My Friend: Wish You Were Here

Growing up in a severely constricted, scary household had me by the throat once I entered my teen years; what was expected of me had never been taught as the folks in charge weren't too sure themselves.  By this time, my Mom had given up and went into alcoholism, not in league with, but in defiance of, the addled king.  I couldn't blame her; it was a loss for myself and my brother, however, and we hung on as best we could, my brother was less affected as he was the boy, and therefore favored by the noise of the house.  It wasn't all wonderful for him, the same expectations of magical thinking were applied to his future.  Me, I was the first born, a girl who was supposed to be a boy born in the age when gender was a surprise at the end of pregnancy.

No bubble bath, I had to use Spic 'n Span; no purses, dresses, or the fake plastic lipsticks; no fancy soaps; none of that stuff, Mom and I were told, for that would make me any number of yelled words connected with street walking, punctuated by a fist in the wall. My defense was to disappear; become as needy as a plant, just water me once in a while; I arose into books, drawing, the fields.  Scrubbed the fossils I found, picked up frogs.  Those were acceptable, as were the cap guns, mitts, bats, and the comic books; Dad viewed me as a personal failure.  Now, some of those were truly my own interests, but I'll be damned if I want to hear how I stand like Eddie Matthews at home plate because I bat left.

The trouble with being a kid is that you have few points of reference, especially if you live in isolation, out in the sticks.  Church yammered on about how you weren't supposed to think about sex but you were to examine yourself for sexual thinking at prayers morning, noon, and night.   Television programs approved by the Catholic Union and Echo may they burn in hell portrayed families that played out scripted family interactions where problems were solved in jolly fashion, not made to go away by smashing glassware or animals.  I thought there was something wrong with Ozzie, a father/husband character in a popular program; why isn't he screaming about why I don't smell like Spic 'n Span this week, piney fresh, because Mom switched to more flowery Tide?

Now, this isn't what the entry is meant to be about, but this prelude describes where I came from; a scared kid who had little interaction with others until we moved to a suburb with sidewalks; now there were children on the street and places easily accessed; a playground, stores, a custard stand. My eighth grade IQ tested off the charts, and the school wanted to send me to courses at a private college, but the books would have cost $60 that nope, we can't afford, and besides, she doesn't need education.  Saving that investment for the boy.

I would find ways to stay out of the house; go to the supermarket and read soup can labels, order a coke at Woolworth's and sit for an hour.  Staying in my room wasn't an option, for that was being "antisocial" towards the family; so I brought my books and art downstairs.  I couldn't sit in the backyard, for my father thought that would entice neighborhood men to watch me, and Dad began a fantasy to hold us under his thumb that he had a WWII machete and would decapitate any of us at anytime.  The dictionary explained that word to me, and I became even more complacent to protect my mother from any outbursts. There never was a machete, it turned out.

One way I found to escape were the Girl Scouts, an acceptable organization that was connected to the Mariner branch.  Thursdays, I would go and staple myself to a chair, hoping no one would speak to me, just let me stay here, let me watch.  By this time, at fifteen, some of the other girls were wearing makeup, had learner's permits, and smoked.  Some of them had fathers that they loved, it was weird to me, seeing a healthy relationship with a male parent.  No, it can't be real, something is fishy here.  I just didn't realize that I was the one who came from the distorted background.

Eventually, when we weren't singing Kum Ba Yah, I got to know some of them and was stunned at the liberties they had through stories of travels, boyfriends, families.  One girl was dressed better than the others, wore jewelry, makeup, and kept Marlboros in her purse.  No clue, no interest in putting myself amidst any circle, even though the other girls were friendly but mystified by me.  What caught their interest was that I was funny and a bit of a daredevil, having been climbing trees and picking up snakes since when.

Halloween came, and for a costume I dressed as Chaplin; won a prize, and the girl with the jewelry thought it was the funniest thing ever, and started to sit with me, tell me about her boyfriend, sneak out for a smoke, and eventually invited me over to her house, two blocks away from the church basement where we met.  Her name was Nancy; she became my best friend for forty years until she died a short while ago.  She was the antithesis to my everything; her parents were also strict, but her response was unbridled glee at escaping out of her house and hitchhiking to a store where she shoplifted makeup.  I was horrified, and made her pay or I was leaving, DO NOT get into that car, and can you teach me how to put on makeup?

She did.  She drew that severe line midway on the upper lid, painted single eyelashes on the bottom; pale frosted lipstick, teased hair, and I looked like I came out of the To Sir With Love movie.  She had fake I.D., and got us past the bouncer at a local kid's bar--at the time, drinking age was 18.  We were 16.  It was my job to drag her out at 11, so we would make her parent's curfew; her family came to appreciate me and my sense of following rules.  I didn't drink, didn't like what I saw my own family go through; and I didn't smoke.

It was illicit, against almost every tenet exhorted by my father, and it felt wicked good.  I should have focused on the college scholarship I had won, but again, was told no school for me; but how could I get a job without training?  They don't just hire you off the street, so Dad had a friend who worked for the phone company and I interviewed.  And again.  And again.  Three times I went there, and wasn't hired, got yelled at what the hell is the matter with you until Dad called his friend and was told my voice was not within the criteria.  Too low.  Too this.  Too that.  Nancy pushed me into a job at a big box store, where I sold donuts and expeller-pressed cookies.  Her doing this gave me a key to the door of independence, and soon I was able to move out into my own apartment; I hated leaving my mother, but getting away for my own safety was paramount.

I worked, saved, and went out on Saturday nights; Nancy was put into nursing school, but was kicked out for sneaking her boyfriend inside.  No, she wasn't perfect, far from it; but she enjoyed living, loved history and politics, and would do anything if she loved you.  She suffered internally, for her mother would tell her that even though she was adopted, they loved her just as much, which is a pretty crappy thing to say.  They attributed her wild ways to genetics, not that she had to sit on a chair for three hours at a time while Mom played cards.  We stood by each other forever; but I couldn't save her from the addiction to pain pills that ate her life away.  By that time she lived in Atlanta, Georgia with her then husband, and was filled with other sorrows due to marital troubles and family matters.  She's been gone five years, and I miss her.

She was brave, resourceful, more than generous; compassionate with animals except for the monkey who stole her cigarettes out of her purse in Costa Rica; she was always searching for love, thought she had found it, but unfortunately that turned out to be another story.  For all her poor choices, I could trust her to the ends of the earth and back, even when her strength and emotional health were being chipped at by medications, family ills, and her own intense self-doubt.  I see you in the leaves, Nance, the leaves that fell at the base of the immense maple, the one we climbed together to watch the sun go down.  Happy Birthday.