roof, then start wriggling sideways toward the alley. We couldn't reach them to tag them, but they couldn't get out, either. Sometimes I'd hide in that same space, but I was smart. Everyone knew the climbing thing, so I'd get down on the ground instead. Nobody thought to look down, until I came out of there after "were starting over" was called. The gap between the buildings held decades of trash and several inches of compost. I guess it was disgusting. It never bothered me at the time.
Nobody wanted to be the kid left behind, so everyone joined in on shouting the all-clear. We were amazingly civil to each other. We all played by the rules, and there were no arguments. Prison Tag was so much fun, we played it 3 summers in a row.
The Games We Played
We were really no different from children in better neighborhoods, in that we played games just like any other kid. The war games were a bit more intense, perhaps... and games played as teenagers were all about showing your strength and toughness... but we played like children around the world play. We rode our bikes and hung out at the park and did normal child like things. Then we got a little older, and started playing toughness games. I played jungle gym tag until I saw a boy take an 8 foot tumble and bust his head open. The park had 5 concrete sewer pipes in pretty pastel colors, laid out like a horseshoe with about 4 feet between each one. We would play tag on them. If your feet touched the ground you lost, and had to wait for the next game to begin. I got a lot of bruises that way. The city decided the tunnels were too dangerous, and had all but one of them removed. That would have been a big bummer, except they tore out a lot of other dangerous equipment at the same time and replaced it with brand new ways to kill ourselves. They built a structure out of what looked like giant railroad ties and steel bars. There were 3 layers of horizontal ladders connected by platforms. I think we were supposed to hang from the bars, but nobody did. We simply moved our tag game to the new site. The lowest rack was 6 feet off the ground, and they got progressively higher. We'd run along the 12 inch wide wooden tie, chasing the other kids and laughing like crazy. Some of the older children would run across the bars themselves. That was how I saw a kid crack his head open. He was running over the bars and his foot slipped. He fell backwards and smacked his back on the bars behind him. He kind of went limp and slipped through the bars. He tumbled a bit as he fell, and wound up hitting his head on the concrete below. We all stopped playing and stared at him. It took a bit before we saw that he was bleeding. Bright red blood was beginning to pool around his hair, and he wasn't moving. He must have knocked himself out. Nobody got down and helped him. We were all too afraid he was dead. We were speechless. He stirred, groaned, and in a flash his friends were around him helping him up. They half carried him home, and I never played tag on the monkey bars again.
We played street football, street frisbee and street soccer. We also played alleyball. To play alleyball you needed at least 2 people, something resembling a bat, something reasonably round and hard, and bases. Every Christmas, some kid would get a wiffle ball set. That would last for a month or so, and then we'd revert to using broomsticks, 2x4's or cast off pipes. Bases were easy, any rock or piece of trash would work. The number of bases varied depending on how much crap we could find in the alley. Likewise "balls" ranged from rocks to beach balls, depending upon what was available that day.
We were really no different from children in better neighborhoods, in that we played games just like any other kid. The war games were a bit more intense, perhaps... and games played as teenagers were all about showing your strength and toughness... but we played like children around the world play. We rode our bikes and hung out at the park and did normal child like things. Then we got a little older, and started playing toughness games. I played jungle gym tag until I saw a boy take an 8 foot tumble and bust his head open. The park had 5 concrete sewer pipes in pretty pastel colors, laid out like a horseshoe with about 4 feet between each one. We would play tag on them. If your feet touched the ground you lost, and had to wait for the next game to begin. I got a lot of bruises that way. The city decided the tunnels were too dangerous, and had all but one of them removed. That would have been a big bummer, except they tore out a lot of other dangerous equipment at the same time and replaced it with brand new ways to kill ourselves. They built a structure out of what looked like giant railroad ties and steel bars. There were 3 layers of horizontal ladders connected by platforms. I think we were supposed to hang from the bars, but nobody did. We simply moved our tag game to the new site. The lowest rack was 6 feet off the ground, and they got progressively higher. We'd run along the 12 inch wide wooden tie, chasing the other kids and laughing like crazy. Some of the older children would run across the bars themselves. That was how I saw a kid crack his head open. He was running over the bars and his foot slipped. He fell backwards and smacked his back on the bars behind him. He kind of went limp and slipped through the bars. He tumbled a bit as he fell, and wound up hitting his head on the concrete below. We all stopped playing and stared at him. It took a bit before we saw that he was bleeding. Bright red blood was beginning to pool around his hair, and he wasn't moving. He must have knocked himself out. Nobody got down and helped him. We were all too afraid he was dead. We were speechless. He stirred, groaned, and in a flash his friends were around him helping him up. They half carried him home, and I never played tag on the monkey bars again.
We played street football, street frisbee and street soccer. We also played alleyball. To play alleyball you needed at least 2 people, something resembling a bat, something reasonably round and hard, and bases. Every Christmas, some kid would get a wiffle ball set. That would last for a month or so, and then we'd revert to using broomsticks, 2x4's or cast off pipes. Bases were easy, any rock or piece of trash would work. The number of bases varied depending on how much crap we could find in the alley. Likewise "balls" ranged from rocks to beach balls, depending upon what was available that day.
Monday, September 29, 2003
A reposting of Wednesday is Dumpster Day with bright and shiny new editing
Every school morning, sis and I would leave the house and walk 3 blocks to Notre Dame Elementary, where we went to school. Every morning our route would take us past the place where men loaded their food trucks. My mom called them roach coaches, so I’d always look for roaches crawling over the ice in the bins. The men would offload expired packaged food, take on fresh packaged food, and head off for their routes to feed hungry construction workers. Most days, the men would give the expired food to the line of homeless people waiting in the alley.
Wednesday, however, was dumpster day. The manager would stand and watch while the food went from the trucks to the dumpster. He wouldn’t let the drivers give any of it away. He would try to shoo off the homeless people by yelling at them. “Get away from here! Get outta that dumpster! You're trespassing! I'm gonna call the cops!” He would yell.
In the summertime, we would see them camped out in the alley waiting for the manager to go off-shift, while all that food rotted in the sun. The waste always bothered me. There was a shift change at 11 o'clock, and the homeless people would help each other into the dumpster after the Wednesday manager had left. We could hear the hollow echo of their voices coming from the dumpster, "This samwitch looks ok." or "Shit, all this crap's rotten."
By noon, they would have faded away to wherever homeless people go; but we would see them again at night staking out their turf, or riding the California (avenue) bus, which ran up and down our street until 2 am.
My sister and I started taking a longer route to school on Wednesdays. We would walk up California to Lynch, instead of taking Sidney Street and passing the dumpster.
When we walked across Lynch, we would pass the dairy, and once in a while we would see a young guy quietly "forgetting" a crate of fresh milk sitting by their dumpster. A few times this same guy would give milk to the students heading to school. It was a rare treat to have something filling in the morning, and my sister and I were afraid to press our luck by walking past too often. We understood he was breaking the rules and risking his job to feed hungry kids whose parents were trying to give their children a decent education. A good education will take you a hell of a lot farther than a good meal, but there were a lot of nights where my mom said, "I'm not hungry, you girls eat up." to pay for the Catholic school I was fortunate enough to attend.
Every school morning, sis and I would leave the house and walk 3 blocks to Notre Dame Elementary, where we went to school. Every morning our route would take us past the place where men loaded their food trucks. My mom called them roach coaches, so I’d always look for roaches crawling over the ice in the bins. The men would offload expired packaged food, take on fresh packaged food, and head off for their routes to feed hungry construction workers. Most days, the men would give the expired food to the line of homeless people waiting in the alley.
Wednesday, however, was dumpster day. The manager would stand and watch while the food went from the trucks to the dumpster. He wouldn’t let the drivers give any of it away. He would try to shoo off the homeless people by yelling at them. “Get away from here! Get outta that dumpster! You're trespassing! I'm gonna call the cops!” He would yell.
In the summertime, we would see them camped out in the alley waiting for the manager to go off-shift, while all that food rotted in the sun. The waste always bothered me. There was a shift change at 11 o'clock, and the homeless people would help each other into the dumpster after the Wednesday manager had left. We could hear the hollow echo of their voices coming from the dumpster, "This samwitch looks ok." or "Shit, all this crap's rotten."
By noon, they would have faded away to wherever homeless people go; but we would see them again at night staking out their turf, or riding the California (avenue) bus, which ran up and down our street until 2 am.
My sister and I started taking a longer route to school on Wednesdays. We would walk up California to Lynch, instead of taking Sidney Street and passing the dumpster.
When we walked across Lynch, we would pass the dairy, and once in a while we would see a young guy quietly "forgetting" a crate of fresh milk sitting by their dumpster. A few times this same guy would give milk to the students heading to school. It was a rare treat to have something filling in the morning, and my sister and I were afraid to press our luck by walking past too often. We understood he was breaking the rules and risking his job to feed hungry kids whose parents were trying to give their children a decent education. A good education will take you a hell of a lot farther than a good meal, but there were a lot of nights where my mom said, "I'm not hungry, you girls eat up." to pay for the Catholic school I was fortunate enough to attend.
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Street Entertainers
My neighborhood held a nearly endless variety of entertainment. It was totally free. All you had to do was look out your window to see the amazing Hoosier show. You didn't need a barker, brightly colored posters, or even circus lights. A pair of ears was all that was necessary to alert you to the upcoming entertainment.
Monday was hangover day. The only exciting sights on Monday were arguments over parking spots, which didn't happen often. Pretty boring, all-in-all. I do, however, remember being late for school one Monday morning, because Mr. Brown's family had boxed me in...
My first car was a 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus (think Roadrunner without the neat-o hood scoops) It was painted blood red, and had push bumpers attached to the front and back of it. I used to joke about how I would loose it and push the slow drivers out of my way someday.
The night before, the bar had been particularly busy when I got home from work at 1:30 in the morning, so I had to park around the corner. I got up the next day to find that my car was boxed in. There was an old station wagon about 8 inches behind my car, and Mr. Brown's truck was maybe a foot in front of me. To make matters worse, he had crap loaded in the truck that extended out over the hood of my car. I saw that his junk had scratched my paint.
Oh, no... I don't think so! It's one thing to box me in, that means I'm gonna knock on your door and wake your ass up to move your piece of shit. You don't get that courtesy if you've disrespected my car and scratched the paint. I started up my 19 foot long, hemi 318 powered muscle car and gently backed into the station wagon behind me. My intent was to push it all the way into California Ave, and leave it there as a statement to not fuck with me. I gleefully imagined their surprise to see their station wagon tying up traffic. (heh, heh, heh)
and I did nothing but break their crappy plastic front grill.
Apparently, my bumper sat just high enough to slide over their bumper; and hit the grill instead. Not wanting to actually damage their vehicle, I drove forward to my original spot and got out of the car. I was livid. I tried moving the crap in the truck, so I could push it instead, but it was too heavy.
Nothing to do now but make a scene. I gently pulled their cracked grill off their radiator and slid it back into position, so it looked like nothing had happened to it, then I went and knocked on Mr. Brown's door. I stood there in my Catholic high school uniform feeling like a damned fool for having to beg them to move their car, yet hoping someone would see me so I wouldn't be all alone when I confronted the only black homeowner on the street. Nobody saw me, and Mr. Brown himself answered the door. I asked him politely if he could please move his station wagon or truck, since they were both blocking my way and I would be late for school, which would mean a demerit because Bishop Du Bourg High was very strict. I tried to look as helpless and good-girlish as possible, and even worked up some tears. Not hard to do when you're as mad as I was at the moment. I looked down at my school-spirit red loafers and got myself ready to have a screaming argument with him. The neighborhood Code said you argued for half an hour before driving off in a huff, or you treated your victim like a helpless child and moved your car while rolling your eyeballs at their stupidity for parking where they shouldn't have. I was hoping for the latter, so I could make it to school on time.
Instead of telling me off for parking in his section, he apologized profusely and sent his daughter to move the station wagon she had so rudely boxed me in with. I was so dumbfounded by this, that I forgot to yell at him for scratching my paint. Nevertheless, I was still late for school.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were drive like an idiot days. A favorite pastime was to stand in the middle of the street and wait for a friend to drive by so you could jump onto their car. One time K jumped a little too soon, and wound up clinging to the hood ornament and front bumper. We laughed like crazy as his pals circled the block several times, with him clinging to the front of the car like road kill. It was hilarious! They finally stopped and K said, "Dude, that wasn't funny! Couldn't you hear me yelling for you to stop?" Then he and the driver had a little fistfight while everybody else laughed at them both.
Other games were "how many Hoosiers can you fit in a car?" and "car surfing". If you've never been car surfing, here's how it works. Step 1: be a passenger in a car. Step 2: climb out of a window of the moving car. Step 3: Stand on the roof of the moving car yelling "Wooooooooooooo" and pretend to surf. Step 4: Let your girlfriend pick gravel and broken beer bottle glass out of your back while you talk about what a rush it was. You'd think my street would be spotless with all those fools picking up glass for us, but no... The drunks at the bar kept breaking more on the weekends.
Thursday was fix-your-car night. Everybody wanted to be ready for the weekend, so Thursdays saw popped hoods and greasy Levis all up and down the street. I think the goal was to get as dirty as possible, so you'd look like you'd done something productive. Us girls were allowed to hand them beer and stand around looking pretty. It was a mark of honor to have a greasy hand print on the butt of your jeans. It meant some guy who knew how to fix a car liked you.
Not that I ever saw most of them do more than change the oil, of course. When I got my own car I was tremendously popular, until I replaced the starter myself. Then the guys avoided me like the plague in public. In private, they'd park in the alley behind my house and "let" me fix the stuff they couldn't.
The weekend was reserved for fighting, of course. There was fighting at the Game Room, fighting at the bar and driving around looking for a fight. All were well lubricated with beer.
My neighborhood held a nearly endless variety of entertainment. It was totally free. All you had to do was look out your window to see the amazing Hoosier show. You didn't need a barker, brightly colored posters, or even circus lights. A pair of ears was all that was necessary to alert you to the upcoming entertainment.
Monday was hangover day. The only exciting sights on Monday were arguments over parking spots, which didn't happen often. Pretty boring, all-in-all. I do, however, remember being late for school one Monday morning, because Mr. Brown's family had boxed me in...
My first car was a 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus (think Roadrunner without the neat-o hood scoops) It was painted blood red, and had push bumpers attached to the front and back of it. I used to joke about how I would loose it and push the slow drivers out of my way someday.
The night before, the bar had been particularly busy when I got home from work at 1:30 in the morning, so I had to park around the corner. I got up the next day to find that my car was boxed in. There was an old station wagon about 8 inches behind my car, and Mr. Brown's truck was maybe a foot in front of me. To make matters worse, he had crap loaded in the truck that extended out over the hood of my car. I saw that his junk had scratched my paint.
Oh, no... I don't think so! It's one thing to box me in, that means I'm gonna knock on your door and wake your ass up to move your piece of shit. You don't get that courtesy if you've disrespected my car and scratched the paint. I started up my 19 foot long, hemi 318 powered muscle car and gently backed into the station wagon behind me. My intent was to push it all the way into California Ave, and leave it there as a statement to not fuck with me. I gleefully imagined their surprise to see their station wagon tying up traffic. (heh, heh, heh)
and I did nothing but break their crappy plastic front grill.
Apparently, my bumper sat just high enough to slide over their bumper; and hit the grill instead. Not wanting to actually damage their vehicle, I drove forward to my original spot and got out of the car. I was livid. I tried moving the crap in the truck, so I could push it instead, but it was too heavy.
Nothing to do now but make a scene. I gently pulled their cracked grill off their radiator and slid it back into position, so it looked like nothing had happened to it, then I went and knocked on Mr. Brown's door. I stood there in my Catholic high school uniform feeling like a damned fool for having to beg them to move their car, yet hoping someone would see me so I wouldn't be all alone when I confronted the only black homeowner on the street. Nobody saw me, and Mr. Brown himself answered the door. I asked him politely if he could please move his station wagon or truck, since they were both blocking my way and I would be late for school, which would mean a demerit because Bishop Du Bourg High was very strict. I tried to look as helpless and good-girlish as possible, and even worked up some tears. Not hard to do when you're as mad as I was at the moment. I looked down at my school-spirit red loafers and got myself ready to have a screaming argument with him. The neighborhood Code said you argued for half an hour before driving off in a huff, or you treated your victim like a helpless child and moved your car while rolling your eyeballs at their stupidity for parking where they shouldn't have. I was hoping for the latter, so I could make it to school on time.
Instead of telling me off for parking in his section, he apologized profusely and sent his daughter to move the station wagon she had so rudely boxed me in with. I was so dumbfounded by this, that I forgot to yell at him for scratching my paint. Nevertheless, I was still late for school.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were drive like an idiot days. A favorite pastime was to stand in the middle of the street and wait for a friend to drive by so you could jump onto their car. One time K jumped a little too soon, and wound up clinging to the hood ornament and front bumper. We laughed like crazy as his pals circled the block several times, with him clinging to the front of the car like road kill. It was hilarious! They finally stopped and K said, "Dude, that wasn't funny! Couldn't you hear me yelling for you to stop?" Then he and the driver had a little fistfight while everybody else laughed at them both.
Other games were "how many Hoosiers can you fit in a car?" and "car surfing". If you've never been car surfing, here's how it works. Step 1: be a passenger in a car. Step 2: climb out of a window of the moving car. Step 3: Stand on the roof of the moving car yelling "Wooooooooooooo" and pretend to surf. Step 4: Let your girlfriend pick gravel and broken beer bottle glass out of your back while you talk about what a rush it was. You'd think my street would be spotless with all those fools picking up glass for us, but no... The drunks at the bar kept breaking more on the weekends.
Thursday was fix-your-car night. Everybody wanted to be ready for the weekend, so Thursdays saw popped hoods and greasy Levis all up and down the street. I think the goal was to get as dirty as possible, so you'd look like you'd done something productive. Us girls were allowed to hand them beer and stand around looking pretty. It was a mark of honor to have a greasy hand print on the butt of your jeans. It meant some guy who knew how to fix a car liked you.
Not that I ever saw most of them do more than change the oil, of course. When I got my own car I was tremendously popular, until I replaced the starter myself. Then the guys avoided me like the plague in public. In private, they'd park in the alley behind my house and "let" me fix the stuff they couldn't.
The weekend was reserved for fighting, of course. There was fighting at the Game Room, fighting at the bar and driving around looking for a fight. All were well lubricated with beer.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
The California Bum
There was a homeless man who routinely slept at the bus stop near our home. He had a good spot. It was a building with a sheltered corner stoop. His area was a full 6 or 8 feet across, so he had room to stretch out if he wanted to. He had wild grey hair and a bushy grey beard. He always wore a military green overcoat, slacks and tennis shoes. He had a small bag with him at all times. He used it as a pillow, and I guess it held his spare clothes. The stench coming off of him was terrible. I never understood how someone could appear so content with such filth all over him. About once a month he'd catch a shower someplace. We could tell because his beard would be clean and he wouldn't stink for a while. Every morning he'd be over at the food trucks, scavenging expired edibles; and every night he'd be sleeping at the corner bus stop. Everyone called him the California Bum, and he had been a fixture in the neighborhood for more than 20 years.
He was one of the "safe" homeless, meaning he wouldn't talk to himself or attack anybody. He never did anything perverted, unlike some of the other bums in the area. I never saw neither alcohol nor drugs around him. He seemed sane and capable of working. It was a mystery as to why he was homeless.
Every once in a blue moon, my sister and I would make some toast with peanut butter and take it to him. We'd get up really early on a Saturday morning and sneak down to the bus stop with our gift wrapped in a paper towel. Feeding the bum was scary and exciting. We weren't suposed to go anywhere near the homeless, they were dangerous. We also didn't want anyone to see us. Being nice to a neighbor was fine, being nice to a bum marked you as a sucker. Getting caught would have opened us to all kinds of victimization from our neighbors. Yet another one of those unwritten rules we had to live by.
We fed him anyway. It was a way of thumbing our noses at the neighborhood. The California Bum was our local landmark, and we didn't want him to move away. As long as he was around, no other homeless person could sleep on his corner. It was important to keep a pervert-free space nearby.
I don't know how well I can convey the value the California Bum held for the neighborhood. We were proud of him. He was something that made us unique. Half the South Side knew about the California Bum. I had friends spend the night just so they could look at him. It was one of those things you'd treasure. "I saw the California Bum... I saw where he sleeps!" Had a lot more power than, "I saw him on the bus... he sat near me."
He disappeared for a month or so in '85. We were worried that our bum had died. A scraggly woman took over his spot, and she would scream at you if you got too close to her. She didn't mooch food at the trucks, she just kind of set up housekeeping at the sheltered corner. She rarely left it and her trash would spill out onto the sidewalk. Everybody resented her. That place belonged to the California Bum and no one else. She was an evil encroacher with no right to be there. The kids would fling trash at her, just to get her going. She'd yell and scream and threaten, but she wouldn't leave the corner. It made it easy for the neighborhood kids to victimize her.
I don't know how our bum got his spot back, but one morning he was sleeping out there again like nothing had happened. I wish I had been awake to see him kicking her off his turf.
There was a homeless man who routinely slept at the bus stop near our home. He had a good spot. It was a building with a sheltered corner stoop. His area was a full 6 or 8 feet across, so he had room to stretch out if he wanted to. He had wild grey hair and a bushy grey beard. He always wore a military green overcoat, slacks and tennis shoes. He had a small bag with him at all times. He used it as a pillow, and I guess it held his spare clothes. The stench coming off of him was terrible. I never understood how someone could appear so content with such filth all over him. About once a month he'd catch a shower someplace. We could tell because his beard would be clean and he wouldn't stink for a while. Every morning he'd be over at the food trucks, scavenging expired edibles; and every night he'd be sleeping at the corner bus stop. Everyone called him the California Bum, and he had been a fixture in the neighborhood for more than 20 years.
He was one of the "safe" homeless, meaning he wouldn't talk to himself or attack anybody. He never did anything perverted, unlike some of the other bums in the area. I never saw neither alcohol nor drugs around him. He seemed sane and capable of working. It was a mystery as to why he was homeless.
Every once in a blue moon, my sister and I would make some toast with peanut butter and take it to him. We'd get up really early on a Saturday morning and sneak down to the bus stop with our gift wrapped in a paper towel. Feeding the bum was scary and exciting. We weren't suposed to go anywhere near the homeless, they were dangerous. We also didn't want anyone to see us. Being nice to a neighbor was fine, being nice to a bum marked you as a sucker. Getting caught would have opened us to all kinds of victimization from our neighbors. Yet another one of those unwritten rules we had to live by.
We fed him anyway. It was a way of thumbing our noses at the neighborhood. The California Bum was our local landmark, and we didn't want him to move away. As long as he was around, no other homeless person could sleep on his corner. It was important to keep a pervert-free space nearby.
I don't know how well I can convey the value the California Bum held for the neighborhood. We were proud of him. He was something that made us unique. Half the South Side knew about the California Bum. I had friends spend the night just so they could look at him. It was one of those things you'd treasure. "I saw the California Bum... I saw where he sleeps!" Had a lot more power than, "I saw him on the bus... he sat near me."
He disappeared for a month or so in '85. We were worried that our bum had died. A scraggly woman took over his spot, and she would scream at you if you got too close to her. She didn't mooch food at the trucks, she just kind of set up housekeeping at the sheltered corner. She rarely left it and her trash would spill out onto the sidewalk. Everybody resented her. That place belonged to the California Bum and no one else. She was an evil encroacher with no right to be there. The kids would fling trash at her, just to get her going. She'd yell and scream and threaten, but she wouldn't leave the corner. It made it easy for the neighborhood kids to victimize her.
I don't know how our bum got his spot back, but one morning he was sleeping out there again like nothing had happened. I wish I had been awake to see him kicking her off his turf.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Christmas Downtown
Every December we would take the California bus downtown. Mom tried to take us on a day when it was snowing, because snow makes the trip complete. We would ride through gentle white flakes and get off at Locust street. The air was always crisp and refreshing after the stifling heat and smells of the bus. It was great to join the crowd walking around Famous Barr, looking at the window displays. Famous always had the best displays, with trains and teddy bears and lots of animatronics to catch the eye. It was always so magical to me, those bright lights and fake snow showing what Christmas was supposed to look like. Every window had a Christmas tree decorated to perfection. Every entrance had a bell-ringing Santa collecting for the Salvation Army. Mom let us put coins in each bucket we passed as we worked our way around the outside of the store.
There really is nothing to compare to walking in the freezing cold, being bumped, jostled and squeezed while you peer into a world of commercial fantasy. I never heard the bitter, exhausted parents and their whiny overstimulated children. I just blocked it out. I heard instead the Christmas music being played over loudspeakers and the perpetual ringing of those tiny silver handbells. "Cling cling... Thank you ma'am, God bless you." Everyone I noticed was polite and happy; doing charitable works in the spirit of Christmas.
Eventually we would be back where we started, so we'd go inside to see Santa and his Wonderland, which took up the entire 8th floor. Each year some toy maker would sponsor the Wonderland, so the theme would be all about their products. Mattel was great, Lego was awesome, but I think Ty had everyone beat for the all-out magic of Christmas award. Ty did their wonderland with stuffed animals and some of the most amazing animatronics I've seen outside of Disney World. They had sound baffles to deflect and dampen noise; so when you walked through a snowfall-in-the-forest scene, it was quiet enough to hear the motor for the snow machine. Tiny little speakers would project realistic animal sounds or the laughter of children, or whatever was appropriate to the scene you were passing through.
After the Wonderland, we would be shunted into a red hallway that twisted and turned as it led us around to Santa and the exit. I despised the red hallway. The overhead lighting was sucked up by the red fabric covering the walls, so everything seemed dim and bloody. I'd hear the children around me chattering about the long list of toys they wanted and kept my own mouth shut. Asking for things we couldn't afford would only make mom feel guilty. Instead, I'd focus on the grab bags mom bought from the lady in the box halfway through the red corridor.
I was one of those children who asks for the things Santa can't provide. The Christmas of '78, when mom was still working at the grocery store, I asked for a better job so she could buy a house. Then I told him that if the recession was too big, he could bring me a toy horse instead. In '79, I asked for toys for the kids who didn't have Christmas... (you know, the Jewish children) and maybe a toy horse if he had any left over.
Santa would give us a piece of candy and then we'd be out into the brightly lit toy department. We never bought toys from Famous Barr at Christmas. They were too expensive. My sister and I would walk past them pretending we didn't want any of the things they were selling. We would drag mom down to the candy department on the first floor and beg for some Rocky Road chocolate. We knew how much mom loved Rocky Road, and we wanted to reward her for taking us to see the Wonderland. Mom would buy a half pound, and then we'd catch a bus for home. It was one of the best parts of Christmas, and I regret that my son will never see those fabulous displays. Going to a mall just doesn't measure up.
Every December we would take the California bus downtown. Mom tried to take us on a day when it was snowing, because snow makes the trip complete. We would ride through gentle white flakes and get off at Locust street. The air was always crisp and refreshing after the stifling heat and smells of the bus. It was great to join the crowd walking around Famous Barr, looking at the window displays. Famous always had the best displays, with trains and teddy bears and lots of animatronics to catch the eye. It was always so magical to me, those bright lights and fake snow showing what Christmas was supposed to look like. Every window had a Christmas tree decorated to perfection. Every entrance had a bell-ringing Santa collecting for the Salvation Army. Mom let us put coins in each bucket we passed as we worked our way around the outside of the store.
There really is nothing to compare to walking in the freezing cold, being bumped, jostled and squeezed while you peer into a world of commercial fantasy. I never heard the bitter, exhausted parents and their whiny overstimulated children. I just blocked it out. I heard instead the Christmas music being played over loudspeakers and the perpetual ringing of those tiny silver handbells. "Cling cling... Thank you ma'am, God bless you." Everyone I noticed was polite and happy; doing charitable works in the spirit of Christmas.
Eventually we would be back where we started, so we'd go inside to see Santa and his Wonderland, which took up the entire 8th floor. Each year some toy maker would sponsor the Wonderland, so the theme would be all about their products. Mattel was great, Lego was awesome, but I think Ty had everyone beat for the all-out magic of Christmas award. Ty did their wonderland with stuffed animals and some of the most amazing animatronics I've seen outside of Disney World. They had sound baffles to deflect and dampen noise; so when you walked through a snowfall-in-the-forest scene, it was quiet enough to hear the motor for the snow machine. Tiny little speakers would project realistic animal sounds or the laughter of children, or whatever was appropriate to the scene you were passing through.
After the Wonderland, we would be shunted into a red hallway that twisted and turned as it led us around to Santa and the exit. I despised the red hallway. The overhead lighting was sucked up by the red fabric covering the walls, so everything seemed dim and bloody. I'd hear the children around me chattering about the long list of toys they wanted and kept my own mouth shut. Asking for things we couldn't afford would only make mom feel guilty. Instead, I'd focus on the grab bags mom bought from the lady in the box halfway through the red corridor.
I was one of those children who asks for the things Santa can't provide. The Christmas of '78, when mom was still working at the grocery store, I asked for a better job so she could buy a house. Then I told him that if the recession was too big, he could bring me a toy horse instead. In '79, I asked for toys for the kids who didn't have Christmas... (you know, the Jewish children) and maybe a toy horse if he had any left over.
Santa would give us a piece of candy and then we'd be out into the brightly lit toy department. We never bought toys from Famous Barr at Christmas. They were too expensive. My sister and I would walk past them pretending we didn't want any of the things they were selling. We would drag mom down to the candy department on the first floor and beg for some Rocky Road chocolate. We knew how much mom loved Rocky Road, and we wanted to reward her for taking us to see the Wonderland. Mom would buy a half pound, and then we'd catch a bus for home. It was one of the best parts of Christmas, and I regret that my son will never see those fabulous displays. Going to a mall just doesn't measure up.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Crossing The Street
Once upon a time, we lived in a 2 family apartment that faced the bar. We stayed there until the woman who owned the property passed away. Her daughter inherited the place, and decided she didn't want to rent to pet owners anymore. This posed quite a problem since my family included a dog, a parakeet and several hamsters. Our new landlady gave us 30 days to find a new place. My sister and I promptly took on extra baby sitting jobs, and when that didn't look like it would be enough money we had a yard sale. We stripped our toy collection to the bare minimum. I even gave up several of my Breyer horses to raise some "moving money".
It is a strange thing to have people picking through your possessions, looking for a bargain. Everything was "make an offer", but we didn't sell very much. Mom came home early and caught us. She was so mad. She made us take everything back inside, then sat us down for a lecture. Mom rarely spanked us, and believe me, there were times I wished for a spanking. At least it would be over with quickly, instead of having to be part of a half hour long guilt session. The end result of this lecture was that we were forbidden to sell or trade any of the things she had worked so hard for. We were not allowed to do any work for anything but college money, and we were not allowed to beg money off of our friends. We had injured her pride, and now she wouldn't even let us help.
My sister and I figured that was it, we'd be homeless. While mom was looking for a new place, J and I thought up ways to keep our textbooks dry or searched the neighborhood for a good location not already in use by the homeless. Now, when my mom sets her mind to something; nothing stands in her way. The upstairs apartment next to the bar was going to be available in about a month and a half. Mom tracked down the landlord and somehow convinced him to let us move in earlier. She borrowed $400 from my grandma and we moved across the street in one day. It wasn't really that hard. Mom had 7 siblings, so we had a constant line of people moving stuff across California Avenue. We must have made quite a picture, because we drew a crowd. One of my uncles would carry a heavy piece of furniture all by himself, and the crowd would cheer. My sister and I would carry an overloaded box without spilling anything, and get applause. We even got some audience participation in the form of car spotters and neighbors bringing us cups of water. My family was probably the most entertaining thing they had seen all year.
That night, for the first time in my life, I slept in my own room.
Once upon a time, we lived in a 2 family apartment that faced the bar. We stayed there until the woman who owned the property passed away. Her daughter inherited the place, and decided she didn't want to rent to pet owners anymore. This posed quite a problem since my family included a dog, a parakeet and several hamsters. Our new landlady gave us 30 days to find a new place. My sister and I promptly took on extra baby sitting jobs, and when that didn't look like it would be enough money we had a yard sale. We stripped our toy collection to the bare minimum. I even gave up several of my Breyer horses to raise some "moving money".
It is a strange thing to have people picking through your possessions, looking for a bargain. Everything was "make an offer", but we didn't sell very much. Mom came home early and caught us. She was so mad. She made us take everything back inside, then sat us down for a lecture. Mom rarely spanked us, and believe me, there were times I wished for a spanking. At least it would be over with quickly, instead of having to be part of a half hour long guilt session. The end result of this lecture was that we were forbidden to sell or trade any of the things she had worked so hard for. We were not allowed to do any work for anything but college money, and we were not allowed to beg money off of our friends. We had injured her pride, and now she wouldn't even let us help.
My sister and I figured that was it, we'd be homeless. While mom was looking for a new place, J and I thought up ways to keep our textbooks dry or searched the neighborhood for a good location not already in use by the homeless. Now, when my mom sets her mind to something; nothing stands in her way. The upstairs apartment next to the bar was going to be available in about a month and a half. Mom tracked down the landlord and somehow convinced him to let us move in earlier. She borrowed $400 from my grandma and we moved across the street in one day. It wasn't really that hard. Mom had 7 siblings, so we had a constant line of people moving stuff across California Avenue. We must have made quite a picture, because we drew a crowd. One of my uncles would carry a heavy piece of furniture all by himself, and the crowd would cheer. My sister and I would carry an overloaded box without spilling anything, and get applause. We even got some audience participation in the form of car spotters and neighbors bringing us cups of water. My family was probably the most entertaining thing they had seen all year.
That night, for the first time in my life, I slept in my own room.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Fighting
Violence was part of life for me. I saw it daily, and learned that the human body can take a lot of damage before it gives out on a person. I never wanted to inflict that kind of harm on my neighbors, and sometimes it gets thrown in your face. When faced with a fight or flight situation, my response has always been to stare it down. The first real fight I got into was with my best friend, Carol. If you've been reading this, then you already know that Carol hits like a freight train. This story is about how I found that out.
Carol had introduced me to the concept of skipping school. One day we were supposed to skip school together and hang out at the park. I "accidentally" missed my bus, and waited for my friend to come knocking on my door. She never knocked. Around about noon, I was thoroughly pissed; so I wrote her a note and stuck it in her door. Now here's the thing... My mom would never read a note addressed to me, and I assumed that Carol's parents wouldn't either. It never occurred to me that her parents had less than perfect trust in their youngest daughter. So her mom read the note, of course. In my house, this would result in a lecture, and perhaps some grounding. In Carol's house, this meant her dad came home from work early, and was waiting at the front door with the belt. Needless to say, Carol wanted revenge for getting her ass whipped.
I knew nothing of this when mom sent us out to buy a tub of margarine. My sister and I always shopped together, there was safety in numbers. We headed off to the store with a handful of change, and I did not notice Carol lurking on her front steps. The first I knew of any conflict was when she ran up and shoved me from behind. That was Carol to a T. She always struck from behind. She got in my face and started yelling at me because her dad had beaten her ass for skipping school. Idiot me says, "How did he find out?" I was stunned to hear that her mom had actually opened the note.
I told her that we were going to the store, and I'd talk to her after I got back. I also told her that I was sorry she'd gotten a beating. She left, and I thought the matter was over.
We had the store in our sights when Carol came back. She had half the neighborhood kids with her. Shit! Shitshitshit! We dashed into the store, bought the margarine, and then had a discussion about what to do. We couldn't run all the way home; running only makes it worse. We couldn't stay in the store until they all went away, and the pay phone was outside, so we couldn't call for help. I finally decided I'd have to fight her, and probably get the shit kicked out of me. This was gonna suck. I told my sister to take the "butter" home to mom, hoping that my mom would rescue me before I'd lost any teeth. J staunchly refused to leave my side. She said, "I'll help you get home when it's over".
J and I left the store and walked past the waiting throng like they didn't exist. Southside fighting follows a rigid pattern, and we had a chance -although slight- that we'd make it home before the pattern had played out. First is the intimidation phase. The victim walks along while the crowd tells them how bad their beating is going to be. The aggressor says nothing, they let the mob get their 2 cents in. Next the aggressor explains to the victim why they're about to get their ass kicked. This is how you justify the impending bloodshed, and make sure that your audience stays on your side. I had tattled on her, thus breaking our friendship. An ass-kicking was the only way to right the situation. Once everyone is in agreement that a fight should take place, the aggressor shoves her victim. The victim should either shove back or plead their case to try and convert some of the crowd to their side. Then came posing and knuckle cracking, and more threats. The shoving, talking, posing cycle could take 15 or 20 minutes, which was plenty of time for me to make it home; only I didn't play by the rules.
I got half a block from the store, and stopped walking. My sister was pulling on my arm, trying to get me to keep going, but I was full of righteous anger and nothing was going to budge me. I was sick of feeling afraid, sick of the intimidation talk and full of cold, red-headed rage. I said. "Carol. I didn't mean to get you in trouble, and if you feel you need to beat me up because your daddy gave you a whipping then go ahead and try."
I had thrown her off her stride. I wasn't following the pattern. I stared at her and she at me. She didn't know how to proceed. Finally I rolled my eyes and turned to walk home again. She shoved me into the wall. I pushed off the wall and stared up into her face, waiting to see if I'd have to fight yet, or listen to her crack her knuckles. She said, "I'm gonna kick your ass." and raised her fists in a classic pugilist's stance. Before I could think she had hit me. One, two! My lip was bleeding and my right cheekbone was on fire. She paused to see what I would do. She knew I'd never been in a fight before, not a real one at least. Everything around her turned red, and I could see brilliant glowing targets on her body. Places where hitting would do the most damage. A part of me was revelling in the power of my anger, the rest of me was cold and numb. I tried to punch her in the throat. I was playing for keeps. She blocked it, so I raked my fingernails down her breasts and grabbed her by her low cut shirt. I was going for a headbutt, but she was taller than me so my forehead bounced off her teeth instead. We broke apart for a second, and I saw how wide her eyes had gotten. Good! I hope I left scars! She hit me in the face again, but I didn't feel it. I know I was smiling when I kicked her knee. I remember landing a good one in her stomach, but everything gets blurry after that. The red faded after a while, and I realized she was banging my head into the wall. I thought that it should hurt, and wondered why it didn't. Then I pushed her away and started walking home again like nothing had happened.
I was done. I wasn't afraid anymore, and I didn't want to fight my best friend. I just wanted to go home.
She pushed me from behind, and screamed, "Fight me!"
I said, "No."
She pushed me again, and I just kept walking. She pushed me a third tims and I turned around and said, "You got your fight. I'm going home." I stood there waiting to see if she was going to hit me some more, and when she went into posing mode I walked away. A few seconds later she ran up and hit me from behind again, so I turned around and said, "Do I have to walk backwards to keep you from hitting me?"
I was putting action to my words, walking backwards as I spoke. The mood of the mob began to shift. Suddenly, someone in the crowd said, "You leave her alone! You guys is supposed to be friends!" Relief washed over me, and tears started to run down my face. I kept talking as I was moving. "You won't hit me to my face. You have to hit me when my back is turned. Whyn't you face me? You gotta hit me from behind. Some friend you are. I can't believe I have to walk home backwards because you're too cowardly to hit me to my face."
I don't have the slightest idea where all this came from. Clearly she was not afraid to hit me. She already had, repeatedly. Yet for some reason she couldn't hit me anymore. I wasn't trying to taunt her into another fight, but I was trying to punish her for fighting me in the first place. I don't know why, but this swayed the opinion of the kids around us and suddenly Carol was in the wrong for wanting to beat me up.
Some of the kids went home, and the rest split into 2 groups. One berating Carol for fighting, the other telling me how cool I was. To this day, I don't get it. We travelled the rest of the way home unmolested. I was told to go ahead and walk forward, because they'd be watching my back.
When we got home, mom freaked. She took me into the bathroom and washed my split lip with peroxide, then she taught me how to fight. I'll never forget my good, christian mom telling me to fight dirty if I had to fight at all.
Violence was part of life for me. I saw it daily, and learned that the human body can take a lot of damage before it gives out on a person. I never wanted to inflict that kind of harm on my neighbors, and sometimes it gets thrown in your face. When faced with a fight or flight situation, my response has always been to stare it down. The first real fight I got into was with my best friend, Carol. If you've been reading this, then you already know that Carol hits like a freight train. This story is about how I found that out.
Carol had introduced me to the concept of skipping school. One day we were supposed to skip school together and hang out at the park. I "accidentally" missed my bus, and waited for my friend to come knocking on my door. She never knocked. Around about noon, I was thoroughly pissed; so I wrote her a note and stuck it in her door. Now here's the thing... My mom would never read a note addressed to me, and I assumed that Carol's parents wouldn't either. It never occurred to me that her parents had less than perfect trust in their youngest daughter. So her mom read the note, of course. In my house, this would result in a lecture, and perhaps some grounding. In Carol's house, this meant her dad came home from work early, and was waiting at the front door with the belt. Needless to say, Carol wanted revenge for getting her ass whipped.
I knew nothing of this when mom sent us out to buy a tub of margarine. My sister and I always shopped together, there was safety in numbers. We headed off to the store with a handful of change, and I did not notice Carol lurking on her front steps. The first I knew of any conflict was when she ran up and shoved me from behind. That was Carol to a T. She always struck from behind. She got in my face and started yelling at me because her dad had beaten her ass for skipping school. Idiot me says, "How did he find out?" I was stunned to hear that her mom had actually opened the note.
I told her that we were going to the store, and I'd talk to her after I got back. I also told her that I was sorry she'd gotten a beating. She left, and I thought the matter was over.
We had the store in our sights when Carol came back. She had half the neighborhood kids with her. Shit! Shitshitshit! We dashed into the store, bought the margarine, and then had a discussion about what to do. We couldn't run all the way home; running only makes it worse. We couldn't stay in the store until they all went away, and the pay phone was outside, so we couldn't call for help. I finally decided I'd have to fight her, and probably get the shit kicked out of me. This was gonna suck. I told my sister to take the "butter" home to mom, hoping that my mom would rescue me before I'd lost any teeth. J staunchly refused to leave my side. She said, "I'll help you get home when it's over".
J and I left the store and walked past the waiting throng like they didn't exist. Southside fighting follows a rigid pattern, and we had a chance -although slight- that we'd make it home before the pattern had played out. First is the intimidation phase. The victim walks along while the crowd tells them how bad their beating is going to be. The aggressor says nothing, they let the mob get their 2 cents in. Next the aggressor explains to the victim why they're about to get their ass kicked. This is how you justify the impending bloodshed, and make sure that your audience stays on your side. I had tattled on her, thus breaking our friendship. An ass-kicking was the only way to right the situation. Once everyone is in agreement that a fight should take place, the aggressor shoves her victim. The victim should either shove back or plead their case to try and convert some of the crowd to their side. Then came posing and knuckle cracking, and more threats. The shoving, talking, posing cycle could take 15 or 20 minutes, which was plenty of time for me to make it home; only I didn't play by the rules.
I got half a block from the store, and stopped walking. My sister was pulling on my arm, trying to get me to keep going, but I was full of righteous anger and nothing was going to budge me. I was sick of feeling afraid, sick of the intimidation talk and full of cold, red-headed rage. I said. "Carol. I didn't mean to get you in trouble, and if you feel you need to beat me up because your daddy gave you a whipping then go ahead and try."
I had thrown her off her stride. I wasn't following the pattern. I stared at her and she at me. She didn't know how to proceed. Finally I rolled my eyes and turned to walk home again. She shoved me into the wall. I pushed off the wall and stared up into her face, waiting to see if I'd have to fight yet, or listen to her crack her knuckles. She said, "I'm gonna kick your ass." and raised her fists in a classic pugilist's stance. Before I could think she had hit me. One, two! My lip was bleeding and my right cheekbone was on fire. She paused to see what I would do. She knew I'd never been in a fight before, not a real one at least. Everything around her turned red, and I could see brilliant glowing targets on her body. Places where hitting would do the most damage. A part of me was revelling in the power of my anger, the rest of me was cold and numb. I tried to punch her in the throat. I was playing for keeps. She blocked it, so I raked my fingernails down her breasts and grabbed her by her low cut shirt. I was going for a headbutt, but she was taller than me so my forehead bounced off her teeth instead. We broke apart for a second, and I saw how wide her eyes had gotten. Good! I hope I left scars! She hit me in the face again, but I didn't feel it. I know I was smiling when I kicked her knee. I remember landing a good one in her stomach, but everything gets blurry after that. The red faded after a while, and I realized she was banging my head into the wall. I thought that it should hurt, and wondered why it didn't. Then I pushed her away and started walking home again like nothing had happened.
I was done. I wasn't afraid anymore, and I didn't want to fight my best friend. I just wanted to go home.
She pushed me from behind, and screamed, "Fight me!"
I said, "No."
She pushed me again, and I just kept walking. She pushed me a third tims and I turned around and said, "You got your fight. I'm going home." I stood there waiting to see if she was going to hit me some more, and when she went into posing mode I walked away. A few seconds later she ran up and hit me from behind again, so I turned around and said, "Do I have to walk backwards to keep you from hitting me?"
I was putting action to my words, walking backwards as I spoke. The mood of the mob began to shift. Suddenly, someone in the crowd said, "You leave her alone! You guys is supposed to be friends!" Relief washed over me, and tears started to run down my face. I kept talking as I was moving. "You won't hit me to my face. You have to hit me when my back is turned. Whyn't you face me? You gotta hit me from behind. Some friend you are. I can't believe I have to walk home backwards because you're too cowardly to hit me to my face."
I don't have the slightest idea where all this came from. Clearly she was not afraid to hit me. She already had, repeatedly. Yet for some reason she couldn't hit me anymore. I wasn't trying to taunt her into another fight, but I was trying to punish her for fighting me in the first place. I don't know why, but this swayed the opinion of the kids around us and suddenly Carol was in the wrong for wanting to beat me up.
Some of the kids went home, and the rest split into 2 groups. One berating Carol for fighting, the other telling me how cool I was. To this day, I don't get it. We travelled the rest of the way home unmolested. I was told to go ahead and walk forward, because they'd be watching my back.
When we got home, mom freaked. She took me into the bathroom and washed my split lip with peroxide, then she taught me how to fight. I'll never forget my good, christian mom telling me to fight dirty if I had to fight at all.
Why You Shouldn't Skip School or How I Lost My Virginity
It was a good day to cut school. The sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky. The air was warm, but not muggy. Being in a river valley, St. Louis tends to have air thick enough to swim in. I decided to walk to N's bus stop instead of mine that day. If I got out of the house early enough, I'd take her bus. I got to walk past run-down victorian homes with huge windows and cute little turrets. I would always imagine living in one of those architectural wonders someday. I had dreams of buying a whole block, and returning them to their original state. I was a 15 year old kid, so functional obsolescence was not a part of my vocabulary.
I met N at her bus stop, and she was deep in conversation with another friend. T had a new boyfriend, but she wasn't sure she could trust him, so she was looking for someone to check him out for her. N and I happily volunteered for the job. Everyone in my neighborhood had skipped school at least once to spend the day with a friends' boyfriend or girlfriend. This was called "checking them out". It was a way to keep your friends from getting involved with someone not worthy of them. Never mind that you were putting your own self at risk. You checked out their dates, and they checked out yours. It was part of the South Side Code.
We hid behind some bushes when the bus came, then wandered around looking for something to do until N's mom left for work. When the coast was clear we headed to her house. N lived in a section 8 townhome, and if we weren't great friends I would have been jealous. Her mom paid $64 a month for a thousand square feet of sheer luxury. They had 2 bathrooms and own washer and dryer! We made breakfast, watched some tv and then headed out to the boyfriend's place. Along the way we ran into Joyce. She had actually graduated high school, and I idolized her for her common sense and maturity. She decided to come along with us. She thought it was a bad idea for two adolescent girls to go to a strange boys apartment.
G lived over by Roosevelt High, so we had to walk across several grassy medians to get there. I always look at the grass when I walk across it, and I spotted a four leaf clover. I stopped, and thought about picking it, then decided to let it be. Perhaps the mutation would spread, and the next spring would see a whole median of four leaf clovers.
G invited us in and offered us beer. N and Joyce each had one, while G and I opted for wine coolers. He was hispanic, that was a surprise. We didn't usually date other races, but, to each her own. His hair was thick and glossy, and he seemed reasonably fit. So far, so good. The apartment was cleanish, I didn't see too many roaches... he even rolled a joint for us. Pot smoking was one of those ways you could get acquainted with someone. I took a puff every time it was passed to me, even though I didn't care for the effects. Joyce was doing it, so it must be ok. I thought. I was already tipsy, and now I was stoned on top of it. Joyce and I went to sit in the living room, while N stayed to chat with G in the kitchen.
Some time later, I went looking for them and found them smootching in his bedroom. That was unacceptable! You don't kiss on your friend's boyfriend! I knew N was drunk and stoned, and therefore she couldn't be held responsible for her behavior. I broke them up saying, "Hey, why don't you guys come into the living room. Or do you expect us to entertain ourselves?" I pretended not to notice her smeared lipstick or flustered appearance. She dragged me into the bathroom and thanked me for stopping her. She didn't want to lose her virginity to this guy, and she was afraid she would have. we left the bathroom and found G kissing on Joyce! N said "Huh uh! You're supposed to be dating T!" and dragged him by his hair off of her. We decided it was time to go home. G decided to tag along. I don't know why we let him, but we did.
We headed back to N's house, me drinking wine coolers the whole way. They were so tasty! We chatted as we walked, all of us acting like nothing had happened. The conversation turned to sex, and I stated that I was a virgin. I was saving myself for the right time. I chattered on about how I would know when the time came, and that I hoped I wouldn't be stupid enough to lose it to some guy at a party. I guess G took that for an invitation.
When we got to N's, she went upstairs to plug in her curling iron so we could fix our hair. I decided to sit downstairs with Joyce. I wasn't about to leave her alone with this guy. I thoroughly distrusted him at this point, so I played watchdog while N did her hair. She returned, freshly moussed and curled, and I turned the guard duty over to her. I just wanted to get away from him. I went upstairs to N's bedroom, and started curling my bangs. G came up the stairs and stood in her doorway. I felt like a trapped rabbit. I said, "Excuse me." and tried to squeeze past him. He pressed me against the door jamb and kissed me. I shoved him away and went into the bathroom, and he followed me. "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!" I thought. I was not stuck in an even smaller space than before. Something clicked in my head and I started poking him in the chest while berating him for his attitude. The poking caused him to back off, but he was blocking the stairs, so I returned to N's room. My plan was to lock the door and wait him out. I wasn't fast enough. He was in the room and closing the door before I could react. I sized him up, and decided I could get to the door and scream before anything happened. I'd look like a fool, but I wouldn't be trapped anymore. It was a fair trade.
I grabbed the door handle and he spun me around and pinned me to the door. I went to shove my knee in his balls, but it didn't work. He stuck his tongue down my throat and pulled down my jeans. God he was quick. I didn't know what to do. My usually agile mind was blank. I pushed on his chest and said, "No!" The next thing I knew, I was falling toward the floor with him on top of me. I thought, "Oh, God. He's going to rape me." He was still french kissing me, so I bit his tongue as hard as I could. He pulled back, and I thought for a second that he'd go away, then I saw that he was going to punch me for biting him.
Visions of other rape victims flashed through my head. I saw their brutally beaten faces, and heard some anchor man saying, "Most victims of rape are brutally beaten for resisting." And I froze. I just kind of dropped into shock and didn't move as he penetrated me. I was stuck in my head, thinking odd random thoughts while he did his thing. I wondered where my underpants had gone to. I considered the rug-burn I was getting on my back, butt and thighs. I worried that N would see the blood from my broken hymen on her carpet, and tried to imagine cleaning it up before she saw. I replayed the whole day in my mind. Seeing points where I could have stopped this in little flash-clips of memory.
...If I had taken the bus...If N's mom left for work late...If I had picked that 4 leaf clover... Then he was done, and kindly re-buttoning my jeans. He smiled and offered me a hand up off the floor. He said, "That was great, wasn't it?" then, "How do you feel?" I got up and said, "You raped me, how am I supposed to feel?" He at least had the decency to blush. He said, "I didn't rape you." And I replied, "Yes. You did." There was an uncomfortable pause, then I stated, "I told you no. You didn't listen. I bit your tongue and you raped me." He responded with, "I pulled out before I came, so you don't have to worry about getting pregnant." I coldly thought how ironic it was that I had gone on the pill a month and a half earlier, because one day I'd want to give my virginity to my boyfriend, and I wanted nothing to stand in my way.
I wasn't angry, I wasn't weepy, I was just numb. I looked for something good in the situation. Mom taught me that every bad has a good to go with it. She also taught me to be polite under any circumstances. I searched and searched, and found only one thing. I said to him, "Thank you. Now it won't hurt when I have sex with someone I love." After that he left the room, and I went back to curling my hair. I needed to finish curling my hair. I needed to look normal. I needed to wake up and feel something. When my hair was done, and I couldn't stall any longer, I went downstairs. That bastard was still there. I was 15, I was skipping school, and I'd been drinking. I couldn't go to the police. If they don't jump out of the bushes at you, is it still rape? I knew in my heart that it was, but would the cops see it that way? I felt displaced. My friends sat there having normal conversation with my rapist, and they didn't know what had just happened. There was no sign that I had just shed the last piece of my childhood.
I sat on the arm of the sofa, feeling a squishy bruised wetness in my vagina. Nobody had ever told me that sex was wet. I wondered where all the wetness had come from. It didn't feel like a period, it felt like slug slime. I watched my friends joke and laugh, and joined in while silently wishing G would just leave already. He stayed for an hour and a half. I kept debating whether it was rape or just sex-I-didn't-want-to-have. I wanted to laugh out loud because I had thanked him, but it wasn't funny. Nothing was funny.
When he finally went home, N said to me, "Well? What did you think of him?" I said, "He raped me."
Joyce stared, and N laughed one short bark of laughter. I just looked at her as the truth dawned on her. Her eyes grew round and she said, "Oh my God, you're serious." Then I cried. I told them the whole story, crying the whole time. N scavenged up some vodka while Joyce held me and let me cry it out.
They walked me home in silence. The sky was still a beautiful bright blue, the air was still pleasantly warm without a trace of humidity. The world around me was still the same, but I could finally see how run down and crappy my neighborhood was. There were no more gemstones in the gutters, only broken glass. The setting sun didn't light up the buildings with it's rosy glow, it made them bloody. I wanted it to hurt, and I still felt nothing. The sun was too bright because my pupils were dilated from shock.
It took a couple of weeks for me to get back to normal. The shock wore off after a few days, but I still needed to put the event in it's place in my head. I told my boyfriend what had happened about 3 weeks afterward. He broke up with me. My friends called him up and told him what kind of scum he was, so he came back and told me he would "forgive me". Excuse me? Forgive me for what? Going into shock? His arrogance really helped snap me back to myself. I had a choice. I could mourn 15 minutes of my life forever, or I could get over it. I chose to get over it.
For those of you who've been there, you know that's not as easy as it sounds. I acted like I'd gotten over it, until I finally had. I had flashbacks for years. A look, or a scent or a texture would send me back; and I would lash out at my partner, then cry all over him. For a while, I let myself flash back. I used it as a litmus test for my boyfriends. If they responded appropriately, I'd keep them a while. If they weren't understanding, I'd ditch them. All that ended when I befriended JW. He heard the story from his girlfriend, and pumped me for information. JW actually found G. He told me he knew where the bastard was, and asked me what kind of revenge would be appropriate. Oh, yeah! I'd been planning this one for 3 years!!! I listed the tortures I had imagined for him. JW said that could be arranged, and he would even pay for it. It wasn't right, a great girl like me getting raped. Then he said, "Of course...They'd have to kill him afterwards. They can't do all that stuff and let him go."
I recoiled from the thought. How could I ask for his death, when I not only lived -but thrived? Nope. It was time to give up my desire for vengance. Although there's a secret part of me that still hopes a truckload of men anally violate him some bright sunny day.
It was a good day to cut school. The sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky. The air was warm, but not muggy. Being in a river valley, St. Louis tends to have air thick enough to swim in. I decided to walk to N's bus stop instead of mine that day. If I got out of the house early enough, I'd take her bus. I got to walk past run-down victorian homes with huge windows and cute little turrets. I would always imagine living in one of those architectural wonders someday. I had dreams of buying a whole block, and returning them to their original state. I was a 15 year old kid, so functional obsolescence was not a part of my vocabulary.
I met N at her bus stop, and she was deep in conversation with another friend. T had a new boyfriend, but she wasn't sure she could trust him, so she was looking for someone to check him out for her. N and I happily volunteered for the job. Everyone in my neighborhood had skipped school at least once to spend the day with a friends' boyfriend or girlfriend. This was called "checking them out". It was a way to keep your friends from getting involved with someone not worthy of them. Never mind that you were putting your own self at risk. You checked out their dates, and they checked out yours. It was part of the South Side Code.
We hid behind some bushes when the bus came, then wandered around looking for something to do until N's mom left for work. When the coast was clear we headed to her house. N lived in a section 8 townhome, and if we weren't great friends I would have been jealous. Her mom paid $64 a month for a thousand square feet of sheer luxury. They had 2 bathrooms and own washer and dryer! We made breakfast, watched some tv and then headed out to the boyfriend's place. Along the way we ran into Joyce. She had actually graduated high school, and I idolized her for her common sense and maturity. She decided to come along with us. She thought it was a bad idea for two adolescent girls to go to a strange boys apartment.
G lived over by Roosevelt High, so we had to walk across several grassy medians to get there. I always look at the grass when I walk across it, and I spotted a four leaf clover. I stopped, and thought about picking it, then decided to let it be. Perhaps the mutation would spread, and the next spring would see a whole median of four leaf clovers.
G invited us in and offered us beer. N and Joyce each had one, while G and I opted for wine coolers. He was hispanic, that was a surprise. We didn't usually date other races, but, to each her own. His hair was thick and glossy, and he seemed reasonably fit. So far, so good. The apartment was cleanish, I didn't see too many roaches... he even rolled a joint for us. Pot smoking was one of those ways you could get acquainted with someone. I took a puff every time it was passed to me, even though I didn't care for the effects. Joyce was doing it, so it must be ok. I thought. I was already tipsy, and now I was stoned on top of it. Joyce and I went to sit in the living room, while N stayed to chat with G in the kitchen.
Some time later, I went looking for them and found them smootching in his bedroom. That was unacceptable! You don't kiss on your friend's boyfriend! I knew N was drunk and stoned, and therefore she couldn't be held responsible for her behavior. I broke them up saying, "Hey, why don't you guys come into the living room. Or do you expect us to entertain ourselves?" I pretended not to notice her smeared lipstick or flustered appearance. She dragged me into the bathroom and thanked me for stopping her. She didn't want to lose her virginity to this guy, and she was afraid she would have. we left the bathroom and found G kissing on Joyce! N said "Huh uh! You're supposed to be dating T!" and dragged him by his hair off of her. We decided it was time to go home. G decided to tag along. I don't know why we let him, but we did.
We headed back to N's house, me drinking wine coolers the whole way. They were so tasty! We chatted as we walked, all of us acting like nothing had happened. The conversation turned to sex, and I stated that I was a virgin. I was saving myself for the right time. I chattered on about how I would know when the time came, and that I hoped I wouldn't be stupid enough to lose it to some guy at a party. I guess G took that for an invitation.
When we got to N's, she went upstairs to plug in her curling iron so we could fix our hair. I decided to sit downstairs with Joyce. I wasn't about to leave her alone with this guy. I thoroughly distrusted him at this point, so I played watchdog while N did her hair. She returned, freshly moussed and curled, and I turned the guard duty over to her. I just wanted to get away from him. I went upstairs to N's bedroom, and started curling my bangs. G came up the stairs and stood in her doorway. I felt like a trapped rabbit. I said, "Excuse me." and tried to squeeze past him. He pressed me against the door jamb and kissed me. I shoved him away and went into the bathroom, and he followed me. "Smooth move, Ex-Lax!" I thought. I was not stuck in an even smaller space than before. Something clicked in my head and I started poking him in the chest while berating him for his attitude. The poking caused him to back off, but he was blocking the stairs, so I returned to N's room. My plan was to lock the door and wait him out. I wasn't fast enough. He was in the room and closing the door before I could react. I sized him up, and decided I could get to the door and scream before anything happened. I'd look like a fool, but I wouldn't be trapped anymore. It was a fair trade.
I grabbed the door handle and he spun me around and pinned me to the door. I went to shove my knee in his balls, but it didn't work. He stuck his tongue down my throat and pulled down my jeans. God he was quick. I didn't know what to do. My usually agile mind was blank. I pushed on his chest and said, "No!" The next thing I knew, I was falling toward the floor with him on top of me. I thought, "Oh, God. He's going to rape me." He was still french kissing me, so I bit his tongue as hard as I could. He pulled back, and I thought for a second that he'd go away, then I saw that he was going to punch me for biting him.
Visions of other rape victims flashed through my head. I saw their brutally beaten faces, and heard some anchor man saying, "Most victims of rape are brutally beaten for resisting." And I froze. I just kind of dropped into shock and didn't move as he penetrated me. I was stuck in my head, thinking odd random thoughts while he did his thing. I wondered where my underpants had gone to. I considered the rug-burn I was getting on my back, butt and thighs. I worried that N would see the blood from my broken hymen on her carpet, and tried to imagine cleaning it up before she saw. I replayed the whole day in my mind. Seeing points where I could have stopped this in little flash-clips of memory.
...If I had taken the bus...If N's mom left for work late...If I had picked that 4 leaf clover... Then he was done, and kindly re-buttoning my jeans. He smiled and offered me a hand up off the floor. He said, "That was great, wasn't it?" then, "How do you feel?" I got up and said, "You raped me, how am I supposed to feel?" He at least had the decency to blush. He said, "I didn't rape you." And I replied, "Yes. You did." There was an uncomfortable pause, then I stated, "I told you no. You didn't listen. I bit your tongue and you raped me." He responded with, "I pulled out before I came, so you don't have to worry about getting pregnant." I coldly thought how ironic it was that I had gone on the pill a month and a half earlier, because one day I'd want to give my virginity to my boyfriend, and I wanted nothing to stand in my way.
I wasn't angry, I wasn't weepy, I was just numb. I looked for something good in the situation. Mom taught me that every bad has a good to go with it. She also taught me to be polite under any circumstances. I searched and searched, and found only one thing. I said to him, "Thank you. Now it won't hurt when I have sex with someone I love." After that he left the room, and I went back to curling my hair. I needed to finish curling my hair. I needed to look normal. I needed to wake up and feel something. When my hair was done, and I couldn't stall any longer, I went downstairs. That bastard was still there. I was 15, I was skipping school, and I'd been drinking. I couldn't go to the police. If they don't jump out of the bushes at you, is it still rape? I knew in my heart that it was, but would the cops see it that way? I felt displaced. My friends sat there having normal conversation with my rapist, and they didn't know what had just happened. There was no sign that I had just shed the last piece of my childhood.
I sat on the arm of the sofa, feeling a squishy bruised wetness in my vagina. Nobody had ever told me that sex was wet. I wondered where all the wetness had come from. It didn't feel like a period, it felt like slug slime. I watched my friends joke and laugh, and joined in while silently wishing G would just leave already. He stayed for an hour and a half. I kept debating whether it was rape or just sex-I-didn't-want-to-have. I wanted to laugh out loud because I had thanked him, but it wasn't funny. Nothing was funny.
When he finally went home, N said to me, "Well? What did you think of him?" I said, "He raped me."
Joyce stared, and N laughed one short bark of laughter. I just looked at her as the truth dawned on her. Her eyes grew round and she said, "Oh my God, you're serious." Then I cried. I told them the whole story, crying the whole time. N scavenged up some vodka while Joyce held me and let me cry it out.
They walked me home in silence. The sky was still a beautiful bright blue, the air was still pleasantly warm without a trace of humidity. The world around me was still the same, but I could finally see how run down and crappy my neighborhood was. There were no more gemstones in the gutters, only broken glass. The setting sun didn't light up the buildings with it's rosy glow, it made them bloody. I wanted it to hurt, and I still felt nothing. The sun was too bright because my pupils were dilated from shock.
It took a couple of weeks for me to get back to normal. The shock wore off after a few days, but I still needed to put the event in it's place in my head. I told my boyfriend what had happened about 3 weeks afterward. He broke up with me. My friends called him up and told him what kind of scum he was, so he came back and told me he would "forgive me". Excuse me? Forgive me for what? Going into shock? His arrogance really helped snap me back to myself. I had a choice. I could mourn 15 minutes of my life forever, or I could get over it. I chose to get over it.
For those of you who've been there, you know that's not as easy as it sounds. I acted like I'd gotten over it, until I finally had. I had flashbacks for years. A look, or a scent or a texture would send me back; and I would lash out at my partner, then cry all over him. For a while, I let myself flash back. I used it as a litmus test for my boyfriends. If they responded appropriately, I'd keep them a while. If they weren't understanding, I'd ditch them. All that ended when I befriended JW. He heard the story from his girlfriend, and pumped me for information. JW actually found G. He told me he knew where the bastard was, and asked me what kind of revenge would be appropriate. Oh, yeah! I'd been planning this one for 3 years!!! I listed the tortures I had imagined for him. JW said that could be arranged, and he would even pay for it. It wasn't right, a great girl like me getting raped. Then he said, "Of course...They'd have to kill him afterwards. They can't do all that stuff and let him go."
I recoiled from the thought. How could I ask for his death, when I not only lived -but thrived? Nope. It was time to give up my desire for vengance. Although there's a secret part of me that still hopes a truckload of men anally violate him some bright sunny day.
Saturday, September 06, 2003
Apologies to my readers -and thank you for reading me! I hope you understand that these tales come to me in chunks. Sometimes it's hard to look back on my past, sometimes it's easy.
In the interrim, here's a joke I found recently...
How can you tell when a redhead has been using your computer?
There's a hammer stuck in the monitor.
In the interrim, here's a joke I found recently...
How can you tell when a redhead has been using your computer?
There's a hammer stuck in the monitor.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
surreal moments (non-neighborhood story)
There are moments in my life when I know something is a bad idea, but I'm swept into doing it anyway. When this happens the world seems dark and surreal to me. This story is about one of those times. It's not related to my neighborhood, just a thing that happened to me. It's been sitting in the back of my head since I wrote "The Price of a Good Education".
We moved onto California Avenue when I was in the third grade. It was the first year girls were allowed to wear slacks during winter. The uniform pants were brown polyester, not comfy, but warmer than a skirt. I'm glad mom couldn't afford the more expensive wool ones because what happened was, I needed to go to the bathroom. My teacher gave me a hall pass to go potty, and when I stepped into the hallway I saw Mikey, who had also gotten a potty pass. He wasn't in the bathroom like he should be, he was swinging on his locker door. This was just bizarre. The hall was unusually quiet. I could hear the standard classroom noises, and I could hear Mikey's door squeak, but the air felt very still. It was alot like the feeling before a storm, when the area around you seems to be just waiting. I felt disconnected from the rest of the school. It was just me and the row of lockers, and Mikey didn't seem to fit the picture. He wasn't supposed to be there.
The hallway was dim. The school only turned on the hall lights when they absolutely had to. I really needed to go to the bathroom, but I thought, "I should get my books out of my locker first, it will make it easier when school lets out." (which was in about 15 minutes)
So, instead of going to the bathroom like a good little girl, I went to my locker. As I passed Mikey, I said, "You shouldn't be doing that. You'll get in trouble." He ignored me and continued swinging back and forth on his locker door. I opened my locker, and started rummaging in my book bag. I was really bothered by Mikey swinging on that door. Creak, creak... it wasn't right. I couldn't get my mind around him being there. He was moving the whole row of lockers with his stupid swinging, and it was hard to get my book bag out because of the motion.
I felt my back get all prickly, then suddenly I stood up and turned to walk away from the lockers. I wasn't even thinking, just moving. As I was rising, my eyes noticed the lockers leaning toward me. I tried to pivot and wind up in the open space as I realized the entire row of lockers was coming down on top of me. I sort of made it. I wound up with my upper body and head inside my locker, the rest was being weighed down my a lot of steel. Something was digging into the middle of my spine, and it hurt to breathe. On top of all that, I had the indignity of laying in a puddle of my own urine. (ew) I imagined Mikey stuck in his locker, like I was stuck in mine. I hoped he had made it all the way in; but if he hadn't, at least he was taking some of the weight off my back.
I called out, "Mikey? Are you in your locker?"
He said, "No, just my arm."
I waited for him to ask me if I was hurt, but he didn't ask. He started calling for help, and I just laid there trying to breathe. People came out in the hallway, and someone ran for Father Ross. I started thinking everybody would laugh when they pulled me out and saw all the pee. I willed my polyester pants to soak some of it up, but polyester isn't really absorbent. I couldn't feel my legs very well anymore, and I heard Mikey say, "Sharon's under there." So then they were afraid to move the lockers, and started shooing kids back to class.
Presently, I heard my teacher calling softly, "Sharon? Sharon? Where are you?"
I replied, "I'm in my locker."
She asked, "Are you hurt?"
So I said, "Yes. I can't move my legs, and there's something on my back. Could you get these lockers off me?"
I was scared, and trying not to cry. I thought maybe if I was super-nice and used my please and thank you's they would take these horribly heavy lockers off of me, so I added, "Please?"
She said, "We can't do that, Father Ross is getting help."
I started crying and said, "I'd really like to get out of my locker. It hurts."
Nobody had anything to say to that, then the bell rang for dismissal. I had been stuck for 15 minutes. It seemed like forever, but it also seemed like no time at all. I listened to the children being herded out the door, and wondered if they could smell my pee as they passed. I could sure smell it! I focused on their passage, and thought about the bright sunny day waiting for me. I imagined myself playing at the park. I used those images to calm myself down. Crying didn't do me any good, and it made my back hurt worse than ever. It had gone from a generally squished feeling to a small stabbing pain in my spine. Fr. Ross came back with a bunch of 8th graders, and the lockers shifted for a moment. Mikey had been crying on and off, but now that his arm was freed, he was fine. My teacher said, "Were getting you out next. Are you stuck anywhere?"
I said "I'm stuck under the lockers!"
I know she meant "is some part of you going to get hurt worse if we move these things" and I know I meant "no! now get them off me!" But that's not what either of us said. Father Ross counted to three, then he and five 8th grade boys lifted the lockers and pushed them against the wall. The hallway air never seemed so fresh! They all stared at me, and when I lifted my head to look around they told me not to move. Then the adults debated whether to move me or not. I had a back injury, it could be broken. They couldn't move me, but they couldn't leave me laying there, either. I thought perhaps we should wait for the ambulance, and said so. I don't even know if they heard me. I felt like a particularly difficult engineering problem, not a person. They finally decided the best way to do it would be to roll me onto my back and carry me by my arms and legs. My teacher fussed around the boys, telling them to be careful with me. One of them grabbed my forearms, the other my ankles; they carried me slung between them like a hammock. Every step they took hurt.
I looked back at the puddle of pee I had left, and wondered who would clean it up. Then I looked at the boy holding my ankles. He was trying to be careful, but not get his hands wet. I said to him, "I'm sorry." He replied, "I hope you're ok."
They laid me down in the back seat of Father Ross' car, and he drove me to Cardinal Glennon Hospital. I asked a lot of questions on the way there. "Why did the lockers fall down? Does my mom know? Is Mikey ok? Do you think I'll be ok? I think I'm ok. Did you ever get hurt like this?" and so on. Mom met me at the hospital, she was very calm while we waited for X-rays and such. Nothing was broken. I had bruised my back pretty badly, tho. They thought the thing I felt digging into my back was the handle of the locker next to mine.
There are moments in my life when I know something is a bad idea, but I'm swept into doing it anyway. When this happens the world seems dark and surreal to me. This story is about one of those times. It's not related to my neighborhood, just a thing that happened to me. It's been sitting in the back of my head since I wrote "The Price of a Good Education".
We moved onto California Avenue when I was in the third grade. It was the first year girls were allowed to wear slacks during winter. The uniform pants were brown polyester, not comfy, but warmer than a skirt. I'm glad mom couldn't afford the more expensive wool ones because what happened was, I needed to go to the bathroom. My teacher gave me a hall pass to go potty, and when I stepped into the hallway I saw Mikey, who had also gotten a potty pass. He wasn't in the bathroom like he should be, he was swinging on his locker door. This was just bizarre. The hall was unusually quiet. I could hear the standard classroom noises, and I could hear Mikey's door squeak, but the air felt very still. It was alot like the feeling before a storm, when the area around you seems to be just waiting. I felt disconnected from the rest of the school. It was just me and the row of lockers, and Mikey didn't seem to fit the picture. He wasn't supposed to be there.
The hallway was dim. The school only turned on the hall lights when they absolutely had to. I really needed to go to the bathroom, but I thought, "I should get my books out of my locker first, it will make it easier when school lets out." (which was in about 15 minutes)
So, instead of going to the bathroom like a good little girl, I went to my locker. As I passed Mikey, I said, "You shouldn't be doing that. You'll get in trouble." He ignored me and continued swinging back and forth on his locker door. I opened my locker, and started rummaging in my book bag. I was really bothered by Mikey swinging on that door. Creak, creak... it wasn't right. I couldn't get my mind around him being there. He was moving the whole row of lockers with his stupid swinging, and it was hard to get my book bag out because of the motion.
I felt my back get all prickly, then suddenly I stood up and turned to walk away from the lockers. I wasn't even thinking, just moving. As I was rising, my eyes noticed the lockers leaning toward me. I tried to pivot and wind up in the open space as I realized the entire row of lockers was coming down on top of me. I sort of made it. I wound up with my upper body and head inside my locker, the rest was being weighed down my a lot of steel. Something was digging into the middle of my spine, and it hurt to breathe. On top of all that, I had the indignity of laying in a puddle of my own urine. (ew) I imagined Mikey stuck in his locker, like I was stuck in mine. I hoped he had made it all the way in; but if he hadn't, at least he was taking some of the weight off my back.
I called out, "Mikey? Are you in your locker?"
He said, "No, just my arm."
I waited for him to ask me if I was hurt, but he didn't ask. He started calling for help, and I just laid there trying to breathe. People came out in the hallway, and someone ran for Father Ross. I started thinking everybody would laugh when they pulled me out and saw all the pee. I willed my polyester pants to soak some of it up, but polyester isn't really absorbent. I couldn't feel my legs very well anymore, and I heard Mikey say, "Sharon's under there." So then they were afraid to move the lockers, and started shooing kids back to class.
Presently, I heard my teacher calling softly, "Sharon? Sharon? Where are you?"
I replied, "I'm in my locker."
She asked, "Are you hurt?"
So I said, "Yes. I can't move my legs, and there's something on my back. Could you get these lockers off me?"
I was scared, and trying not to cry. I thought maybe if I was super-nice and used my please and thank you's they would take these horribly heavy lockers off of me, so I added, "Please?"
She said, "We can't do that, Father Ross is getting help."
I started crying and said, "I'd really like to get out of my locker. It hurts."
Nobody had anything to say to that, then the bell rang for dismissal. I had been stuck for 15 minutes. It seemed like forever, but it also seemed like no time at all. I listened to the children being herded out the door, and wondered if they could smell my pee as they passed. I could sure smell it! I focused on their passage, and thought about the bright sunny day waiting for me. I imagined myself playing at the park. I used those images to calm myself down. Crying didn't do me any good, and it made my back hurt worse than ever. It had gone from a generally squished feeling to a small stabbing pain in my spine. Fr. Ross came back with a bunch of 8th graders, and the lockers shifted for a moment. Mikey had been crying on and off, but now that his arm was freed, he was fine. My teacher said, "Were getting you out next. Are you stuck anywhere?"
I said "I'm stuck under the lockers!"
I know she meant "is some part of you going to get hurt worse if we move these things" and I know I meant "no! now get them off me!" But that's not what either of us said. Father Ross counted to three, then he and five 8th grade boys lifted the lockers and pushed them against the wall. The hallway air never seemed so fresh! They all stared at me, and when I lifted my head to look around they told me not to move. Then the adults debated whether to move me or not. I had a back injury, it could be broken. They couldn't move me, but they couldn't leave me laying there, either. I thought perhaps we should wait for the ambulance, and said so. I don't even know if they heard me. I felt like a particularly difficult engineering problem, not a person. They finally decided the best way to do it would be to roll me onto my back and carry me by my arms and legs. My teacher fussed around the boys, telling them to be careful with me. One of them grabbed my forearms, the other my ankles; they carried me slung between them like a hammock. Every step they took hurt.
I looked back at the puddle of pee I had left, and wondered who would clean it up. Then I looked at the boy holding my ankles. He was trying to be careful, but not get his hands wet. I said to him, "I'm sorry." He replied, "I hope you're ok."
They laid me down in the back seat of Father Ross' car, and he drove me to Cardinal Glennon Hospital. I asked a lot of questions on the way there. "Why did the lockers fall down? Does my mom know? Is Mikey ok? Do you think I'll be ok? I think I'm ok. Did you ever get hurt like this?" and so on. Mom met me at the hospital, she was very calm while we waited for X-rays and such. Nothing was broken. I had bruised my back pretty badly, tho. They thought the thing I felt digging into my back was the handle of the locker next to mine.
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