What's on the Inside

Children have a resiliency about them, the ability to keep getting up after being knocked down. But over time, if they get knocked down enough, they don't get back up as fast.

By the time I had reached the eighth grade, I was used to being the focus of not-so-nice jokes, but after being knocked down over and over and over again, getting up and back to my usual jokester self was becoming more difficult to do.

Getting back up is so much easier when someone who cares about you lends you a hand.

They Laughed

Transitioning from the seventh to the eighth grade, I still hadn't made any close friends. It wasn't that I didn't want friends; I did. It was the fear that once someone got to know me, they would reject me. There was something wrong with me; I never felt as if I fit into my surroundings. I was different from everyone else, so, therefore, "not good" in my mind. I built a protective shield around me so no one would hurt me anymore than I was already hurting. I was a pencil-thin, pimply, bucked-tooth, glasses-wearing solitary young woman and I disliked myself immensely. There was absolutely nothing about me to like.

Thinking that I was defective was not unfounded. I wasn't good enough for my father to love me; he left home the day I was born and never looked back. Mother said him leaving her didn't make any sense because she was a good Christian woman. She said it had to be because Edna had big boobs that he left her, but why did he leave me? It didn't matter how hard I tried to be good for Hazel, my father's replacement for seven years, I never measured up to her expectations of me. Eventually I stopped trying to win Hazel's affection, but by then Mother's Prince Charming had made an entrance, and off to the suburbs we went. A new life. A new chapter.

At fourteen and just starting eighth grade, I carried a heavy load of unhappy with me everywhere I went. But, at the same time, I saw humor in things that no one else saw. I cried a lot and I laughed a lot. The only person at home who laughed at my attempts at humor and silly jokes was my stepdad, until, that is, one day when I was late for school.

Sarah didn't laugh: My joke was stupid and not funny.

I'm a Good Driver

Mad About Boys

I fell in love for the first time in first grade. His name was Robert, same name as my biological father. It was his name that drew me to him, but he wasn't keen on me and asked the teacher to move him away from me because I was harassing him. If you call aggressive pressure to get him to kiss me "harassing" then I guess he chose the right verb.  This unrequited love for Robert at age seven was my first "Nah! Not interested" but it wouldn't be my last.

I have always been mad about boys, but for the first eighteen years of my life, not one boy was mad about me. The inattention and indifference I received from the opposite sex did not discourage me, however, from falling in love over and over again. But all prior loves faded into obscurity when I walked into my seventh grade class that first day and saw perfection: Mike Nickels.

Mike Nickels was the cutest boy I had ever seen.  His eyes were bluish gray and they always looked as if he'd just gotten out of bed. No, they didn't have sleep gunk in them; they were sexy, seductive eyes, movie star eyes. His mouth was heart shaped and I wanted so much to kiss them, but from my past history I knew that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.*

So here I am center front row during our seventh-grade picture taking outing. The object of my affection is two rows up, but there is just one itty-bitty problem. I love Mike. I really, really do, but my heart is capable of multiple affections. My heart is fickle; it's not monogamous. I want to be faithful to Mike, but when I'm around Bobby Ellis and Gary Estes and Garry Perkins and Johnny Yount (not pictured here) my heart cheats on Mike. But infidelity will never be an issue here; none of these boys know I exist.

*After high school, Mike asks me for a date. 

That story later.

This post is the latest in a series of posts that begin 9/23/15. That post is called Acorn in an Apple Suit. But in reality the story really starts way before that because this year's blog is a cartoon of my life.

Time Travel Back to 1958

If I were able to go back in time to 1958 to the bedroom of an anxiety-ridden, self-conscious, love struck thirteen year-old girl just beginning seventh grade in a new school, what would I say? Oh, it all seems so crystal clear now, fifty-seven years later. I could say something that Hazel might say, "What you're fretting about is insignificant and silly. You're so young and you have your whole life ahead of you. Don't concern yourself about these childish things. Look at me; I'm old. Now that's something to worry about." Once I put everything into perspective for her, I'd head on back to 2016 on the next red eye. Well, I'm very busy, you know. I have things to do, places to go, people to avoid; I have a tail to chase.

Or, maybe I would take a different approach. Instead of focusing on my needs, my self-absorption, my agenda, my universe with me in the center, I could turn my attention to someone else for a change. And since I've already made the trip back in time to 1958 and to the bedroom of my younger self, I should stay awhile.

First if all, I'd have some explaining to do. Thirteen-year-old me is already a skeptic, she trusts no one and is always looking for the real motive behind most agendas. If I told her I was her at age seventy, what would be her reaction? I know she wouldn't scream because she has made a vow to never, ever, ever scream. I know she wouldn't hide under the covers; she's not a coward. Maybe she'd say nothing, giving me time to explain why I came to visit her at 10:00 o'clock at night on a school night.

Well, I've done it. I've made the trip back to 1958, but I didn't have much time to prepare a speech before I got there. The time-travel capsule was late, they didn't offer me a pillow or blanket, then they lost my luggage and the time-travel representative didn't even apologize. I can't sleep on planes or capsules, and when the capsule dropped me off on the front porch of my old house, the door was locked.  Luckily I remembered where my parents hid the key and I let myself in. Famished (they didn't serve snacks on the capsule) I fixed myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before tip-toeing down the hallway to the bedroom of my youth, and this is what happened. 

I listened. 

As it turned out, she had a lot to say. I sat on the edge of her bed, giving her my full attention, even though I had to pee like a drunken sailor. (They had a bathroom on the capsule but they were out of toilet paper.) She talked and talked and I thought about interrupting her several times to talk about me, talk abut me, talk about me, but I didn't. As I sat listening to her talk, the thought came to me that what she really needed was not someone to tell her that she shouldn't be concerned about what was happening in her life, because of course she should be concerned. It's her life. It's her struggles. It's the path that she will traverse with all of its obstacles and adversities that will mold her into the adult she will someday become; that would be me.  

At seventy my life is incredibly wonderful. Do I have some baggage? Doesn't everyone? I wouldn't change one thing in my life if that meant I wouldn't be where I am today...so I sat on my bed and listened to me talk. When it was time to go I reminded me to never forget I was special, and then I hugged me goodbye. I hated to see me go, but I'm very busy, you know. I have things to do, places to go, people to avoid, and then there's that tail of mine that needs to be chased.

New School

I was thirteen and one year ahead of my classmates when I joined them in the seventh grade at my new school in Lawrence Township in 1958. Except for the pimples, I still looked eleven so no one seemed to notice my seniority. I felt awkward, conspicuous and out of place, so I didn't make an effort to make friends because I didn't want to face rejection. What was clear to me was that I was one of the least attractive girls in seventh grade. Okay, I admit it; I was ugly. Are you happy now? One boy said if I turned sideways, I looked like a pencil with an eraser head. His favorite name for me was "Eraser Head." Another boy called me Bucky Beaver, but the two names I heard over and over were "Pizza Face" and "Four Eyes." The insults hurt, but I knew they weren't unfounded. I had mirrors at home. I saw what they saw and they were right. I covered the mirror in my bedroom so I didn't have to look at myself and be disgusted.

Wow! I just reread that last paragraph. Some pretty powerful self-hate going on there in the seventh grade. Anyway, ugly or attractive the heart still wants what it wants and most of the time the heart wants attractive. I was no exception. I was boy crazy and the boy my heart wanted was, you guessed it, the cutest boy in the seventh grade: Mike Nickels. I loved Mike with all my heart and soul; I could never, ever love anyone else but Mike. However, Mike wanted Brenda but Brenda wanted Roger. As it turned out, Roger was gay and he wanted Philip but Philip wanted Mary Jane.

My future (and present) seemed bleak. Everyone was pairing up and no one wanted me. So I turned to magazines and books for information on how to become desirable to the opposite sex. What could I do to improve myself? If my looks couldn't attract a mate, I could focus on my beauty inside. That's it! My exterior's not looking so good, but my innards are real pretty. I would become a really good person. People would say, "She's not much to look at, but she's a really good person," and maybe then a man somewhere out there would want me. Please make it be Mike Nickels.

New Dad

I didn't know what to think of my new dad. Oh, he seemed nice enough, but so did Hazel before she became supreme leader of our household when I was five. She took good care of us she said on numerous occasions. We had a roof over our heads and plenty of food to eat. What more could we possibly want?

With much angst Hazel passed the reigns of control over to Royal Orville, an Indian from West Virginia who (or is it whom?) Mother had fallen in love with while visiting his church, The Church of God, one Sunday morning in 1956. He was sitting in the pew behind Mother. The pastor asked everyone to "Please stand up, look to your left, look to your right, in front and in back of you. These are all God's children and you should tell them hello, shake their hands and tell them you love them as God loves them." It was love at first sight. Royal Orville and Mother locked eyes and both said, "I love you" in unison. They were still holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes when everyone else sat down. Even though it seemed like a minute, it was probably only 50 or 55 seconds before the pastor finally brought them out of their love daze by throwing a hymnal book at Royal Orville.  Okay, I made all that up. All I know is they met in church.

Hazel out. Royal Orville in. The jury's out, too. What kind of supreme leader will he be? Only time will tell.

This post is the latest in a series of posts that begin 9/23/15. That post is called Acorn in an Apple Suit. But in reality the story really starts way before that because this year's blog is a cartoon of my life.

But I Didn't

When my newly defined family moved to Lawrence, I had already attended four schools. I was a year behind because I had failed first grade due to my inability to step across the classroom threshold, and then there was the principal's orders to my mother to remove her disruptive daughter from the premises and not come back. I don't know why I refused to sit down in my seat like a good little girl. Maybe it was due to the misrepresentation of what Mother and I were doing that morning: going for a walk. Just she and I would be spending quality time together, talking and strolling through the neighborhood at a leisurely pace, You know, doing what mothers and daughters do. I should have thought it strange that I had to wear a dress for our walk, but I didn't. I should have questioned why Mother wanted to spend alone time with me because we never did that, but I didn't. I should have asked what the hurry was because our stroll was more like a fast sprint, but I didn't. I was six and without the capacity to reason all that well. Our time together that morning didn't go as well as Mother had expected. It was all a trick and I was having none of it.

By the time I walked through the threshold of my seventh grade classroom at Belzer Junior High, I was thirteen and reading at a third grade level. I preferred sitting in the back of the class to avoid attention, and I hoped the teacher would pass me by when soliciting answers from the class.

The worst experience of all was when the teacher would have the class read from a book, each student standing up and reading the next paragraph when it became their turn. I counted ahead to my paragraph and hurriedly looked for words I didn't know so I could ask the student next to me. When I stood up to read, my performance was flawless, but I hated the deception.

It was the feeling of being different, inadequate, of being broken that I decided I was done with illiteracy. In our new house on Austin Drive, I had my own bedroom, so each night after dinner, I closed my door, opened a book and forced myself to read. Over and over and over I read until eventually I would begin to recognize certain words. Phonics was (or is it were?) not involved; it was rote learning: memorization based on repetition.  I refused to give up. I learned to read by reading. The progress was slow and several times I wanted to give up, but I didn't.

Moving On Up

Against everyone's wishes Mother married the Indian from West Virginia. I was newly thirteen when we loaded up the truck and left Hazel wailing from the front door of our little house in Irvington. We were moving on up to the suburbs on the northeast side of Indianapolis, thanks to the man who rescued (once again) Mother and her two daughters.

A New Dad

A New Home

A New School

A New Sister

A New Life

A New Chapter