Buh4Bee
10-02-2011, 08:21 PM
I grew up in a small town in a suburb outside of New York City. I sometimes return to visit, but it is no longer the same place I remember it to be. It is a strange sensation to remember places one way and to discover they are really a different way. One comfort is to know that certain childhood memories never fade.
This time can’t be touched or held in my hand, but it has been held close to my heart. As I remembered this time, my life was not always filled with joy, as we prefer our memories to be. However, sharing this story with you, set’s these memories free. Just the way a person can feel when noticing a butterfly settling on a perch. A smile emerges across ones lips the way the sun breaks through the clouds. Or the way we emerge from a giant wave crashing over our body.
Sometimes we hurt the ones we love most, but they are the ones that have taught us how to hate, see injustice, and discriminate against the less fortunate. Writing this may result in such results, but what is one to do when parents act as children or turn their backs on their own offspring. This is a tale in part of how this happened to me. We sometimes can not be forgiven or forgive, so in such a situation as this we must just let things be or not.
Oh yes, I can remember now, the thrill of racing my bike down Park Street and peddling furiously around the corner to greet the wind that whipped against my face as I sped down the hill and bumping over the tracks into town.
The town was beautiful capturing a timeless innocence. The pond reflected the backdrop of the woods and the church across the way. My over-active imagination sometimes transported me back to the Victorian Age. I would imagine I was a young lady adorned in a high-necked frock gracefully standing at the bank of the pond dramatically feeding the ducks. This imaginative play always ended when some jerk would yell, “You’re not a swan retard,” as he passed on his bike. Obviously, I had no resemblance to Mary Poppins.
Awkward and misfitty, I didn’t particularly like the fourth grade or the public school that I attended. During fourth grade, my mother had my youngest sister, Bryn. There were four of us now and my mother took a year off from teaching to stay at home. My parents also hired Paola, a young Portuguese woman to help run the house. Mostly, she spent a great deal of time chasing after my younger brother.
My mother temporarily, a lady of leisure, volunteered in a kindergarten class in a private school. As a professional educator and a woman with means, my mother discovered a school that bred privilege. This and the prospects it offered her own children, excited her. She had both my brother and I complete the application process.
On the morning I was to take the placement test and complete a writing sample, I was dressed immaculately. My mother tugged on my slip under my dress, and yelled, “Stand up straight!” I felt like a dog being forced into a Santa suit. My mother bluntedly stated, “You are being presented to this school, so remember you are being watched.”
I believe I could see the blood pulse in wrist as I discreetly examined my nails for a fresh bite while my mother continued to tug in the back of my dress. Luckily, the circumstances helped me to incite some self-restraint. When the tugging was complete and everything was smoothed over she examined me one last time. As she swung her coat over her pajamas she ordered again, “Stand up straight!”
In her pajamas, my mother silently drove me to this school. The drive seemed to take forever. I sat thinking about what the school would look like and what the people would be like. Finally my mother stopped the Jeep, “Get out quickly!” With that she pulled away leaving me to look up a great staircase. In the brief second that I looked up, I realized what I would find at the top remained a complete enigma.
Of course I climbed the steep steps, which felt like a great journey to China. At the top was a great old mansion with a slate roof bowing down into the small entrance way. I walked into the school alone and found a tall white haired lady sitting very tall and straight behind a simple wooden desk.
“Hello dear.”
“Hello,” I replied.
“Are you here for the test?” Hearing the words “the test” made my stomach sink
“Dear, are you here for the test?”
I stood straight and tall and blinked back at her. This nervousness was so awful it discouraged my nail biting habit and kept me from understanding what was being asked of me.
“ Dear, are you alright? What is your name?”
“Spirit North,” I shouted out.
“Yes, your mother is Mrs. North.” That was when I remembered why I was standing at the top of this great mountain. My nerves snapped back and reminded me of the expectation for my performance on this test. I could hear my mother’s words ring in my ears, “You are being watched.”
“Yes ma’me, I’m here for the test.” My voice raised up as I continued on, “I have a bit of a cold and my hearing isn’t so good.” Did I sound like Mary Poppins?
“ I see.” The woman said looking over the brim of her glasses and down her nose at me. I smiled and with my hands behind my back I secretly picked quietly at my pinky nail.
After gathering pertinent information, this woman, named Miss Smith, escorted me down a long hallway into a dreary cold classroom. The desks and chairs were too small for me, but I sat down anyway. A few younger children also sat waiting for the test to begin.
As I waited, another girl, who was my size, was brought into the room and told to sit down.
She fussed, “ Well, I think I am too tall for these desks.”
Miss Smith looked at the girl, then at the desks, and then ended her gaze on me.
“Oh, yes dear, these desks are too small for you. And you dear, you look a bit crowded in that tiny chair.”
Again, I blinked back at this woman, unsure who she was talking to or what to do.
“ Yes dear, I am speaking to you. Don’t stare, up out of that desk and wait by the door. I’ll be back after I have Mr. Wilson bring in bigger chairs.”
“And desks,” the blond girl added. Miss Smith paused her long glance on us before she turned and walked out.
We were left standing by the door, with a dozen little eyes looking at us. I felt my ears burn and my heart pound as my anger meter rose. Who was this bossy girl?
“I’m Liza Stetson and I’m in fourth grade.”
“I’m in fourth grade too and I’d remember that you are presenting yourself to this school.”
“ I don’t worry about that, my father is a lawyer.”
The children in the room were still watching us. I wanted to yell at them to turn around in their chairs and stop being rude.
We finally were settled down and took the test. The standardized test was long and boring. I hated taking it. However, the writing sample was fun. I wrote a story that I was sure would grant me an acceptance letter.
When the test was over, we were herded into a nice room where they served cookies and juice. I filled up my plate as did most of the children and sat at a table eating. Maybe it was more like stuffing my face, because we never had cookies at my house. My father was a dentist.
Liza Stetson sat at a table with some second graders and told them all about how her father was a lawyer and that she was very rich. Slowly the room cleared out and I was the last one sitting.
To avoid any further embarrassment for being the last one still there, I decided to leave. I simply walked out of the room, down the hallway and out the front door. No one was around to notice or even care. I climbed down that great staircase and sat on a bench in front of the street to wait for my mother.
Liza Stetson came bouncing down the steps. I could hear her talking a mile a minute, before she rounded the corner onto the sidewalk. When she saw me sitting on the bench she pulled on her mother to lean down and she whispered to her. Her mother turned and looked at me and smiled. I looked away and tried to pretend they weren’t there.
They got into a white Subaru and drove away, leaving me sitting alone on the bench. A small breeze blew the great rodenron bushes behind me. I looked at my shiney black shoes. The thin leather and stocking didn’t keep the brisk cold off my feet. It was getting chilly and it was starting to get dark.
I heard heels clicking down the stairs. Miss Smith scuffed her shoes on the sidewalk as she stopped abruptly when she saw me.
“Dear, you are still here? I thought all the children left.”
“My mother told me to wait here for her. I live far away, so I think it is taking her a long time to get here.”
“You live in Hillstown, that is only twenty minutes away.”
Just then my mother’s Jeep pulled up. She stopped in front of the bench. I stood up,” My mother’s here, so good-bye.” And I climbed into the jeep.
My mother smiled and waved at Miss Smith.
“What does that old maid want?” she asked still smiling as she drove away.
“I don’t know.”
“ She was supervising the test?”
“Yes.”
Then she asked me several questions about the test and how I thought I did. I answered the same questions at least three times until I finally said, “I already told you that.” She mumbled something and we drove the rest of the way home silently.
A few weeks later, when the test results were in, my parents went to the school for an interview. My file was reviewed and the admissions officer stressed how unusual it was for a child to write a story like I had. My mother affirmed them that I had concocted this story on my own.
“Spirit is a very independent thinker and clearly she wants to go to this school based on the fantasy she presented in her story.” I had written a whole story about the moment I got my acceptance letter to this fancy private school. I imagined it to be the most marvelous moment ever.
I know my father sat in his chair and said nothing.
When my parents got home from the interview, my mother eased my nerves by confirming that I had been accepted to the school. I felt more relieved than ecstatic, as I had imagined I would be when I wrote the story.
I suppose my overly active imagination had served its purpose in this case. How often I would imagine things to be a certain way and then they would be less exciting when they really happened. This time however, it was about getting into the school to please my mother. There was no music playing when I opened the letter, in fact there was no letter at all, at least, I never saw one.
Maybe at this school I wouldn’t be made fun of for impulsively pretending to be a Victorian lady or a princess transported back in time to a magical age when everything was lovely.
This time can’t be touched or held in my hand, but it has been held close to my heart. As I remembered this time, my life was not always filled with joy, as we prefer our memories to be. However, sharing this story with you, set’s these memories free. Just the way a person can feel when noticing a butterfly settling on a perch. A smile emerges across ones lips the way the sun breaks through the clouds. Or the way we emerge from a giant wave crashing over our body.
Sometimes we hurt the ones we love most, but they are the ones that have taught us how to hate, see injustice, and discriminate against the less fortunate. Writing this may result in such results, but what is one to do when parents act as children or turn their backs on their own offspring. This is a tale in part of how this happened to me. We sometimes can not be forgiven or forgive, so in such a situation as this we must just let things be or not.
Oh yes, I can remember now, the thrill of racing my bike down Park Street and peddling furiously around the corner to greet the wind that whipped against my face as I sped down the hill and bumping over the tracks into town.
The town was beautiful capturing a timeless innocence. The pond reflected the backdrop of the woods and the church across the way. My over-active imagination sometimes transported me back to the Victorian Age. I would imagine I was a young lady adorned in a high-necked frock gracefully standing at the bank of the pond dramatically feeding the ducks. This imaginative play always ended when some jerk would yell, “You’re not a swan retard,” as he passed on his bike. Obviously, I had no resemblance to Mary Poppins.
Awkward and misfitty, I didn’t particularly like the fourth grade or the public school that I attended. During fourth grade, my mother had my youngest sister, Bryn. There were four of us now and my mother took a year off from teaching to stay at home. My parents also hired Paola, a young Portuguese woman to help run the house. Mostly, she spent a great deal of time chasing after my younger brother.
My mother temporarily, a lady of leisure, volunteered in a kindergarten class in a private school. As a professional educator and a woman with means, my mother discovered a school that bred privilege. This and the prospects it offered her own children, excited her. She had both my brother and I complete the application process.
On the morning I was to take the placement test and complete a writing sample, I was dressed immaculately. My mother tugged on my slip under my dress, and yelled, “Stand up straight!” I felt like a dog being forced into a Santa suit. My mother bluntedly stated, “You are being presented to this school, so remember you are being watched.”
I believe I could see the blood pulse in wrist as I discreetly examined my nails for a fresh bite while my mother continued to tug in the back of my dress. Luckily, the circumstances helped me to incite some self-restraint. When the tugging was complete and everything was smoothed over she examined me one last time. As she swung her coat over her pajamas she ordered again, “Stand up straight!”
In her pajamas, my mother silently drove me to this school. The drive seemed to take forever. I sat thinking about what the school would look like and what the people would be like. Finally my mother stopped the Jeep, “Get out quickly!” With that she pulled away leaving me to look up a great staircase. In the brief second that I looked up, I realized what I would find at the top remained a complete enigma.
Of course I climbed the steep steps, which felt like a great journey to China. At the top was a great old mansion with a slate roof bowing down into the small entrance way. I walked into the school alone and found a tall white haired lady sitting very tall and straight behind a simple wooden desk.
“Hello dear.”
“Hello,” I replied.
“Are you here for the test?” Hearing the words “the test” made my stomach sink
“Dear, are you here for the test?”
I stood straight and tall and blinked back at her. This nervousness was so awful it discouraged my nail biting habit and kept me from understanding what was being asked of me.
“ Dear, are you alright? What is your name?”
“Spirit North,” I shouted out.
“Yes, your mother is Mrs. North.” That was when I remembered why I was standing at the top of this great mountain. My nerves snapped back and reminded me of the expectation for my performance on this test. I could hear my mother’s words ring in my ears, “You are being watched.”
“Yes ma’me, I’m here for the test.” My voice raised up as I continued on, “I have a bit of a cold and my hearing isn’t so good.” Did I sound like Mary Poppins?
“ I see.” The woman said looking over the brim of her glasses and down her nose at me. I smiled and with my hands behind my back I secretly picked quietly at my pinky nail.
After gathering pertinent information, this woman, named Miss Smith, escorted me down a long hallway into a dreary cold classroom. The desks and chairs were too small for me, but I sat down anyway. A few younger children also sat waiting for the test to begin.
As I waited, another girl, who was my size, was brought into the room and told to sit down.
She fussed, “ Well, I think I am too tall for these desks.”
Miss Smith looked at the girl, then at the desks, and then ended her gaze on me.
“Oh, yes dear, these desks are too small for you. And you dear, you look a bit crowded in that tiny chair.”
Again, I blinked back at this woman, unsure who she was talking to or what to do.
“ Yes dear, I am speaking to you. Don’t stare, up out of that desk and wait by the door. I’ll be back after I have Mr. Wilson bring in bigger chairs.”
“And desks,” the blond girl added. Miss Smith paused her long glance on us before she turned and walked out.
We were left standing by the door, with a dozen little eyes looking at us. I felt my ears burn and my heart pound as my anger meter rose. Who was this bossy girl?
“I’m Liza Stetson and I’m in fourth grade.”
“I’m in fourth grade too and I’d remember that you are presenting yourself to this school.”
“ I don’t worry about that, my father is a lawyer.”
The children in the room were still watching us. I wanted to yell at them to turn around in their chairs and stop being rude.
We finally were settled down and took the test. The standardized test was long and boring. I hated taking it. However, the writing sample was fun. I wrote a story that I was sure would grant me an acceptance letter.
When the test was over, we were herded into a nice room where they served cookies and juice. I filled up my plate as did most of the children and sat at a table eating. Maybe it was more like stuffing my face, because we never had cookies at my house. My father was a dentist.
Liza Stetson sat at a table with some second graders and told them all about how her father was a lawyer and that she was very rich. Slowly the room cleared out and I was the last one sitting.
To avoid any further embarrassment for being the last one still there, I decided to leave. I simply walked out of the room, down the hallway and out the front door. No one was around to notice or even care. I climbed down that great staircase and sat on a bench in front of the street to wait for my mother.
Liza Stetson came bouncing down the steps. I could hear her talking a mile a minute, before she rounded the corner onto the sidewalk. When she saw me sitting on the bench she pulled on her mother to lean down and she whispered to her. Her mother turned and looked at me and smiled. I looked away and tried to pretend they weren’t there.
They got into a white Subaru and drove away, leaving me sitting alone on the bench. A small breeze blew the great rodenron bushes behind me. I looked at my shiney black shoes. The thin leather and stocking didn’t keep the brisk cold off my feet. It was getting chilly and it was starting to get dark.
I heard heels clicking down the stairs. Miss Smith scuffed her shoes on the sidewalk as she stopped abruptly when she saw me.
“Dear, you are still here? I thought all the children left.”
“My mother told me to wait here for her. I live far away, so I think it is taking her a long time to get here.”
“You live in Hillstown, that is only twenty minutes away.”
Just then my mother’s Jeep pulled up. She stopped in front of the bench. I stood up,” My mother’s here, so good-bye.” And I climbed into the jeep.
My mother smiled and waved at Miss Smith.
“What does that old maid want?” she asked still smiling as she drove away.
“I don’t know.”
“ She was supervising the test?”
“Yes.”
Then she asked me several questions about the test and how I thought I did. I answered the same questions at least three times until I finally said, “I already told you that.” She mumbled something and we drove the rest of the way home silently.
A few weeks later, when the test results were in, my parents went to the school for an interview. My file was reviewed and the admissions officer stressed how unusual it was for a child to write a story like I had. My mother affirmed them that I had concocted this story on my own.
“Spirit is a very independent thinker and clearly she wants to go to this school based on the fantasy she presented in her story.” I had written a whole story about the moment I got my acceptance letter to this fancy private school. I imagined it to be the most marvelous moment ever.
I know my father sat in his chair and said nothing.
When my parents got home from the interview, my mother eased my nerves by confirming that I had been accepted to the school. I felt more relieved than ecstatic, as I had imagined I would be when I wrote the story.
I suppose my overly active imagination had served its purpose in this case. How often I would imagine things to be a certain way and then they would be less exciting when they really happened. This time however, it was about getting into the school to please my mother. There was no music playing when I opened the letter, in fact there was no letter at all, at least, I never saw one.
Maybe at this school I wouldn’t be made fun of for impulsively pretending to be a Victorian lady or a princess transported back in time to a magical age when everything was lovely.