Cliche'd Youth
Hindsight is twenty-twenty. You hear it, but it just doesn't sink in. Until you look back. Then comes the journey. Emotional swampings. Insight. Success.
The bigger you are the harder you fall. I never wanted to be tall, but beside the little Japanese girls, the Malaysian girls, the Chinese girls, the Thai girls, the Indian girls... well. We were friends, although they seemed to egg me on and then revel in my troubles. Dared to change a recital routine, I did. The entire routine, really. All the steps, all the words. Turning into the mock rock singer instead of the cultural example I had practiced so hard to become. I remember my mother's big eyes, the Head Mistress's tight lips, my teacher covering her mouth with horrified hands. I laughed so hard I wet my pants. So did my friends. Trouble? Ohyes. Narc out the instigators during the grueling interrogation? Never. Glee. Loyalty. Pride.
The argument afterwards with my mother lasted for hours. "Why are you so stubborn?" she finally spit at me, throwing up her hands in rank despair. "Because I'm proud," I retorted, chin jutted out and shoulders thrust back in determined rebellion. "Of WHAT?!" came her scathing reply as she looked me up and down, the implied "nothing" painfully obvious; palpable and all too effective in bursting my bubble. Did I cry? Ohyes. Did she see it? Never. Shame. Anger. Tenacity.
It's all the same, really. Fear of retribution. Fear of exposure. Fear of retaliation. Fear of punishment. Consequences.
Face your fears. Those bats were huge. And they ruled the dark. Outside my window, under the street lamps, they darted in and out - feeding. My goal was the walk to the track, pre-dawn - to save my father the sacrifice (for that one day) of rousing at four thirty to drive me the three miles for that precious hour before school started. The hour I lived for each day - exercising race horses I had no business being on top of. A sacrifice he - not a morning person - had made almost every day for three years. Intentioned generosity backfired. Did I try? Ohyes. Did it work? Never. Loathing. Self-pity. Sorrow.
When he came looking for me my arms were wrapped around a telephone pole in a death grip and my face was black with creosote, one of only two precious shirts ruined. He pried me loose and picked me up, his hand on the back of my head as I buried my face in his neck, sobbing then. "It's alright... It's the thought that counts, funny Valentine." Had I meant to succeed? Ohyes. Did I? Never. Humiliation. Remorse. Failure.
His shirt had become as ruined as my own, and we would wear them at the same times and laugh as we did yard work, cleaned the basement, painted. He never mentioned the incident but we both knew the other remembered. My mother suffered in silence.
It's all the same, really. Fear of bats. Fear of bugs. Fear of snakes, bears, alligators, monsters under the bed. Phobias.
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. That diving board was so high up I had to squint to make out the last step. Everyone had conquered it in my age category. Except me. Already ahead of schedule, I wondered if it mattered at all. My mother pushed me; my father said for me to take my time, go at my own pace, it wasn't important. Heights. He knew. Torn. Stubborn. Determined.
The day I finally decided was "the" day, I wore the one-piece. The one that wouldn't come down if I dove, and wouldn't insult me with the wedgie of death if I jumped. I told no one, making my own way silently across the rough cement to the straight-up climb. I looked back at my father twice. He wasn't paying attention and so I went on, one step at a time. The going up was easy and soon I was standing on the unsteady platform looking down at the water thirty feet below. It looked slick, solid; everyone staring up at me by then.
I stood there frozen in time and one-dimensional chaos. Minutes passed like hours. Calls eventually penetrated my mush-brain. Jump! You can do it! It's now or never! I turned to find my dad in the crowd and he smiled, turning one palm up at me. I uncurled my rock-hard toes from over the edge of the board and backed up to and then down the stairs amid the hushed whispers of the club - adults and youth alike. I threw up. Quease. Apathy. Acceptance.
I tried again the next month and made the one mandatory jump after a forty-seven minute, knee-locked, ragged breathed, tortured agony of sheer determination. They cheered as I climbed out of the always-warm water. I ignored them all. Did I understand? Ohyes. Did I forgive it? Never. Rage. Understanding. Resentment.
It's all the same, really. Fear of heights. Fear of closed spaces. Fear of the dark. Fear of windows, escalators, trains, planes, automobiles. Neuroses.
Loose lips sink ships. I never asked to be a victim, no one does. I never expected it to be him. I never saw it coming. When you are eight years old and have lived the perfect life, in perfect places, with perfect parents and siblings, when you have always been happy and secure and protected, you don't look. You are warned, but it makes no sense, there is no point of reference, it isn't real. Then afterwards, you are changed, never to be the same again. You slip inside yourself, become quiet. You prefer to be alone, to go nowhere, to find ways to forget, push it all away, distract yourself. You think no one notices, but you find out eventually that they do. Pain. Uncertainty. Loss.
Don't tell. They will say it is your own fault. Don't make any noise. You will wake the other children. Don't move. I am stronger than you. Don't bite your lips or force your heels against the wall. There will be marks, and then questions. Don't tell me no! Yes.
The day he came over unexpectedly, I was reading in my room. He asked my mother if I could go to the store with him. Of course. When she came to get me I told her I didn't want to go, but she pushed it. You need to get out of the house, you need some air, I will let you get French fries. I screamed at her that I was not going, and in her silent shock she went back to the kitchen and told him I wasn't feeling well and for him to go on without me.
When she came back into my room and sat on my bed, I kept reading, not looking up at her, barely breathing, my eyes unfocused on the words. She didn't beat around the bush, asking me straight out what had happened to change my eager affection and willingness to drop anything to go anywhere with him. She left no room for lies. I threw the book on the floor and stood up on the bed, bouncing slightly as I yelled my answers, one sentence at a time. I don't like him anymore. Why not? I just don't. Did he touch you? Yes! She demanded details, I gave them. She held me close to her a long time as she cried her own agonies, rocking me gently, stroking my hair.
It is not your fault. It will be alright. I understand. He will be sorry. Did I believe her? No, no, no, no. Did I believe her when I grew up? Ohyes.
When she called my father at work, I cringed. When he was home in seven minutes, I squirmed. When he came to talk to me himself, he knew I wasn't able and he hugged me roughly, tousled my hair, tickled my ribs. I screamed, and he knew we would never play that game again.
I learned the lessons: Don't tell, be quiet, be still, leave no marks, you are not allowed to say no. I unlearned them later. But by then, other damages had been done. There will not be any more. Did they try to help me, from the beginning? Ohyes. Did I remember? Never.
I learned later that my father had gone to the store, found the man, gave him a choice after smashing his face. Once. He chose option two and I never saw him again. Did I feel guilty? Ohyes. Did I grow up, take responsibility for who I am instead of using blame to remain a victim? Ohyes. Was it easy? Never.
It's all the same, really. Sudden fear in an unexpected situation. Nibbling fear of the unknown. Silent fear of change, difference, being out of our self-imposed comfort zones. Anxiety. Psychosis. Fear... and Fear of Fear.
Cliche. It's a crying shame that too many things become so.
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