Hide-n-Seek
Kick the Can
Green Ghost
Tag
Freeze Tag
TV Tag
Red Light Green Light
Statue
Two Square
Hopscotch
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
It's a God Thing
There are so many memories, but so few of my Dad. And one vivid one of my Father. My dad left when I was 4 and by then his diseases had taken him over. The bipolar disorder, alcoholism and his childhood had formed this man into someone who was almost never pleasant to be around. But there were those times when a father’s instinct came through.
In 1964 I was 3 years old and as Mad Men has shown us, most of the adults in America smoked. My mom and dad included. We were living in a rented house on York Street in Capital Hill. It was an old red brick two story home, bedrooms and bath upstairs; it had a brick front porch and a small wooden back one. If you go to look for it now you won’t find it. It was torn down years ago and like a lot of older homes in Capital Hill, was replaced by an apartment building. But for part of 1964 it was home to my mom, dad, brother, 2 of my sisters and me.
Dad smoked Pall Malls, no filter. A man’s cigarette if there ever was one. I don’t really remember what mom smoked then but later it was Kools, then Benson and Hedges menthol. That was the brand she stayed with until she was diagnosed with emphysema. In 1964 there must have been an ashtray in every room of every house in America because smoking was a continual thing then, and for someone like my dad, already an addictive type, he always had one. Sitting, standing, walking, driving, reading, watching TV. Always.
One winter night in 1964, at the house on York Street, my dad was in the upstairs hallway, leaning against the doorjamb of my brother’s bedroom. He was casually propped there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette down by his side. I was upstairs too and for some reason, probably for no reason other than I was 3, running. I turned the corner of the hallway; in what I am sure to this day was the fastest any three year old took a corner, right into dad’s lit cigarette. Not only did I run into his lit cigarette, I collided into it with my open eye.
I don’t really remember much of what immediately followed, but my dad’s parental nature kicked in and he rushed to get “the baby” help. I do I remember being outside looking down as if floating above the back porch. I hear the screen door slam open and from above I see dad starting down the wooden steps heading to the car, carrying me wrapped in a blanket. I hear my mother’s voice calling out that I wasn’t wearing shoes. As he reached the car my dad calls back that it doesn’t matter he will be carrying me, my mother rushes out hurrying to catch up with us.
There is a vague memory of sitting in the Doctors office and of getting an eye patch. And a very clear memory of getting a candy cane. Not a little cane shaped one that hangs on a tree. No this was one of those big ones that is like a little club in my tiny hand. I forget about my eye patch and two thoughts go through my mind as the doctor gives it to me. One, it was already late, how would I finish it before having to go to bed? Two, my siblings would be jealous. My parents take me home, I never need my shoes.
Years later I learn that I have an unrelated eye condition which causes my eyes to fatigue and the weaker one to no longer focus correctly, when this happens I see double. I have been wearing prescription glasses as treatment for 20 years now. When visiting a neurologist three years ago, he asked how long I had this eye condition. I told him since childhood. He looked shocked and told me I was lucky I wasn’t blind. Apparently when you have this condition as a child your brain is not developed enough to understand the double vision and will try to correct it, but it can’t. Eventually the brain will stop allowing information from either eye and you are blind. He told me the treatment in childhood is to wear an eye patch over the weak eye to stop it from getting tired, and then confusing the brain.
I ran into that cigarette with my weaker eye.
And my father carried me.
I am not blind in that eye because the scar is over my iris.
And my Father carried me.
I wore an eye patch over my weaker eye.
And my father carried me.
I am not completely blind today because I ran into a lit cigarette when I was three.....and my Father carried me.
I believe that everything happens for a reason.
Sometimes you get to know why, and sometimes you don’t.
But why or not, here is the one thing I do know, a God Thing when I see it.
In 1964 I was 3 years old and as Mad Men has shown us, most of the adults in America smoked. My mom and dad included. We were living in a rented house on York Street in Capital Hill. It was an old red brick two story home, bedrooms and bath upstairs; it had a brick front porch and a small wooden back one. If you go to look for it now you won’t find it. It was torn down years ago and like a lot of older homes in Capital Hill, was replaced by an apartment building. But for part of 1964 it was home to my mom, dad, brother, 2 of my sisters and me.
Dad smoked Pall Malls, no filter. A man’s cigarette if there ever was one. I don’t really remember what mom smoked then but later it was Kools, then Benson and Hedges menthol. That was the brand she stayed with until she was diagnosed with emphysema. In 1964 there must have been an ashtray in every room of every house in America because smoking was a continual thing then, and for someone like my dad, already an addictive type, he always had one. Sitting, standing, walking, driving, reading, watching TV. Always.
One winter night in 1964, at the house on York Street, my dad was in the upstairs hallway, leaning against the doorjamb of my brother’s bedroom. He was casually propped there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette down by his side. I was upstairs too and for some reason, probably for no reason other than I was 3, running. I turned the corner of the hallway; in what I am sure to this day was the fastest any three year old took a corner, right into dad’s lit cigarette. Not only did I run into his lit cigarette, I collided into it with my open eye.
I don’t really remember much of what immediately followed, but my dad’s parental nature kicked in and he rushed to get “the baby” help. I do I remember being outside looking down as if floating above the back porch. I hear the screen door slam open and from above I see dad starting down the wooden steps heading to the car, carrying me wrapped in a blanket. I hear my mother’s voice calling out that I wasn’t wearing shoes. As he reached the car my dad calls back that it doesn’t matter he will be carrying me, my mother rushes out hurrying to catch up with us.
There is a vague memory of sitting in the Doctors office and of getting an eye patch. And a very clear memory of getting a candy cane. Not a little cane shaped one that hangs on a tree. No this was one of those big ones that is like a little club in my tiny hand. I forget about my eye patch and two thoughts go through my mind as the doctor gives it to me. One, it was already late, how would I finish it before having to go to bed? Two, my siblings would be jealous. My parents take me home, I never need my shoes.
Years later I learn that I have an unrelated eye condition which causes my eyes to fatigue and the weaker one to no longer focus correctly, when this happens I see double. I have been wearing prescription glasses as treatment for 20 years now. When visiting a neurologist three years ago, he asked how long I had this eye condition. I told him since childhood. He looked shocked and told me I was lucky I wasn’t blind. Apparently when you have this condition as a child your brain is not developed enough to understand the double vision and will try to correct it, but it can’t. Eventually the brain will stop allowing information from either eye and you are blind. He told me the treatment in childhood is to wear an eye patch over the weak eye to stop it from getting tired, and then confusing the brain.
I ran into that cigarette with my weaker eye.
And my father carried me.
I am not blind in that eye because the scar is over my iris.
And my Father carried me.
I wore an eye patch over my weaker eye.
And my father carried me.
I am not completely blind today because I ran into a lit cigarette when I was three.....and my Father carried me.
I believe that everything happens for a reason.
Sometimes you get to know why, and sometimes you don’t.
But why or not, here is the one thing I do know, a God Thing when I see it.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Toys I had while growing up...
Silly Putty
Lincoln Logs
Hot Wheels
Legos
Paper Dolls
Mr Potato Head
Gumby
Play-Doh
Troll Dolls
Marbles
Etch a Sketch
Squirt Gun
Clackers
Slinky
Jacks
Matchbox Cars
Jump Rope
Lincoln Logs
Hot Wheels
Legos
Paper Dolls
Mr Potato Head
Gumby
Play-Doh
Troll Dolls
Marbles
Etch a Sketch
Squirt Gun
Clackers
Slinky
Jacks
Matchbox Cars
Jump Rope
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
It's what I don't remember
Post-traumatic stress disorder: An anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma.
Dissociation: Partial or complete disruption of the normal integration of a person’s conscious or psychological functioning. Dissociation can be a response to trauma …[it] allows the mind to distance itself from experiences that are too much for the psyche to process at that time.
These are the words that define my childhood.
These are two of the obstacles that challenge me because of my childhood.
These are two definitions that explain so much and so little at the same time.
Memories. So subjective.
Multiple witnesses to the same event can remember entirely different things.
What I remember, what I know, is looking down a long hallway. It is night, I am in my nightgown, and I am alone in the dark hallway. On one side of the hall, a little behind me is my sisters’ bedroom, the door is open and the lights are out. On the other side of the hall a little ahead of me is my brother’s room, the door closed. I don’t see either room though; I am looking down the hall into the living room.
The light is on. I can see the side of the console TV, an end table with a lamp on it, part of the couch, and my father beating my mother. I don’t hear a thing. No sound at all. I am shaking; I don’t know what to do. Of course at 4 years old there is really nothing I can do. I realize I am crying, I don’t hear that either but that is because I am not making a sound, just quietly crying. He stops hitting her; and starts choking her. Her arm flails and knocks the lamp off the table. I hear the glass break.
The next thing I remember is being in bed with my sister 13 year old sister CAS, pressed up against her back, shaking from all the adrenaline pumping through my little body. That is all I remember of that night. I don’t remember the police coming; I don’t remember my father being arrested.
Years later I am talking to CAS about that night. Her memory is different than mine. I am surprised she has a memory at all; I thought she slept through it.
She is standing in the same dark hallway; she sees the same room I do, the same furniture, the same violence. The noise brought her from her bed, but she doesn’t remember me standing there though clearly she is behind me. She sees dad choking mom. She sees mom’s hand knock the lamp over. Then she screams. She realizes immediately that this was a mistake and runs and gets back in bed. Alone. Our mom comes in and tells her “Your father wants to see you.” CAS goes into the living room and my father tells her “You wanted to see this, now watch.” He then starts hitting mom again. CAS remembers the police coming, she remembers dad being arrested.
So what I remembered, what I had know, is not entirely complete, or correct. I was not against CAS’s back like I remember, but by 9 year old sister TJS’. This is a shock to me. For some reason more shocking than not remembering CAS being in the hall or screaming. It shocks me because I do remember being in her bed, underneath the covers, face against her back, trembling. But now I remember the wall behind my back as well. And I am on my right side. And this is not possible in CAS’ bed. If I am on my right side with a wall behind me than I am on the other side of the room; in the other bed, against TJS’s back. I remember it so clearly now. CAS' memory has triggered mine.
However to this day, I do not remember CAS being in the hallway or her scream. It must have been that scream that got me out of the hall. I do not remember mom coming in the bedroom even though I was there. No, I still don’t remember any of it, even after hearing about it. No triggering for them. Those memories must have never made it to my psyche.
Memory is funny, it can protect you; ironically by making you forget.
Dissociation: Partial or complete disruption of the normal integration of a person’s conscious or psychological functioning. Dissociation can be a response to trauma …[it] allows the mind to distance itself from experiences that are too much for the psyche to process at that time.
These are the words that define my childhood.
These are two of the obstacles that challenge me because of my childhood.
These are two definitions that explain so much and so little at the same time.
Memories. So subjective.
Multiple witnesses to the same event can remember entirely different things.
What I remember, what I know, is looking down a long hallway. It is night, I am in my nightgown, and I am alone in the dark hallway. On one side of the hall, a little behind me is my sisters’ bedroom, the door is open and the lights are out. On the other side of the hall a little ahead of me is my brother’s room, the door closed. I don’t see either room though; I am looking down the hall into the living room.
The light is on. I can see the side of the console TV, an end table with a lamp on it, part of the couch, and my father beating my mother. I don’t hear a thing. No sound at all. I am shaking; I don’t know what to do. Of course at 4 years old there is really nothing I can do. I realize I am crying, I don’t hear that either but that is because I am not making a sound, just quietly crying. He stops hitting her; and starts choking her. Her arm flails and knocks the lamp off the table. I hear the glass break.
The next thing I remember is being in bed with my sister 13 year old sister CAS, pressed up against her back, shaking from all the adrenaline pumping through my little body. That is all I remember of that night. I don’t remember the police coming; I don’t remember my father being arrested.
Years later I am talking to CAS about that night. Her memory is different than mine. I am surprised she has a memory at all; I thought she slept through it.
She is standing in the same dark hallway; she sees the same room I do, the same furniture, the same violence. The noise brought her from her bed, but she doesn’t remember me standing there though clearly she is behind me. She sees dad choking mom. She sees mom’s hand knock the lamp over. Then she screams. She realizes immediately that this was a mistake and runs and gets back in bed. Alone. Our mom comes in and tells her “Your father wants to see you.” CAS goes into the living room and my father tells her “You wanted to see this, now watch.” He then starts hitting mom again. CAS remembers the police coming, she remembers dad being arrested.
So what I remembered, what I had know, is not entirely complete, or correct. I was not against CAS’s back like I remember, but by 9 year old sister TJS’. This is a shock to me. For some reason more shocking than not remembering CAS being in the hall or screaming. It shocks me because I do remember being in her bed, underneath the covers, face against her back, trembling. But now I remember the wall behind my back as well. And I am on my right side. And this is not possible in CAS’ bed. If I am on my right side with a wall behind me than I am on the other side of the room; in the other bed, against TJS’s back. I remember it so clearly now. CAS' memory has triggered mine.
However to this day, I do not remember CAS being in the hallway or her scream. It must have been that scream that got me out of the hall. I do not remember mom coming in the bedroom even though I was there. No, I still don’t remember any of it, even after hearing about it. No triggering for them. Those memories must have never made it to my psyche.
Memory is funny, it can protect you; ironically by making you forget.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The One to Catch
I always loved the ringers. It was a big metal piece of playground equipment that was standard at all Denver elementary schools. It had 10 metal rings hanging from chains. These rings were attached to a lager circular piece of metal that was supported to hold it up in the air by metal rods coming up in the center and branching out. The starting point had a stack of tires so you could reach the first ringer. The point was to go around from ringer to ringer without touching the ground. Unlike most schools where a turn meant you went around them once, then went to the end of the line to wait for your next turn, at Whittier Elementary there was a game that was always played on them. I don’t remember if we had a name for it, But I loved it.
The first kid was the starter (let’s call him Mike). He started out first and when he grabbed the third ringer a second kid (Sherri) started out. If the Sherri caught up with Mike, and was able to touch him before he got back to “home” (the stack of tires) he was “out” and had to drop off. Sherri was the winner and got to be the starter in the next game. However if Sherri was unable to catch Mike, then he got to be the starter again and would get to stay in the game until someone tagged him. I loved this game and would play it as much as I could and had the calluses to prove it. I was good at this game for the following reasons: I weighed almost nothing so it didn’t require a lot of upper body strength to support me. I was fast, fast, fast. I practiced, a lot.
My ringers passion started at Emerson Elementary when I was in the first grade. One of my friends’ older sister and her friends played on them and we wanted to too, so we could be like the big kids. But those big kids took over those ringers every lunch. You had to “prove” you were worthy enough to play on them by going all the way around them once without dropping or the big kids wouldn’t let you on them. I was determined. I started to practice whenever I could. At my class’ recess, after school, on the weekends. The hardest part was turning the soft virgin skin on my palms below the fingers to tough callused skin. The only way to achieve that was to keep going even when you had blisters. Ouch.
One Sunday I went to practice at my school a half a block from my home. On the south side of the school I passed two of my older brother’s friends who were playing basketball. I didn’t bother greeting them since I knew they would never respond, me being “little” and “a brat”. I continued to the playground on the north side of the building and was happy to see nobody was on the ringers. That meant I could practice all I wanted without sharing. As I got closer I realized no kids were at the playground at all. The only other person there was a guy sitting in the sand by the fence leaning against the side of the building, I didn’t think twice about him. The school was just off East Colfax with just a gas station between the playground and the street. Lots of the hippies that lived around there hung out all over the neighborhood. This was nothing new.
Today would be the day, I was resolved to go all the way around without falling off. It was spring and school was almost over and I was going to play with the big kids before school was done. I was almost there too. It was a consistent ¾ trip around before I fell off. After a few minutes the man leaning against the building called to me telling me to come join him. “I can’t, I’m practicing.” was my reply.
After a few more unsuccessful attempts to go around he called to me again, wanting me to come over. “Not now.” was my answer. I was getting so close but just couldn’t get those last two ringers. It was so frustrating, I was almost there! But by then I was also getting tired, and was beginning to feel that maybe today would not be the day after all.
The man called to me again. “Sheesh!”, I thought. My ringers frustration and the frustration at this annoying man blended together. Ignoring the repeated lecture “Don’t talk to strangers”, I stomped my way over to him. “What?” I demanded. “I just wanted to talk.” he replied.“About what?” I asked, still feeling my frustration.
He was not a hippie after all I realized. He was sitting down with his legs straight out in front, he seemed tall. He was almost eye-to-eye with me standing next to him. I also noticed he was thin. He had on light khaki pants with very narrow legs and a madras plaid button down shirt. His hair was short brown, parted on the side but with longer bangs. Not hippie long, not even Beatles long. It was Beach Boys long. He reminded me of the son Jerry in the TV show The Mothers-in-Law that I liked to watch.
He started asking me question like where did I go to school, who was my teacher, did I like school, what was my favorite class. At some point he told me I should sit down and put me on his lap facing him. He just lifted me onto him before I could say anything. I was startled but he was asking me other questions, repeating ones I didn’t answer quickly enough. I was confused and distracted by his quick questions and wasn’t feeling comfortable sitting with him. He put his hand up the back of my shirt and started to rub my back. “How does he know I like it when my mom does that?” I thought.
I was not feeling safe at all, and by then I had already learned to trust that feeling. “I have to go.” I lied, while standing up. I didn’t really have to go home, no one was expecting me or would even miss me for hours. He took my little wrist. “No you don’t.” he replied. It wasn’t a challenge, just a statement. I didn’t understand how he knew so much about me. He knew about my Mom rubbing my back and he knew that I was lying just then.
But my wonderment was overshadowed by the fact he was stopping me from leaving. I didn’t know why he wouldn’t let me go, but now I was scared. I just wanted to go.“I’ll scream.” I threatened, knowing my brother's friends would come.“I’ll scream too.” He replied calmly.
That confused me so much. He can’t scream, people will think I did something wrong. I had started to pull away and was moving my wrist all around trying to make him let go. I did this when my older brother or sisters had a hold of me; it was how I could sometimes get away. He was so composed during my little struggle, but he had to lean forward to keep a hold of me as I pulled away. His grip was no looser however, his fingers wrapped completely around my tiny wrist. I was right by the gate, so close to an escape. I thought if I could just get through the gate I would be alright. We didn’t exchange any words that I remember, but at some point his wrist bone hit the fence post and his hand opened on reflex, I ran.
I ran out the gate, through the courtyard to the other side of the building, I didn’t look back until I was on the south side of the school, by my brother’s friends. Even though they were my brother’s friends and ignored me, I knew they would defend me and not let anyone take me away.
I looked back and the man from the playground wasn’t there. I ran the half block home as fast as my seven-year-old legs could run. When my sneakered foot touched the porch I knew I was safe. The evening paper was there so I knew it was after 4:00. I picked it up and walked inside. My Mom was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette, an open book in her lap. She was watching ABC’s Wide World of Sports, so I knew it wasn’t yet 5:00. I set the paper down and went to my room. No one noticed my coming.
I never watched Mothers-In Law again. Twelve years would pass before I would tell anyone about that day. I never went to any playground alone after that and for years it made me nervious to even look at an empty playground.
There came a day years later when I realized what the man on the playground would have done to me if I hadn’t gotten away. I then felt so guilty about any child that he might have hurt because I didn’t tell. Some years after that I realized that I was only a child 7 years old, who had made a child’s choice out of fear of punishment. I also realized that he was an adult responsible for his actions and that his shame would be his alone and no longer mine to share.
And although it was one of the most frightening things that had happened to me up to that point in my young life, I continued to practice on the ringers and played on them with the big kids at Emerson Elementary before school was out. And I became one of he fastest kids at Whittier, the one to catch.
The first kid was the starter (let’s call him Mike). He started out first and when he grabbed the third ringer a second kid (Sherri) started out. If the Sherri caught up with Mike, and was able to touch him before he got back to “home” (the stack of tires) he was “out” and had to drop off. Sherri was the winner and got to be the starter in the next game. However if Sherri was unable to catch Mike, then he got to be the starter again and would get to stay in the game until someone tagged him. I loved this game and would play it as much as I could and had the calluses to prove it. I was good at this game for the following reasons: I weighed almost nothing so it didn’t require a lot of upper body strength to support me. I was fast, fast, fast. I practiced, a lot.
My ringers passion started at Emerson Elementary when I was in the first grade. One of my friends’ older sister and her friends played on them and we wanted to too, so we could be like the big kids. But those big kids took over those ringers every lunch. You had to “prove” you were worthy enough to play on them by going all the way around them once without dropping or the big kids wouldn’t let you on them. I was determined. I started to practice whenever I could. At my class’ recess, after school, on the weekends. The hardest part was turning the soft virgin skin on my palms below the fingers to tough callused skin. The only way to achieve that was to keep going even when you had blisters. Ouch.
One Sunday I went to practice at my school a half a block from my home. On the south side of the school I passed two of my older brother’s friends who were playing basketball. I didn’t bother greeting them since I knew they would never respond, me being “little” and “a brat”. I continued to the playground on the north side of the building and was happy to see nobody was on the ringers. That meant I could practice all I wanted without sharing. As I got closer I realized no kids were at the playground at all. The only other person there was a guy sitting in the sand by the fence leaning against the side of the building, I didn’t think twice about him. The school was just off East Colfax with just a gas station between the playground and the street. Lots of the hippies that lived around there hung out all over the neighborhood. This was nothing new.
Today would be the day, I was resolved to go all the way around without falling off. It was spring and school was almost over and I was going to play with the big kids before school was done. I was almost there too. It was a consistent ¾ trip around before I fell off. After a few minutes the man leaning against the building called to me telling me to come join him. “I can’t, I’m practicing.” was my reply.
After a few more unsuccessful attempts to go around he called to me again, wanting me to come over. “Not now.” was my answer. I was getting so close but just couldn’t get those last two ringers. It was so frustrating, I was almost there! But by then I was also getting tired, and was beginning to feel that maybe today would not be the day after all.
The man called to me again. “Sheesh!”, I thought. My ringers frustration and the frustration at this annoying man blended together. Ignoring the repeated lecture “Don’t talk to strangers”, I stomped my way over to him. “What?” I demanded. “I just wanted to talk.” he replied.“About what?” I asked, still feeling my frustration.
He was not a hippie after all I realized. He was sitting down with his legs straight out in front, he seemed tall. He was almost eye-to-eye with me standing next to him. I also noticed he was thin. He had on light khaki pants with very narrow legs and a madras plaid button down shirt. His hair was short brown, parted on the side but with longer bangs. Not hippie long, not even Beatles long. It was Beach Boys long. He reminded me of the son Jerry in the TV show The Mothers-in-Law that I liked to watch.
He started asking me question like where did I go to school, who was my teacher, did I like school, what was my favorite class. At some point he told me I should sit down and put me on his lap facing him. He just lifted me onto him before I could say anything. I was startled but he was asking me other questions, repeating ones I didn’t answer quickly enough. I was confused and distracted by his quick questions and wasn’t feeling comfortable sitting with him. He put his hand up the back of my shirt and started to rub my back. “How does he know I like it when my mom does that?” I thought.
I was not feeling safe at all, and by then I had already learned to trust that feeling. “I have to go.” I lied, while standing up. I didn’t really have to go home, no one was expecting me or would even miss me for hours. He took my little wrist. “No you don’t.” he replied. It wasn’t a challenge, just a statement. I didn’t understand how he knew so much about me. He knew about my Mom rubbing my back and he knew that I was lying just then.
But my wonderment was overshadowed by the fact he was stopping me from leaving. I didn’t know why he wouldn’t let me go, but now I was scared. I just wanted to go.“I’ll scream.” I threatened, knowing my brother's friends would come.“I’ll scream too.” He replied calmly.
That confused me so much. He can’t scream, people will think I did something wrong. I had started to pull away and was moving my wrist all around trying to make him let go. I did this when my older brother or sisters had a hold of me; it was how I could sometimes get away. He was so composed during my little struggle, but he had to lean forward to keep a hold of me as I pulled away. His grip was no looser however, his fingers wrapped completely around my tiny wrist. I was right by the gate, so close to an escape. I thought if I could just get through the gate I would be alright. We didn’t exchange any words that I remember, but at some point his wrist bone hit the fence post and his hand opened on reflex, I ran.
I ran out the gate, through the courtyard to the other side of the building, I didn’t look back until I was on the south side of the school, by my brother’s friends. Even though they were my brother’s friends and ignored me, I knew they would defend me and not let anyone take me away.
I looked back and the man from the playground wasn’t there. I ran the half block home as fast as my seven-year-old legs could run. When my sneakered foot touched the porch I knew I was safe. The evening paper was there so I knew it was after 4:00. I picked it up and walked inside. My Mom was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette, an open book in her lap. She was watching ABC’s Wide World of Sports, so I knew it wasn’t yet 5:00. I set the paper down and went to my room. No one noticed my coming.
I never watched Mothers-In Law again. Twelve years would pass before I would tell anyone about that day. I never went to any playground alone after that and for years it made me nervious to even look at an empty playground.
There came a day years later when I realized what the man on the playground would have done to me if I hadn’t gotten away. I then felt so guilty about any child that he might have hurt because I didn’t tell. Some years after that I realized that I was only a child 7 years old, who had made a child’s choice out of fear of punishment. I also realized that he was an adult responsible for his actions and that his shame would be his alone and no longer mine to share.
And although it was one of the most frightening things that had happened to me up to that point in my young life, I continued to practice on the ringers and played on them with the big kids at Emerson Elementary before school was out. And I became one of he fastest kids at Whittier, the one to catch.
Friday, August 6, 2010
“Social Media” from my childhood
Transistor radio
Eight track player
Rotary dial telephone
AM Radio
Albums
US Mail
Rocky Mountain News (Morning Paper)
Denver Post (Evening Paper)
45’s
Reel to reel
Cassette player
TV with only 5 stations (and no remote):
2 KWGN
4 NBC
6 KRMA
7 CBS
9 ABC
Eight track player
Rotary dial telephone
AM Radio
Albums
US Mail
Rocky Mountain News (Morning Paper)
Denver Post (Evening Paper)
45’s
Reel to reel
Cassette player
TV with only 5 stations (and no remote):
2 KWGN
4 NBC
6 KRMA
7 CBS
9 ABC
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Lessons of an eight-year-old
When I was 8 we moved. Again. School had already started and that made me “the new girl”. Again. It would start with the staring as I walked in the room. I would want, so badly, to look around the class and spy the open desk so I would have some idea where I would be sitting and who I would be sitting next to. But the feeling of thirty pairs of eyes staring at me always stopped me. The mispronunciation of my name came next. This unique name that I really loved always brought me discomfort at this time. It would cause anyone who had looked away to look up at me again, a little more intently, thinking they misunderstood. And those who hadn’t looked away would frown trying to figure out my name.
A new school was only part of it. There was always a new neighborhood as well with all the social obstacles that came with it. There were always safe people and mean people and hateful people and they all looked alike at first. It was hard to know which was which until someone either told you or you found out for yourself. And some people might seem to be one, but turn out to be another.
So there I was 8 yrs old navigating a new school and a new neighborhood. One thing I noticed right away way the family next door had two children, a boy and a girl, and from the looks of them, they were around my age. This could either be good or bad depending if they were safe or mean. I did what I always did, kept my distance and watched for clues, some kind of action or words that would let me know if they were mean and I would then know to stay clear. However since it was cold out I didn’t have a chance to see them that much. I would usually watch them as they came and went from their car to the house. But I never really got any solid indication. That all changed one snowy night.
I remember it had been snowing since the afternoon. Not a heavy snow, just a steady snow. By dark I was tired of being in the house and thought it might be fun to shovel the walk. Also I loved early dark. The dark that came though it wasn’t really night. The dark that was there when the news was still on. I had never shoveled before and it looked so easy. So I put on my coat and gloves went outside and started pushing the snow. As I got down by the end of our walk, near the sidewalk, the boy from next door came walking by and asked me what I was doing. I wanted to reply with something smart like “What does it look like I am doing?” but not knowing if he was mean or not I opted for “Shoveling.”
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.
Again, I was careful with my reply and answered, “So the snow won’t be on the sidewalk.”
“No,” he clarified, “Why are YOU doing that? It is men’s work.”
Mind you, he didn’t offer to take over, he just wanted me to know.
This was my first contact with a family that would off and on for years take me in as their own. I felt like I belonged to their family more than I felt like I belonged to my own. It was the one friendship that withstood all of the many moves my family made and the test of years passing. Even after years, see them was always like we had never been apart.
The boy was in my grade at school, his sister a grade below us. We all played together had the same friends and I slept and ate at their house as often as I could. If they had family outing or their parents took the kids to go somewhere, I was invited.
In the two years we lived next door to them I got to go so many places that I had never been and would never had had the opportunity to go. We went to the dairy where they got their milk; to the drive-in where their dad parked the station wagon backwards to we could lay in the back and watch the movies. There was an exciting trip to Eliches where my best-girlfriend-ever and I screamed and scream because we were quite sure we were going to die on the Sky Ride. You know, the one that was like a ski lift that went to the Round-Up and back slower than the people walking below? Yea, we were scared and enjoyed every minute of it. There were trips to Farmer’s Markets and to Metropolitan College were their dad went to school (and a vending machine was). There was also one memorable trip though that taught me about hatred, prejudice, compassion and love.
One hot summer day when my girlfriend, her brother and I were playing their dad came up and said, “Come on, we’re going.” Nothing unusual there, we got in the car to go. When we asked where we were going the answer was “You’ll see.” We knew that meant he would not tell us no matter what so we just waited. And waited. And waited. We drove through the city, to the country, past all these farms. We would approach towns, but go right past them. What seemed like an eternity later we were parking at some kind of amusement park with rides!! It was Cheyenne Frontier Days. I had never heard of it but it had games and food and rides and music and horses and cows and everything! It was incredible. We walked around and saw everything. There were all these cowboys walking around. I had never seen a real cowboy before that. It was so exciting. The rides, the games and as night fell, all the lights. It was beautiful.
There was this one game that was similar to the games you see in some restaurants now where you have a claw thing and try to get candy or a stuffed toy. This was like that but shorter and longer with games all lined together with the attendant standing behind them. Well my girlfriend took her money and put it in one of these machines but nothing happened. The attendant didn’t notice. My friend tried to shake the coin drop and pound it, but carefully since the attendant was there. Nothing helped, the game was not working. She walked over to her dad and told him what happened. He came over and tried it but it still wouldn’t work.
“Excuse me,” he called to the attendant, “this machine took my daughters money.”
The attendant looked at him and shrugged.
“I don’t think you understood me. This machine doesn’t work. She didn’t get to play, it just took her money.”
The attendant said, “Too bad.”
“Look this game took my daughters money, you either let her play another game or give her her money back.”
I don’t remember exactly what the attendant said next but I know it had the word nigger in it.
Before he had finished saying it my friend’s dad had his hands on the counter and was on his way over. The attendant was ready and pulled out something silver and quick as lightening hit my friend’s dad in the forehead. The blow knocked him back and blood started running freely from a cut above his eye. My friend started to cry and everything around us seemed to stop for an instant. My friend’s dad then had us go with him to find a cop. I remember rushing after him and trying to calm down my crying friend, lying to her that everything would be alright, but I wasn’t really sure. I was scared too but I was more concerned for my friend. I wished that I was older, more grown up so she would trust my words and I could make her not worry. Wishing I was big enough to hold her so I could wrap safety around her with my arms.
I don’t really remember much after that other than the cop we found wasn’t really nice to my friends injured dad. And I remember the long quite ride home, all the happiness in the day erased by a giant wrench swung by a redneck racist no better than his upbringing. It has been 40 years since that day, I have never gone to Frontier Days again, but every year when the advertisement comes on I think of that night.
A new school was only part of it. There was always a new neighborhood as well with all the social obstacles that came with it. There were always safe people and mean people and hateful people and they all looked alike at first. It was hard to know which was which until someone either told you or you found out for yourself. And some people might seem to be one, but turn out to be another.
So there I was 8 yrs old navigating a new school and a new neighborhood. One thing I noticed right away way the family next door had two children, a boy and a girl, and from the looks of them, they were around my age. This could either be good or bad depending if they were safe or mean. I did what I always did, kept my distance and watched for clues, some kind of action or words that would let me know if they were mean and I would then know to stay clear. However since it was cold out I didn’t have a chance to see them that much. I would usually watch them as they came and went from their car to the house. But I never really got any solid indication. That all changed one snowy night.
I remember it had been snowing since the afternoon. Not a heavy snow, just a steady snow. By dark I was tired of being in the house and thought it might be fun to shovel the walk. Also I loved early dark. The dark that came though it wasn’t really night. The dark that was there when the news was still on. I had never shoveled before and it looked so easy. So I put on my coat and gloves went outside and started pushing the snow. As I got down by the end of our walk, near the sidewalk, the boy from next door came walking by and asked me what I was doing. I wanted to reply with something smart like “What does it look like I am doing?” but not knowing if he was mean or not I opted for “Shoveling.”
“Why are you doing that?” he asked.
Again, I was careful with my reply and answered, “So the snow won’t be on the sidewalk.”
“No,” he clarified, “Why are YOU doing that? It is men’s work.”
Mind you, he didn’t offer to take over, he just wanted me to know.
This was my first contact with a family that would off and on for years take me in as their own. I felt like I belonged to their family more than I felt like I belonged to my own. It was the one friendship that withstood all of the many moves my family made and the test of years passing. Even after years, see them was always like we had never been apart.
The boy was in my grade at school, his sister a grade below us. We all played together had the same friends and I slept and ate at their house as often as I could. If they had family outing or their parents took the kids to go somewhere, I was invited.
In the two years we lived next door to them I got to go so many places that I had never been and would never had had the opportunity to go. We went to the dairy where they got their milk; to the drive-in where their dad parked the station wagon backwards to we could lay in the back and watch the movies. There was an exciting trip to Eliches where my best-girlfriend-ever and I screamed and scream because we were quite sure we were going to die on the Sky Ride. You know, the one that was like a ski lift that went to the Round-Up and back slower than the people walking below? Yea, we were scared and enjoyed every minute of it. There were trips to Farmer’s Markets and to Metropolitan College were their dad went to school (and a vending machine was). There was also one memorable trip though that taught me about hatred, prejudice, compassion and love.
One hot summer day when my girlfriend, her brother and I were playing their dad came up and said, “Come on, we’re going.” Nothing unusual there, we got in the car to go. When we asked where we were going the answer was “You’ll see.” We knew that meant he would not tell us no matter what so we just waited. And waited. And waited. We drove through the city, to the country, past all these farms. We would approach towns, but go right past them. What seemed like an eternity later we were parking at some kind of amusement park with rides!! It was Cheyenne Frontier Days. I had never heard of it but it had games and food and rides and music and horses and cows and everything! It was incredible. We walked around and saw everything. There were all these cowboys walking around. I had never seen a real cowboy before that. It was so exciting. The rides, the games and as night fell, all the lights. It was beautiful.
There was this one game that was similar to the games you see in some restaurants now where you have a claw thing and try to get candy or a stuffed toy. This was like that but shorter and longer with games all lined together with the attendant standing behind them. Well my girlfriend took her money and put it in one of these machines but nothing happened. The attendant didn’t notice. My friend tried to shake the coin drop and pound it, but carefully since the attendant was there. Nothing helped, the game was not working. She walked over to her dad and told him what happened. He came over and tried it but it still wouldn’t work.
“Excuse me,” he called to the attendant, “this machine took my daughters money.”
The attendant looked at him and shrugged.
“I don’t think you understood me. This machine doesn’t work. She didn’t get to play, it just took her money.”
The attendant said, “Too bad.”
“Look this game took my daughters money, you either let her play another game or give her her money back.”
I don’t remember exactly what the attendant said next but I know it had the word nigger in it.
Before he had finished saying it my friend’s dad had his hands on the counter and was on his way over. The attendant was ready and pulled out something silver and quick as lightening hit my friend’s dad in the forehead. The blow knocked him back and blood started running freely from a cut above his eye. My friend started to cry and everything around us seemed to stop for an instant. My friend’s dad then had us go with him to find a cop. I remember rushing after him and trying to calm down my crying friend, lying to her that everything would be alright, but I wasn’t really sure. I was scared too but I was more concerned for my friend. I wished that I was older, more grown up so she would trust my words and I could make her not worry. Wishing I was big enough to hold her so I could wrap safety around her with my arms.
I don’t really remember much after that other than the cop we found wasn’t really nice to my friends injured dad. And I remember the long quite ride home, all the happiness in the day erased by a giant wrench swung by a redneck racist no better than his upbringing. It has been 40 years since that day, I have never gone to Frontier Days again, but every year when the advertisement comes on I think of that night.
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