The day finally arrived. Claire, two and half years old, was finally introduced to some great artists: Van Gogh, Botticelli, Leonardo de Vinci, Picasso and more.
You must be thinking, "It’s about time! I learned about art history when I was one year old." I guess we are just not pushing our children as much as we should these days. Claire’s arts and crafts teacher arrived with her important assistant, the art historian. If you remember, the teacher needed a specialist for her class of three toddlers. First, the art historian (today I am convinced she has never worked with children) laid out portraits including Mona Lisa, Van Gogh’s self portrait, the Venus, one from Picasso and a couple others. Then she asked the children, “Which one do you like best?”
Claire, very enthused, proceeded to show me a new boo boo on her finger. Angélique stared blankly without contributing much to the discussion. The art historian posed her question again; confused she wasn’t getting any answers, “Which style do you like the best?” (Maybe using the word style would elicit a bigger response.) Then she explained the styles and asked the children to choose their favorite one.
Trying to engage Claire, I pointed to the 6 or so portraits in front of her. “Claire? Claire? Which one do you like?” First she chose Picasso, then she chose Botticelli. She wore a bewildered look on her face as if to say, “Hey! Where’s the paint? When are we going to paint?” Inside I was bubbling with rage thinking, “They are little kids, let them have fun. Why does it have to be so intellectual already?”
The art historian explained to the children the following, “You are going to make your own portrait. You can choose the eyes, ears, mouth, and nose from any of the portraits you like. First you need to draw a big circle on your piece of paper.” She handed out a piece of paper. Claire automatically started scribbling.
My friend who teaches pre-school told me teaching circles is good for children 3-4 years old but that it takes a lot of practice and it is very hard. She does weeks of activities just to help children understand what a circle is. For example, she plays games using balls and then has a specific activity of making balls with clay or painting circles. She may work on the whole concept for months. So, when Claire was asked to draw a circle from thin air, I held my breath. “Claire. Let’s draw a circle.” I handed her a pencil. She began to scribble dark vertical lines. “Let me help you,” I took her pencil and drew a big circle that was supposed to serve as her portrait’s face.
Then, we were told to let each child cut out the eyes, ears, mouth of each portrait in front of them. Claire is just learning to hold a pair of scissors and is excited to just open and close them. To actually use them efficiently is at least a year or two away. “This activity is hard for Claire,” I said trying to just state the obvious, “she is not capable of cutting things out with scissors yet. She is still learning to hold them.”
The assistant looked concerned. Had she prepared an activity that surpassed a two and half year old capacities? Yes. But, the teacher was not going to let me rain on their portrait parade.
“The goal is for her to get acquainted with the scissors. You can help her.” I let Claire pick and choose her portrait’s eyes, ears, nose, and mouth and let her hold her scissors and attempt to cut the paper along side me while I cut bits of the face out for her. It was hard getting her to pick these things out, she was uncommitted to the entire portrait concept. She enjoyed using a paint brush and glue though the concept of where eyes and other pieces go was not registering nor of any interest. I let her do as she wished since there was enough structure to stifle any creative fire still alive.
The assistant came over and tried to reason with Claire, “Look, Claire. You see, you have two eyes and here you have a nose, and then your mouth. So, where do you think her mouth goes?” Claire listened intently and then glued bits of paper that were scraps of rectangles and strips and glued them this way and that, unconcerned that her portrait had no mouth and the eyes weren’t where they should be.
Soon the teacher came over to us. She was persistent in Claire learning to cut and put things together in a logical manner. She sat Claire on her lap and helped her open and shut the scissors ad nausea and made her cut out a mouth and then a neck which she felt was very important for the portrait.
My pre-school teacher friend told me making portraits is an activity for much older children, kindergarten level and older. She told me the whole concept of a face takes months and lots of time. Claire focused on painting with glue over and over until the entire paper was shiny and resembled nothing close to a portrait. Tziki’s portrait was spectacular because the teacher insisted on everything being precisely so. The teacher announced the goal is just for the children to become aware of faces and how to put them together.
Several weeks ago, I made a reference to my friend Jeeves that all French coloring books have two pictures on each page, one is the picture un-colored for the child to color, and the other picture is colored so the child can copy it and do it correctly. I absolutely hate this! Jeeves told me the French are extremely influenced by the philosopher Descartes who believed in taking things apart, analyzing them, and then putting them back together. Descartes was one of the first people to compile an encyclopedia.
Seeing all this structure enforced in a simple toddler’s arts and crafts class may reflect these concepts. Or, another theory is simply that the teachers are not trained in pre-school education. However, it’s easy enough to talk to people who are competent to see what is appropriate, don’t you think? These beliefs of coloring in the lines, copying something color by color and focusing on a finished product makes me feel like I need to enforce originality and creativity even more to tip the balances back to something “healthy.”
I’m so close to pulling Claire out of this class, but if I do, then I should at least tell the teacher why. Will I seem mean and judgmental? And if I do seem that way, does it even matter? If we stay, Claire will be doing projects out of her league. Now is the time for her to have fun, use her hands, smear paint around without an agenda, feel sticky glue dry on her hands and enjoy the sensation of peeling it off. I think my true desire is to just get back to basics and enjoy the simple things. Why complicate things?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Le Coq
Do I really need to write about the dog shit problem again? I know it seems like an obsession, but if I just come up with a couple likely theories for why there is so much, then maybe I can assuage my resentment.
Where I live, 90% of my time is consecrated to watching where I step. In my neighborhood, there are some sidewalks I have actually written off as not fit for pedestrians and I prefer to walk at-risk in the street. (Does this mean I’d rather get hit by a car then step in shit? Hmmm, an interesting thought to ponder) Our neighborhood is “nice,” but still, someone’s dog shat in front of our door the other morning. My husband luckily avoided it, then got our hose and sprayed it off onto the street. He was livid. “This means our neighbor walked his dog this morning and actually let his dog stop and shit right in front of our door,” he shook his head trying to wrap his mind around the neighborly love.
My neighbor (not the one who owns the dog), owns her house and takes vacations often to ski in the Alpes or swim in the warm seas off of Sardinia with her husband and two children. Recently she said to me, “You know, this neighborhood has a lot of money. It is very sought after.” But she said it as if she was somehow not one of them because she is a teacher (and in France, it is a wide belief that it is much better to be a civil servant than some private corporate money-making fuck face).
That being said, I was trying to come up with a theory regarding the “shit = nice neighborhood” equation and figured maybe if our neighborhood looked neat and clean, the neighbors would feel guilty since nice and neat = money = bad person. So, it’s better to cover the wealth with shit…dress it down a little, you know? Then we’ll feel okay about it. Although the “we’re not worthy” idea is not very French, pretending to be poor when you have money is very French so this theory is plausible.
There is the Emperor’s New Clothes theory. If no one talks about the shit, there is no shit unless someone with balls says there is and then the rest of us can agree. But, I think there has to be some deeper connection, a type of Utopian poop harmony. A deep rooted almost sacred belief we might never fully understand, like the holy Indian cows and the joy their people get in lighting the dung on fire and then using their hands to waft the fumes into their faces.
Yesterday, my English friend, Jeeves and I were walking down the street, garbage whirling around our feet, poop smudged here and there on the sidewalks. In an attempt to throw away a candy wrapper, Jeeves missed the garbage bin. His wrapper began to merrily roll down the street. I think I even heard it singing a tune.
“Oh, damn!” said Jeeves.
”I don’t think it’ll make much a difference if you leave it there,” I said.
“I’m not going to pick it up,“ he explained, “I don’t want to look silly.” He said something to this effect. But, you could tell it did play a little on his conscious.
A French person would have enjoyed haphazardly chucking his wrapper into the land of “someone else.”
Getting back to my neighborhood, the other day as I was pushing Claire in her stroller, uphill during le mistral (super strong winds) and Eva held my hand and the two of us dodged poop together, a gust of wind blew some plastic bags into our faces and then the bags wrapped themselves around the stroller wheels. I cursed the garbage while Eva and I tried to free the wheels. And then that remark from my neighbor popped into my head again, “This is a very sought after neighborhood.”
So, I couldn’t help but raise this topic while my husband sprayed the shit off the sidewalk in front of our door the other morning. “Is this a rich neighborhood?” I asked. “Marie said people here have loads of money. Is this supposed to be a nice neighborhood?”
“This is not a fancy area. It is nice and affordable for middle-class families. That is why it is sought after. God, I hate when people make comments like your friend. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You know where the fancy areas are, we visited them.”
“I know, but, I’m just wondering what a French person’s standard of nice is. Sometimes this feels like fucking third world,” I said. After living in shiny Orange County and clean Scottsdale, my standards are nothing like a French person but still, could it be that contrasted? I mean is this it? Is this “as good as it gets”?
So, I need to keep searching for some explanation to calm my nerves. I want an answer that will let me say, “Yes! Now I get it. That’s why it’s like this.” So, I have one last theory and it is related to the French mascot, le coq, the rooster. First, let’s look at how France chose le coq. Who came up with this mascot? Was it a round table full of noblemen preparing their soldiers for a battle?
“Beloved knights and warriors, we have a battle to fight. Our colored flag is no longer enough. We need a mascot like the other territories! The English have the bulldog. The Welsh have…the leek! Let’s choose something fitting for us.”
“Here! Here!,” agree the men.
“No matter what happens, we will remain impervious. No matter how many bloody bodies of our own we shall be standing amongst, we shall persevere. No matter how much human feces and waste are left in our path, we shall stand proud!”
“Yeah!Yeah!” scream the men.
“I anoint each one of you in oil…and his highness’ feces,” he holds up a golden platter with a mound of crap. “We shall sing even while standing in our own shit!”
The men whistle and cheer!
“Therefore, we choose le coq, the rooster, because the rooster is the only animal who still sings while standing in his own shit.”
“Here! Here!”
And voilà! I think I cracked the case. I feel better.
Where I live, 90% of my time is consecrated to watching where I step. In my neighborhood, there are some sidewalks I have actually written off as not fit for pedestrians and I prefer to walk at-risk in the street. (Does this mean I’d rather get hit by a car then step in shit? Hmmm, an interesting thought to ponder) Our neighborhood is “nice,” but still, someone’s dog shat in front of our door the other morning. My husband luckily avoided it, then got our hose and sprayed it off onto the street. He was livid. “This means our neighbor walked his dog this morning and actually let his dog stop and shit right in front of our door,” he shook his head trying to wrap his mind around the neighborly love.
My neighbor (not the one who owns the dog), owns her house and takes vacations often to ski in the Alpes or swim in the warm seas off of Sardinia with her husband and two children. Recently she said to me, “You know, this neighborhood has a lot of money. It is very sought after.” But she said it as if she was somehow not one of them because she is a teacher (and in France, it is a wide belief that it is much better to be a civil servant than some private corporate money-making fuck face).
That being said, I was trying to come up with a theory regarding the “shit = nice neighborhood” equation and figured maybe if our neighborhood looked neat and clean, the neighbors would feel guilty since nice and neat = money = bad person. So, it’s better to cover the wealth with shit…dress it down a little, you know? Then we’ll feel okay about it. Although the “we’re not worthy” idea is not very French, pretending to be poor when you have money is very French so this theory is plausible.
There is the Emperor’s New Clothes theory. If no one talks about the shit, there is no shit unless someone with balls says there is and then the rest of us can agree. But, I think there has to be some deeper connection, a type of Utopian poop harmony. A deep rooted almost sacred belief we might never fully understand, like the holy Indian cows and the joy their people get in lighting the dung on fire and then using their hands to waft the fumes into their faces.
Yesterday, my English friend, Jeeves and I were walking down the street, garbage whirling around our feet, poop smudged here and there on the sidewalks. In an attempt to throw away a candy wrapper, Jeeves missed the garbage bin. His wrapper began to merrily roll down the street. I think I even heard it singing a tune.
“Oh, damn!” said Jeeves.
”I don’t think it’ll make much a difference if you leave it there,” I said.
“I’m not going to pick it up,“ he explained, “I don’t want to look silly.” He said something to this effect. But, you could tell it did play a little on his conscious.
A French person would have enjoyed haphazardly chucking his wrapper into the land of “someone else.”
Getting back to my neighborhood, the other day as I was pushing Claire in her stroller, uphill during le mistral (super strong winds) and Eva held my hand and the two of us dodged poop together, a gust of wind blew some plastic bags into our faces and then the bags wrapped themselves around the stroller wheels. I cursed the garbage while Eva and I tried to free the wheels. And then that remark from my neighbor popped into my head again, “This is a very sought after neighborhood.”
So, I couldn’t help but raise this topic while my husband sprayed the shit off the sidewalk in front of our door the other morning. “Is this a rich neighborhood?” I asked. “Marie said people here have loads of money. Is this supposed to be a nice neighborhood?”
“This is not a fancy area. It is nice and affordable for middle-class families. That is why it is sought after. God, I hate when people make comments like your friend. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You know where the fancy areas are, we visited them.”
“I know, but, I’m just wondering what a French person’s standard of nice is. Sometimes this feels like fucking third world,” I said. After living in shiny Orange County and clean Scottsdale, my standards are nothing like a French person but still, could it be that contrasted? I mean is this it? Is this “as good as it gets”?
So, I need to keep searching for some explanation to calm my nerves. I want an answer that will let me say, “Yes! Now I get it. That’s why it’s like this.” So, I have one last theory and it is related to the French mascot, le coq, the rooster. First, let’s look at how France chose le coq. Who came up with this mascot? Was it a round table full of noblemen preparing their soldiers for a battle?
“Beloved knights and warriors, we have a battle to fight. Our colored flag is no longer enough. We need a mascot like the other territories! The English have the bulldog. The Welsh have…the leek! Let’s choose something fitting for us.”
“Here! Here!,” agree the men.
“No matter what happens, we will remain impervious. No matter how many bloody bodies of our own we shall be standing amongst, we shall persevere. No matter how much human feces and waste are left in our path, we shall stand proud!”
“Yeah!Yeah!” scream the men.
“I anoint each one of you in oil…and his highness’ feces,” he holds up a golden platter with a mound of crap. “We shall sing even while standing in our own shit!”
The men whistle and cheer!
“Therefore, we choose le coq, the rooster, because the rooster is the only animal who still sings while standing in his own shit.”
“Here! Here!”
And voilà! I think I cracked the case. I feel better.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Mona Lisa & Van Gaga
Yesterday while assisting my two and half year old daughter, Claire, in her arts and crafts class, I couldn’t help but overhear her teacher. Now, keep in mind, this is a class of three little girls between the ages of 2.5-3.5 years old. I have nothing against their teacher. This is the first time she has worked with children this age besides her own children, that is. Her experiences prior were mainly teaching sports to seniors and handicapped children. She runs her own non-profit organization and recently began offering art classes to all different age groups in several Marseillaise neighborhoods including the poorest ones.
We have done amazing projects with her, but they are all activities way beyond the capacity of a toddler. "What color do you want?" the teacher asks Claire. She doesn’t show Claire the choices available, she just asks as if Claire has a stock of colors in her head and can answer by saying, “I’d love a cobalt blue, please.” Claire cannot tell you if her socks are yellow or red though if you give her a choice between the two by showing her, she will say, “Ummm, that one!” and choose on her own.
Toddlers also don’t have the longest attention span either. So, half-way through one of her painting activities, Claire will put her paint brush down and say, “All done.” Then she gets off her chair and proceeds to run to and fro. Sometimes her tiny Madagascarian friend, Tziki, will join her and together they run from the door to the art table innumerous times while we, the mothers, finish their projects. In fact, the mothers must do about 80% of the work. This is fine as I enjoy doing something creative and colorful and tactile with Claire, but this class is not supposed to be a “Mommy & Me” deal, not really.
We’ve done elaborate decoupage projects, as well as mosaics, moldings of sand on canvas and the obligatory Christmas decorations. Once, their teacher handed out scissors and asked the children to cut tiny strips of paper. Just the control of using two fingers to open and close a tiny device surpasses most two and half year old abilities. Add the task of cutting a straight line and it is impossible. Therefore, the mothers did the cutting while the toddlers sat in their chairs swinging their legs. “I think scissors are a little hard for them,” I mentioned.
“Oh, the important thing is to expose them to as much as possible,” answered the teacher.
Fine by me. But in the end, the children watched us do their project. What happened to finger painting or merely gluing things in an unstructured way? Toddlers can collect leaves and sticks to make a collage, for example. But I am not the teacher.
The class passes relatively in silence as 2.5 year olds don’t speak too much. Sometimes I speak with the teacher and I’ve concluded Tziki’s mother is a mute. She does look up and smile sometimes and if you ask her a question, she will give you a one word answer.
Anyway, yesterday while Claire happily squeezed a tube of glue and Tziki was jumping up and down singing; the teacher started talking to her new assistant, a specialist in art history. (Note: It behooves all arts and crafts teachers to hire an art historian, especially when the class involves toddlers) Well, I overheard the most bizarre discussion. The assistant said, “I think we could teach a little more during the class instead of just having them do projects.”
“Oh, yes?” asked the teacher.
“Yes. For example, we could bring in some well-known portraits and expose the children to some real art.”
“Hmm. Yes, that could be interesting for them.”
“Like, we could show them Mona Lisa or Van Gogh and discuss it,” explained the assistant who obviously could not bare the lack of intellectual stimulation on her first day with toddlers. She continued her logic. “They could be learning a little more about art than just making things, you know?”
“Yeah. That’s a really good idea!” smiled the teacher.
In my head, I was saying, “Are you out of your bloody minds? Let our kids have fun, play, and touch and feel things, discover colors, textures. Why the need, now, for Van Gogh? Do you really think they’ll sit quietly and listen while you hold up a picture of Sir One Ear and explain style? Wake up! Do you think a 2.5 year old can discuss art?”
Claire herself is just beginning to speak in full sentences, a mixture of English and French, “C’est hot.” Or “Cat entre dans la maison!” (The cat has come into the house!) Of course, she also says all the simple things like “Poop” or “Mine” or the infamous, “Why?”
Maybe Tziki could look at the portrait of Van Gogh and say, “Man”, and then cry afterward if she is frightened or perhaps get up and start running back and forth.
I’m all for children listening to all styles of music or visiting an art expo and a museum. All for it! But, please don’t try to discuss it afterward, come on! Let our toddlers have their own experiences, simply. When did arts and crafts ever introduce art history? Even as adults, we do not expect nor want a lesson in art history after we finish a fucking coffee platter. Shut up! Let me just get my hands dirty and space out a little.
I’m curious to see how these two dames will pull it off. In fact, I remember Oprah had a children art teacher on her show once. She pointed out that children do not necessarily like “children art”, that is, yellow bears and dancing elephants. So, to prove her point, she propped up five or six posters on the set. Some were famous paintings like Monet and others were children themes. She asked several children from the audience to come up and stand by their favorite picture. Most of the children chose “real” art when given the choice. Now, these children were easily 7-11 years old and I am all for letting children choose their own art as I am for them to choose their own clothing.
In fact, Eva my five year old, is wearing a bikini top under her three long sleeve shirts today since it is winter and all. I guess I just don’t like the whole lecturing and discussing part of it all. ”Now Eva, you have chosen a red and striped bikini top made of a poly-cotton blend. How does it feel on your skin? What does the mix of red and white stripes do for you? Are you aware that Van Gogh liked red and white stripes too? What is that? You don’t know who Van Gogh is? Well, here is a portrait of him. You see? He chopped his ear off, he was…What is that? You want me to make a pony tail for you? But wait. I’m telling you about Van Gogh!”
I did make a comment, by the way. First, the teacher turned to me and said, “I think next week we’ll bring in some real art and talk about it. That could be really interesting.” So, I said, “Well, considering their age, I don’t know if they’ll really listen.” To which she replied, “Well, we’ll try and see.”
So, let’s see what happens next week, shall we?
We have done amazing projects with her, but they are all activities way beyond the capacity of a toddler. "What color do you want?" the teacher asks Claire. She doesn’t show Claire the choices available, she just asks as if Claire has a stock of colors in her head and can answer by saying, “I’d love a cobalt blue, please.” Claire cannot tell you if her socks are yellow or red though if you give her a choice between the two by showing her, she will say, “Ummm, that one!” and choose on her own.
Toddlers also don’t have the longest attention span either. So, half-way through one of her painting activities, Claire will put her paint brush down and say, “All done.” Then she gets off her chair and proceeds to run to and fro. Sometimes her tiny Madagascarian friend, Tziki, will join her and together they run from the door to the art table innumerous times while we, the mothers, finish their projects. In fact, the mothers must do about 80% of the work. This is fine as I enjoy doing something creative and colorful and tactile with Claire, but this class is not supposed to be a “Mommy & Me” deal, not really.
We’ve done elaborate decoupage projects, as well as mosaics, moldings of sand on canvas and the obligatory Christmas decorations. Once, their teacher handed out scissors and asked the children to cut tiny strips of paper. Just the control of using two fingers to open and close a tiny device surpasses most two and half year old abilities. Add the task of cutting a straight line and it is impossible. Therefore, the mothers did the cutting while the toddlers sat in their chairs swinging their legs. “I think scissors are a little hard for them,” I mentioned.
“Oh, the important thing is to expose them to as much as possible,” answered the teacher.
Fine by me. But in the end, the children watched us do their project. What happened to finger painting or merely gluing things in an unstructured way? Toddlers can collect leaves and sticks to make a collage, for example. But I am not the teacher.
The class passes relatively in silence as 2.5 year olds don’t speak too much. Sometimes I speak with the teacher and I’ve concluded Tziki’s mother is a mute. She does look up and smile sometimes and if you ask her a question, she will give you a one word answer.
Anyway, yesterday while Claire happily squeezed a tube of glue and Tziki was jumping up and down singing; the teacher started talking to her new assistant, a specialist in art history. (Note: It behooves all arts and crafts teachers to hire an art historian, especially when the class involves toddlers) Well, I overheard the most bizarre discussion. The assistant said, “I think we could teach a little more during the class instead of just having them do projects.”
“Oh, yes?” asked the teacher.
“Yes. For example, we could bring in some well-known portraits and expose the children to some real art.”
“Hmm. Yes, that could be interesting for them.”
“Like, we could show them Mona Lisa or Van Gogh and discuss it,” explained the assistant who obviously could not bare the lack of intellectual stimulation on her first day with toddlers. She continued her logic. “They could be learning a little more about art than just making things, you know?”
“Yeah. That’s a really good idea!” smiled the teacher.
In my head, I was saying, “Are you out of your bloody minds? Let our kids have fun, play, and touch and feel things, discover colors, textures. Why the need, now, for Van Gogh? Do you really think they’ll sit quietly and listen while you hold up a picture of Sir One Ear and explain style? Wake up! Do you think a 2.5 year old can discuss art?”
Claire herself is just beginning to speak in full sentences, a mixture of English and French, “C’est hot.” Or “Cat entre dans la maison!” (The cat has come into the house!) Of course, she also says all the simple things like “Poop” or “Mine” or the infamous, “Why?”
Maybe Tziki could look at the portrait of Van Gogh and say, “Man”, and then cry afterward if she is frightened or perhaps get up and start running back and forth.
I’m all for children listening to all styles of music or visiting an art expo and a museum. All for it! But, please don’t try to discuss it afterward, come on! Let our toddlers have their own experiences, simply. When did arts and crafts ever introduce art history? Even as adults, we do not expect nor want a lesson in art history after we finish a fucking coffee platter. Shut up! Let me just get my hands dirty and space out a little.
I’m curious to see how these two dames will pull it off. In fact, I remember Oprah had a children art teacher on her show once. She pointed out that children do not necessarily like “children art”, that is, yellow bears and dancing elephants. So, to prove her point, she propped up five or six posters on the set. Some were famous paintings like Monet and others were children themes. She asked several children from the audience to come up and stand by their favorite picture. Most of the children chose “real” art when given the choice. Now, these children were easily 7-11 years old and I am all for letting children choose their own art as I am for them to choose their own clothing.
In fact, Eva my five year old, is wearing a bikini top under her three long sleeve shirts today since it is winter and all. I guess I just don’t like the whole lecturing and discussing part of it all. ”Now Eva, you have chosen a red and striped bikini top made of a poly-cotton blend. How does it feel on your skin? What does the mix of red and white stripes do for you? Are you aware that Van Gogh liked red and white stripes too? What is that? You don’t know who Van Gogh is? Well, here is a portrait of him. You see? He chopped his ear off, he was…What is that? You want me to make a pony tail for you? But wait. I’m telling you about Van Gogh!”
I did make a comment, by the way. First, the teacher turned to me and said, “I think next week we’ll bring in some real art and talk about it. That could be really interesting.” So, I said, “Well, considering their age, I don’t know if they’ll really listen.” To which she replied, “Well, we’ll try and see.”
So, let’s see what happens next week, shall we?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Janel Delgado
Janel Delgado wanted to kick my ass. Everyone was telling me so. I had never spoken with her before. I was a sophomore in high school and she a senior. I had no idea what I had done to her but apparently she wanted to kill me.
“I heard she broke someone’s ribs once,” someone said to me.
Janel was six feet tall if not taller. She was a “new waver” as we used to say. She had long black permed hair that she used to spray up real high like Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” days. Janel was also easily 200 pounds. She had an entourage of boys who followed her around the halls of our high school. Despite her weight, she was actually very pretty.
Her brother had been killed on graduation night by a drunk driver a year or two earlier. He had been beautiful and popular and was much missed. He was gone before I ever started high school so I had never known him though I was familiar with his photograph. Word had it he and Janel were best friends. She was the “girl who lost her brother.” It was part of her identity.
It just so happened that Janel and I hung out with the same crowd when we’d go out dancing. Our only option was Fort Ram. The bar was exceptionally for teens on Sundays when there was no school on Monday. And you could smoke there. The dance floor was a big wooden square surrounded by long tables and benches. The four sides of the square coincidentally served as population markers. One side had all the New Wavers, a second side for all the Mexicans, a third side for all the hicks, and the fourth side for all the jocks and popular kids. As soon as you walked into Fort Ram, you knew which side to go to.
I met many boys at Fort Ram. I made out with punks, skin heads, guys adorned with earrings, tattoos and Mohawks, skaters, anyone who hung out with the “misfit” crowd on our side of the room was game. The gay guys made up our population too. They were the best dressed, best dancers, and most sexy but they were only interested in themselves and mainly in the closet. They were well-respected in our group for their exquisite taste in fashion and music.
Anyway, back at school I had a zoology class with Janel. My best friends at the time, Kayla and Sidney, sat on either side of me in class. Janel and her boys sat directly behind us. My friends were scared of Janel so they would laugh every time she’d aim and shoot her finger at the back of my head and say “boom.”
“Don’t laugh,” I told my friends once. “That’s not very cool. I wouldn’t laugh if she hated you.”.
“She’s never done anything to me,” Kayla said, “I have no reason to hate her.”
The fact Janel wanted to kill me, didn’t seem to influence Kayla at all. Maybe she figured if she laughed, Janel wouldn’t hate her too. Towards the end of zoology class, I couldn’t take Janel’s fake shooting and my friends giggling. So, I got up to go to the bathroom and just before I stepped outside the classroom, I abruptly turned around, stared at Janel and gave her the bird. I quietly walked into the bathroom and closed the door to my stall. As I sat down, I heard the bathroom door slam open. Not a sound after that. I knew Janel was waiting for me.
I opened the stall door and proceeded to wash my hands, very aware of her presence by the sinks. She moved towards me, towering over me and staring down. I pretended she wasn’t there, not sure what to do.
“You wanna do that to my face?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Flip me off!” she bellowed.
“You actually think I’d flip you off?” I said conjuring up something plausible. “I was flipping off my friends,” I said but then losing control and all sanity added, “You actually think I’d waste my time on you?”
Her eyes dilated. She looked at me not knowing what to do next. “You better watch it,” she said and left the bathroom abruptly.
I waited a couple minutes before returning to the classroom. It wasn’t as if we could both walk in together. When I finally came back, the teacher looked at me petrified with fear and hung up the classroom phone. She had been calling for help, I was later told. All my classmates were staring at me expecting a bloody nose, anything, something.
I calmly returned to my seat as if nothing happened. After class, Kayla said, “Janel jumped out of her seat when you left and said ‘I’m gonna kill her!' Everyone was really scared.”
“Oh, my god,” added Sidney with his hands covering his mouth. “You are so lucky you didn’t get hurt. I was so worried,” and he truly looked like he had suffered a mild heart attack.
I just sat there speechless, my adrenaline still pumping. I imagined Janel leaping from her seat enraged. The class must have come to a grinding halt while we were in the bathroom. That was interesting. Though, sadly no one had been brave enough to come looking for us.
Several weeks later, we were all at Fort Ram. I was dancing to some new wave song, my head cocked to the side, an expression of new wave sadness mixed with a little lethargy. Someone came up to me, “Hey. Janel wants to talk to you.”
“Huh? Why?” I asked.
“She says you keep looking at her.”
I looked over and Janel was seated on a big long table, her feet up on the bench. She beckoned me over with her index finger like a villain in a children story. I walked up to her and waited for her to say something.
“Leave us alone,” she said to the crowd that had gathered around. After our friends walked away she said, “Come here.” She pulled me dangerously close to her. I was standing between her knees. “I’ve gotta talk to you,” she said.
“Okay, what is it?” I asked not knowing what in the world she wanted.
“Do you have any idea why I’m such a bitch to you?” she asked.
“Not really. Cuz you hate me?”
“No. I don’t hate you,” she paused. “I’m jealous of you.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” I was not expecting that explanation from her.
“Yeah. You’re so cute and pretty. I’m jealous of you. I know it’s stupid. I’m really sorry. You seem cool. Do you forgive me?”
“Um,” this was so bizarre, “sure, okay.”
“Friends?” she raised her eyebrows.
“Okay.”
“Give me a hug,” she enclosed me into a big mushy warm embrace.
“Let’s hang out,” she said, “come over tomorrow. I’m having a little get together,” she scribbled down her number and handed me a piece of paper. “Call me tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said. I turned and walked over to my friends who had been gawking at the entire event.
“What was that all about?” asked Kayla.
“We’re friends now. She wants to hang out,” I smiled feeling really cool. The next day I told my mom I’d be going to Janel’s house.
“Janel? The girl who wants to kill you?” asked my mother.
“We’re friends now. We made up.”
My mother turned and looked at me. “How did that happen?” she waited to hear my story.
“She was just jealous of me. She thinks I’m cute.”
“Wow. She told you that?” my mother asked surprised.
“Yep.”
“Okay. Be careful,” she said.
“Don’t worry. She’s cool,” I smiled thinking of my new friend. That evening at Janel’s was pretty mellow. I was drinking like a fish with the others but Janel wasn’t. She told me about her brother and was nervous I wanted to drive home after drinking. She told me to stay the night but I talked her into letting me go. She reminded me of how she lost her brother and how adamantly against drunk driving she was.
“I’m fine,” I said. I don’t know how I managed to get home safely. Today, I still thank my lucky stars I made it home without hurting anyone and without hurting myself.
Janel and I hung out a couple more times and then she graduated and began working at a make-up counter in a department store. She wanted to save her money and go to fashion design school. Once in a while, we would run into each other. She was always tough but always said hi.
I think back and still find it hard to believe someone with such a strong personality and presence could actually have been jealous of me. I don’t think I told anyone what she said to me that night at Fort Ram. After all, she was someone people both feared and admired. But to me she was Janel Delgado, the gentle giant.
“I heard she broke someone’s ribs once,” someone said to me.
Janel was six feet tall if not taller. She was a “new waver” as we used to say. She had long black permed hair that she used to spray up real high like Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” days. Janel was also easily 200 pounds. She had an entourage of boys who followed her around the halls of our high school. Despite her weight, she was actually very pretty.
Her brother had been killed on graduation night by a drunk driver a year or two earlier. He had been beautiful and popular and was much missed. He was gone before I ever started high school so I had never known him though I was familiar with his photograph. Word had it he and Janel were best friends. She was the “girl who lost her brother.” It was part of her identity.
It just so happened that Janel and I hung out with the same crowd when we’d go out dancing. Our only option was Fort Ram. The bar was exceptionally for teens on Sundays when there was no school on Monday. And you could smoke there. The dance floor was a big wooden square surrounded by long tables and benches. The four sides of the square coincidentally served as population markers. One side had all the New Wavers, a second side for all the Mexicans, a third side for all the hicks, and the fourth side for all the jocks and popular kids. As soon as you walked into Fort Ram, you knew which side to go to.
I met many boys at Fort Ram. I made out with punks, skin heads, guys adorned with earrings, tattoos and Mohawks, skaters, anyone who hung out with the “misfit” crowd on our side of the room was game. The gay guys made up our population too. They were the best dressed, best dancers, and most sexy but they were only interested in themselves and mainly in the closet. They were well-respected in our group for their exquisite taste in fashion and music.
Anyway, back at school I had a zoology class with Janel. My best friends at the time, Kayla and Sidney, sat on either side of me in class. Janel and her boys sat directly behind us. My friends were scared of Janel so they would laugh every time she’d aim and shoot her finger at the back of my head and say “boom.”
“Don’t laugh,” I told my friends once. “That’s not very cool. I wouldn’t laugh if she hated you.”.
“She’s never done anything to me,” Kayla said, “I have no reason to hate her.”
The fact Janel wanted to kill me, didn’t seem to influence Kayla at all. Maybe she figured if she laughed, Janel wouldn’t hate her too. Towards the end of zoology class, I couldn’t take Janel’s fake shooting and my friends giggling. So, I got up to go to the bathroom and just before I stepped outside the classroom, I abruptly turned around, stared at Janel and gave her the bird. I quietly walked into the bathroom and closed the door to my stall. As I sat down, I heard the bathroom door slam open. Not a sound after that. I knew Janel was waiting for me.
I opened the stall door and proceeded to wash my hands, very aware of her presence by the sinks. She moved towards me, towering over me and staring down. I pretended she wasn’t there, not sure what to do.
“You wanna do that to my face?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Flip me off!” she bellowed.
“You actually think I’d flip you off?” I said conjuring up something plausible. “I was flipping off my friends,” I said but then losing control and all sanity added, “You actually think I’d waste my time on you?”
Her eyes dilated. She looked at me not knowing what to do next. “You better watch it,” she said and left the bathroom abruptly.
I waited a couple minutes before returning to the classroom. It wasn’t as if we could both walk in together. When I finally came back, the teacher looked at me petrified with fear and hung up the classroom phone. She had been calling for help, I was later told. All my classmates were staring at me expecting a bloody nose, anything, something.
I calmly returned to my seat as if nothing happened. After class, Kayla said, “Janel jumped out of her seat when you left and said ‘I’m gonna kill her!' Everyone was really scared.”
“Oh, my god,” added Sidney with his hands covering his mouth. “You are so lucky you didn’t get hurt. I was so worried,” and he truly looked like he had suffered a mild heart attack.
I just sat there speechless, my adrenaline still pumping. I imagined Janel leaping from her seat enraged. The class must have come to a grinding halt while we were in the bathroom. That was interesting. Though, sadly no one had been brave enough to come looking for us.
Several weeks later, we were all at Fort Ram. I was dancing to some new wave song, my head cocked to the side, an expression of new wave sadness mixed with a little lethargy. Someone came up to me, “Hey. Janel wants to talk to you.”
“Huh? Why?” I asked.
“She says you keep looking at her.”
I looked over and Janel was seated on a big long table, her feet up on the bench. She beckoned me over with her index finger like a villain in a children story. I walked up to her and waited for her to say something.
“Leave us alone,” she said to the crowd that had gathered around. After our friends walked away she said, “Come here.” She pulled me dangerously close to her. I was standing between her knees. “I’ve gotta talk to you,” she said.
“Okay, what is it?” I asked not knowing what in the world she wanted.
“Do you have any idea why I’m such a bitch to you?” she asked.
“Not really. Cuz you hate me?”
“No. I don’t hate you,” she paused. “I’m jealous of you.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” I was not expecting that explanation from her.
“Yeah. You’re so cute and pretty. I’m jealous of you. I know it’s stupid. I’m really sorry. You seem cool. Do you forgive me?”
“Um,” this was so bizarre, “sure, okay.”
“Friends?” she raised her eyebrows.
“Okay.”
“Give me a hug,” she enclosed me into a big mushy warm embrace.
“Let’s hang out,” she said, “come over tomorrow. I’m having a little get together,” she scribbled down her number and handed me a piece of paper. “Call me tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said. I turned and walked over to my friends who had been gawking at the entire event.
“What was that all about?” asked Kayla.
“We’re friends now. She wants to hang out,” I smiled feeling really cool. The next day I told my mom I’d be going to Janel’s house.
“Janel? The girl who wants to kill you?” asked my mother.
“We’re friends now. We made up.”
My mother turned and looked at me. “How did that happen?” she waited to hear my story.
“She was just jealous of me. She thinks I’m cute.”
“Wow. She told you that?” my mother asked surprised.
“Yep.”
“Okay. Be careful,” she said.
“Don’t worry. She’s cool,” I smiled thinking of my new friend. That evening at Janel’s was pretty mellow. I was drinking like a fish with the others but Janel wasn’t. She told me about her brother and was nervous I wanted to drive home after drinking. She told me to stay the night but I talked her into letting me go. She reminded me of how she lost her brother and how adamantly against drunk driving she was.
“I’m fine,” I said. I don’t know how I managed to get home safely. Today, I still thank my lucky stars I made it home without hurting anyone and without hurting myself.
Janel and I hung out a couple more times and then she graduated and began working at a make-up counter in a department store. She wanted to save her money and go to fashion design school. Once in a while, we would run into each other. She was always tough but always said hi.
I think back and still find it hard to believe someone with such a strong personality and presence could actually have been jealous of me. I don’t think I told anyone what she said to me that night at Fort Ram. After all, she was someone people both feared and admired. But to me she was Janel Delgado, the gentle giant.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A Spot for Pippi
There was a time in my life when I thought running a tea shop would be grand. It would be a dream place with big comfy seats and maybe a story hour for children, puppet shows, and of course tea and little cakes. I thought it would be helpful to actually work in a tea shop before going ahead with my plans and at the time, I was living in the Rocky Mountains.
My long exhausting year living at a private school and teaching “at risk” high school students was coming to a close. It was time for me to move on and try something new. I can only deal with a strong black kid holding me down and trying to choke me once this lifetime (“I was only playing,” he said when I panicked and started to cry), but that is a story for a different time. The point is I was looking at different horizons. Summer was approaching and I decided to quit the high school and try out a tea shop, see if that fit me better. My parents lived nearby the school and I was hoping to spend the summer up in the mountains with them. So, I needed a summer job lest my mother incessantly remind me that she “isn’t going to keep me busy.”
The little town had basically two tea shops. One of them was near my parent’s home. On no special day in particular, I decided to press my luck and visit one of the tea shops. The place was called “Pippi’s” and it was a little peach painted house-like café. I pulled into the small parking lot and went inside. The café was quiet at this time of day and Chlorox clean. An older woman with two long orange braids and denim overalls stood behind a glass counter filled with gourmet baked goods. Was this Pippi?
“Hello,” I looked at her golden croissants, shiny berry tarts and beyond her on a glass shelf little raspberry and brown colored packets of hot chocolate.
“May I help you?,” she stared at me quite coldly. She had an accent I couldn’t quite place. Definitely not born in the USA. I explained to her that I was interested in a summer job and wanted to know if she needed help.
“Do you have a minute to talk now?,” she asked while wiping her hands on her pants.
“Sure,” I said feeling like this was easier than expected.
“Let’s sit down,“ she stepped out and gestured to a little square table.
“So, where are you from?,” she asked me.
I had just finished teaching at-risk youth and the year prior had been teaching in Israel. When I told her this, she seemed to light up. “Israel?”, she beamed, “I lived there a long time ago. A long time ago.”
“Wow! Great!,” I didn’t press for too much information but she had that accent and I wanted to know where she was from. “Where are you from originally?,” I asked.
“I’m from Belgium.”
“Oh, so do you speak French or Flemish?,” I asked giving her a slow and deliberate sideways glance after my question had been asked, like that ugly red haired man from the Miami CSI show, just for effect (no I didn't do this but I did want to crack the accent mystery!)
“I used to speak all of those languages,” she said, “I don’t speak any of them now.”
This seemed strange to me and I remember vaguely feeling that maybe, just maybe, she had survived the Nazis. After all, she had lived in Israel, but I was definitely not going to ask her that.
“I work my girls very hard,” she said.
I nodded my head.
“We do everything here. We make the all the drinks, do the cleaning, wait tables, and we do the dishes. My girls and I do everything.”
“Okay,” I said. A quick vision of Ozzy Osborne entered my mind. Let me explain. Back in high school, I was a dish washer at Denny’s. I spent frantic hours in a dark little sink area spraying dishes (and occasionally my face and clothes) and loading them into the dishwasher at night. No matter how fast I would go, how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep up with the dishes. They just kept coming and coming. It was like being punished in hell. I left every night looking as if I had just been released from an insane asylum, sopping clothes, mascara rings under my eyes, my fingers all shriveled, hence my Ozzy image. But, I had survived. And that is why I said, “Okay,” to Pippi.
I started a week after our interview. Another girl was starting the same day, Ashley, and she had espresso machine experience. Both of us were under the scrutiny of Pippi. One of us was always doing something wrong. Pippi ran a tight ship. She could’ve been a drill sergeant.
“Did you charge that man for his coffee cup lid?,” she snarled while standing behind me. “You need to charge for lids or we’re going to lose money. Everything has to be accounted for. Lids are ten cents, cups are fifteen cents, butter is ten cents…” she would go on like this. She repeated all of this at least three times a day. I displayed great self-control by not blurting, “Okay! God! Enough!,” and wished I could roll my eyes, but I imagined that even if her back had been turned towards me, she would know. Everything had to be done with precision and she was there to see to that.
She showed us how to clean her bathroom. We had to use dry paper towels to shine the chrome on the sink faucet and handles. There could be no smudges, no finger prints.
One sunny day, I was wiping down tables and she came over to me in a huff and grabbed the rag out of my hand. “You aren’t doing it right,” she said dipping the rag into the bucket of soapy water. “You need to wring it out like this,” she showed me the right way, “or it will leave streaks on the table when it dries.” She was on our backs the entire day. She wouldn’t let up.
Once, Ashley said under her breath to me, “Pippi is being a bitch today.” Pippi stormed out from the kitchen, lord knows how she overheard that one, and with foam practically frothing at her lips hissed, “What did you say?” I think Ashley shrunk to dwarf size that day.
On quiet afternoons, sometimes I’d find myself alone with Pippi. On one particular day, I was grinding coffee and filling little bags that she sold for a small fortune. Whenever it was quiet, we would have some major task to perform. She was filling ice trays with espresso shots for her infamous ice coffee (if you use ice cubes, the coffee gets watered down, hence espresso ice cubes with cold espresso poured on top. Try it, you’ll have Parkinson’s for days). As I was saying, we were alone and we began chatting.
“Do you have family out here?,” she asked me.
I told her my parents lived here. Then I asked her, “What about you? Do you still have family in Belgium?”
“Yes. I have a sister who lives there. But, I didn’t know about her until ten years ago.”
A sister in Belgium she didn’t know about? How could this be? “What do you mean?,” I kept grinding those beans and filling those bags.
“We were separated when we were little.”
After this statement, I knew something critical had happened in her life. I didn’t say anything; I just waited to see how much she would share.
“My sister is deaf and after they took my parents, they took me and my sister to an orphanage for deaf children. I learned how to sign and when they realized I wasn’t deaf, an American family adopted me.”
“You mean during the war? So, they took your parents? Your parents were taken to the concentration camps?”
“Yes. My entire family was killed.”
Feeling overwhelmed, my eyes filled with tears. I brushed them away.
“What’s wrong,” she asked walking towards me, “did you get some coffee grinds in your eye?”
“No,” I said and turned to look at her, “I just didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago,” she waved it off.
“So what happened with your sister?”
“Well, ten years ago, she found me. I had forgotten I had a sister. I must’ve blocked it out or something, but she remembered. Now, I see her every year.”
“Wow,” I said, “that is so neat.”
“What about your family,” she asked me, “are they Jewish?”
“Yes, but they were all here in the US before the war,” I said.
”Yeah, I figured you were Jewish. So you must be familiar with having a Jewish mother?,” She laughed though it wasn’t clear if she was also referring to herself as being a Jewish mother. Her behavior was a far cry from what I consider a Jewish mother though she did have the nagging down. But, cliché and distasteful to say, she was much more like a Nazi.
A couple days later, our blessed part of the Rocky Mountain National Park was going to have the pleasure of a cyclist race passing through. Ashley and I were at Pippi’s very early. I had opened the shop and Pippi had not yet come in. A pack of tightly, brightly clad cyclists came into the shop and clicked across our floor. Some of them ordered “Double skinny lattes” and others joined the ever growing queue for the bathroom. Within minutes, a foul odor began to consume our coffee haven.
“Oh, my god!” Ashley flared her nostrils.
“What the hell?,” I inhaled.
“They’re taking dumps in our bathroom!,” Ashley said horrified.
“Oh, no! No! This is awful.”
"Yes! That's what they do," she whispered, "They've done it before. The cyclists always do this!"
Just then, Pippi came in, took a look around the place and said, “Our bathroom is for customers only.”
“Hurry,“ she said to us, “get a sign up, make a sign. This is not a public bathroom!”
So we made a sign and put it on the door. As each cyclist left, feeling much lighter, they would wave and smile.
“Go clean the bathroom once it’s empty,” she said to me. I don’t know how I made it through that task without puking. However, I was conditioned that day to equate “brightly dressed cyclist” with “huge smelly dump.” And so, now whenever I see a pack of cyclists whiz by, I automatically dry heave.
If my husband happens to be with me, I can’t help but say (after I finish feigning someone who just smelled a rotten corpse) “Oh, cyclists! They take the biggest dumps. When I worked at ---“
And he cuts me off and says, “Pippi’s! Yes! I know! You tell me all the time! Get over it!”
This reminds me of one more story Pippi told me. She said when she first moved in with her adoptive family, she would hide food in the bottom drawer of her dresser. When no one was looking, she would take the leftovers off her plate, hide them in her napkin and stash them away. One day, a terrible smell was coming from her room. Her parents wanted to know what it was so they began searching her room and as they opened her drawers, they found her food which had rotted, in the bottom drawer. Doesn’t this make your heart weep? A child hiding her food because she has lived so long with an empty stomach, without knowing when she will eat again, so she instinctively stocks up, a child, this just breaks my heart.
Well, Pippi and I kept in touch for a couple years afterward. I would pop in her shop when visiting my folks (she always charged me for a coffee by the way) and once I even received a Happy Hannukah card from her. I lost touch with her and even though working for her was living hell, I still hold a spot in my heart for Pippi. And needless to say, I’m sure you can gather that working in a tea shop was not my thing either.
My long exhausting year living at a private school and teaching “at risk” high school students was coming to a close. It was time for me to move on and try something new. I can only deal with a strong black kid holding me down and trying to choke me once this lifetime (“I was only playing,” he said when I panicked and started to cry), but that is a story for a different time. The point is I was looking at different horizons. Summer was approaching and I decided to quit the high school and try out a tea shop, see if that fit me better. My parents lived nearby the school and I was hoping to spend the summer up in the mountains with them. So, I needed a summer job lest my mother incessantly remind me that she “isn’t going to keep me busy.”
The little town had basically two tea shops. One of them was near my parent’s home. On no special day in particular, I decided to press my luck and visit one of the tea shops. The place was called “Pippi’s” and it was a little peach painted house-like café. I pulled into the small parking lot and went inside. The café was quiet at this time of day and Chlorox clean. An older woman with two long orange braids and denim overalls stood behind a glass counter filled with gourmet baked goods. Was this Pippi?
“Hello,” I looked at her golden croissants, shiny berry tarts and beyond her on a glass shelf little raspberry and brown colored packets of hot chocolate.
“May I help you?,” she stared at me quite coldly. She had an accent I couldn’t quite place. Definitely not born in the USA. I explained to her that I was interested in a summer job and wanted to know if she needed help.
“Do you have a minute to talk now?,” she asked while wiping her hands on her pants.
“Sure,” I said feeling like this was easier than expected.
“Let’s sit down,“ she stepped out and gestured to a little square table.
“So, where are you from?,” she asked me.
I had just finished teaching at-risk youth and the year prior had been teaching in Israel. When I told her this, she seemed to light up. “Israel?”, she beamed, “I lived there a long time ago. A long time ago.”
“Wow! Great!,” I didn’t press for too much information but she had that accent and I wanted to know where she was from. “Where are you from originally?,” I asked.
“I’m from Belgium.”
“Oh, so do you speak French or Flemish?,” I asked giving her a slow and deliberate sideways glance after my question had been asked, like that ugly red haired man from the Miami CSI show, just for effect (no I didn't do this but I did want to crack the accent mystery!)
“I used to speak all of those languages,” she said, “I don’t speak any of them now.”
This seemed strange to me and I remember vaguely feeling that maybe, just maybe, she had survived the Nazis. After all, she had lived in Israel, but I was definitely not going to ask her that.
“I work my girls very hard,” she said.
I nodded my head.
“We do everything here. We make the all the drinks, do the cleaning, wait tables, and we do the dishes. My girls and I do everything.”
“Okay,” I said. A quick vision of Ozzy Osborne entered my mind. Let me explain. Back in high school, I was a dish washer at Denny’s. I spent frantic hours in a dark little sink area spraying dishes (and occasionally my face and clothes) and loading them into the dishwasher at night. No matter how fast I would go, how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep up with the dishes. They just kept coming and coming. It was like being punished in hell. I left every night looking as if I had just been released from an insane asylum, sopping clothes, mascara rings under my eyes, my fingers all shriveled, hence my Ozzy image. But, I had survived. And that is why I said, “Okay,” to Pippi.
I started a week after our interview. Another girl was starting the same day, Ashley, and she had espresso machine experience. Both of us were under the scrutiny of Pippi. One of us was always doing something wrong. Pippi ran a tight ship. She could’ve been a drill sergeant.
“Did you charge that man for his coffee cup lid?,” she snarled while standing behind me. “You need to charge for lids or we’re going to lose money. Everything has to be accounted for. Lids are ten cents, cups are fifteen cents, butter is ten cents…” she would go on like this. She repeated all of this at least three times a day. I displayed great self-control by not blurting, “Okay! God! Enough!,” and wished I could roll my eyes, but I imagined that even if her back had been turned towards me, she would know. Everything had to be done with precision and she was there to see to that.
She showed us how to clean her bathroom. We had to use dry paper towels to shine the chrome on the sink faucet and handles. There could be no smudges, no finger prints.
One sunny day, I was wiping down tables and she came over to me in a huff and grabbed the rag out of my hand. “You aren’t doing it right,” she said dipping the rag into the bucket of soapy water. “You need to wring it out like this,” she showed me the right way, “or it will leave streaks on the table when it dries.” She was on our backs the entire day. She wouldn’t let up.
Once, Ashley said under her breath to me, “Pippi is being a bitch today.” Pippi stormed out from the kitchen, lord knows how she overheard that one, and with foam practically frothing at her lips hissed, “What did you say?” I think Ashley shrunk to dwarf size that day.
On quiet afternoons, sometimes I’d find myself alone with Pippi. On one particular day, I was grinding coffee and filling little bags that she sold for a small fortune. Whenever it was quiet, we would have some major task to perform. She was filling ice trays with espresso shots for her infamous ice coffee (if you use ice cubes, the coffee gets watered down, hence espresso ice cubes with cold espresso poured on top. Try it, you’ll have Parkinson’s for days). As I was saying, we were alone and we began chatting.
“Do you have family out here?,” she asked me.
I told her my parents lived here. Then I asked her, “What about you? Do you still have family in Belgium?”
“Yes. I have a sister who lives there. But, I didn’t know about her until ten years ago.”
A sister in Belgium she didn’t know about? How could this be? “What do you mean?,” I kept grinding those beans and filling those bags.
“We were separated when we were little.”
After this statement, I knew something critical had happened in her life. I didn’t say anything; I just waited to see how much she would share.
“My sister is deaf and after they took my parents, they took me and my sister to an orphanage for deaf children. I learned how to sign and when they realized I wasn’t deaf, an American family adopted me.”
“You mean during the war? So, they took your parents? Your parents were taken to the concentration camps?”
“Yes. My entire family was killed.”
Feeling overwhelmed, my eyes filled with tears. I brushed them away.
“What’s wrong,” she asked walking towards me, “did you get some coffee grinds in your eye?”
“No,” I said and turned to look at her, “I just didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago,” she waved it off.
“So what happened with your sister?”
“Well, ten years ago, she found me. I had forgotten I had a sister. I must’ve blocked it out or something, but she remembered. Now, I see her every year.”
“Wow,” I said, “that is so neat.”
“What about your family,” she asked me, “are they Jewish?”
“Yes, but they were all here in the US before the war,” I said.
”Yeah, I figured you were Jewish. So you must be familiar with having a Jewish mother?,” She laughed though it wasn’t clear if she was also referring to herself as being a Jewish mother. Her behavior was a far cry from what I consider a Jewish mother though she did have the nagging down. But, cliché and distasteful to say, she was much more like a Nazi.
A couple days later, our blessed part of the Rocky Mountain National Park was going to have the pleasure of a cyclist race passing through. Ashley and I were at Pippi’s very early. I had opened the shop and Pippi had not yet come in. A pack of tightly, brightly clad cyclists came into the shop and clicked across our floor. Some of them ordered “Double skinny lattes” and others joined the ever growing queue for the bathroom. Within minutes, a foul odor began to consume our coffee haven.
“Oh, my god!” Ashley flared her nostrils.
“What the hell?,” I inhaled.
“They’re taking dumps in our bathroom!,” Ashley said horrified.
“Oh, no! No! This is awful.”
"Yes! That's what they do," she whispered, "They've done it before. The cyclists always do this!"
Just then, Pippi came in, took a look around the place and said, “Our bathroom is for customers only.”
“Hurry,“ she said to us, “get a sign up, make a sign. This is not a public bathroom!”
So we made a sign and put it on the door. As each cyclist left, feeling much lighter, they would wave and smile.
“Go clean the bathroom once it’s empty,” she said to me. I don’t know how I made it through that task without puking. However, I was conditioned that day to equate “brightly dressed cyclist” with “huge smelly dump.” And so, now whenever I see a pack of cyclists whiz by, I automatically dry heave.
If my husband happens to be with me, I can’t help but say (after I finish feigning someone who just smelled a rotten corpse) “Oh, cyclists! They take the biggest dumps. When I worked at ---“
And he cuts me off and says, “Pippi’s! Yes! I know! You tell me all the time! Get over it!”
This reminds me of one more story Pippi told me. She said when she first moved in with her adoptive family, she would hide food in the bottom drawer of her dresser. When no one was looking, she would take the leftovers off her plate, hide them in her napkin and stash them away. One day, a terrible smell was coming from her room. Her parents wanted to know what it was so they began searching her room and as they opened her drawers, they found her food which had rotted, in the bottom drawer. Doesn’t this make your heart weep? A child hiding her food because she has lived so long with an empty stomach, without knowing when she will eat again, so she instinctively stocks up, a child, this just breaks my heart.
Well, Pippi and I kept in touch for a couple years afterward. I would pop in her shop when visiting my folks (she always charged me for a coffee by the way) and once I even received a Happy Hannukah card from her. I lost touch with her and even though working for her was living hell, I still hold a spot in my heart for Pippi. And needless to say, I’m sure you can gather that working in a tea shop was not my thing either.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Come on, Arlene!
I made it out of junior high school unscathed. But, once I was in tenth grade, it wasn’t long until my grades started significantly slipping. My mother being a solution-oriented person decided to ask one of her friends to tutor me in math.
Arlene was someone we would call obese back in the day, but nowadays she would only be considered a “plus size” or a “large” woman. She often was invited to our house on the holidays because she was single. As we’d sit around the dinner table, my father would tell jokes and Arlene would zealously laugh while the rest of us thought, “God, it wasn’t that funny.” I later recall thinking she may have been flirting with him.
My sister and I liked her though as teens, we couldn’t help but make fun of her after she left. “Nice biker shorts,“ my sister would comment one afternoon after Arlene had been at our house, comfortably squeezed unattractively into tight shorts.
“Nice bra,” I’d say one day after she left. She had worn no bra and we were horrified to see her long droopy breasts lying flat against her chest beneath her thin t-shirt.
Arlene became my math tutor. My scores went up significantly; she was excellent at keeping my interest and at explaining things. After I got my driver’s license, she asked me if I’d be interested in cleaning her apartment and she would be pay me well. I was very excited to make some extra money and I was a very good house cleaner on top of it.
It turns out Arlene was a total slob. It took me over three hours to clean her one bedroom apartment and she lived alone. She had creepy sex toy catalogs lying around her apartment but I never mentioned this to anyone. I would pop in one of her U2 CDs and clean until that place shined. Then, for a final touch, I would use her fancy apple cinnamon room spray. I’d mist the place once over before exiting.
One day I opened her oven to find it full with drugs and paraphernalia: rolling papers, several roach clips, a metal scale and a jar of marijuana. I decided to take a little of her pot. It wasn’t as if she could tell my mom. I cleaned her oven and returned everything to its proper place.
One evening we were studying algebra at her place and she asked me if I’d be interested in going to the drive-in movies that night. My mother said it was fine. Arlene was her trusted friend after all. Before we went, she stopped off at the liquor store and let me pick out whatever I wanted. I chose peach schnapps. Once we were at the drive-in, we both started drinking and she pulled out a pipe and a strange stick of weed.
“This is Thai Weed," she explained. She filled the pipe and handed it to me. I felt so grown-up that this 30-something woman was going to get high with me, a 16 year-old. I must have been great company. Who knows? I took a couple hits and felt very relaxed, unlike my usual paranoid high self.
“What’s Thai weed?,” I finally asked.
“It’s weed dipped in opium,” she said with her eyes barely open.
Wow! Now I could tell people I'd done opium! It sounded so exotic. “What’s it do?,” I wanted to know.
“Oh, it just makes you mellow,” and she definitely looked mellow.
We watched a double feature and by the end of the two movies, we somehow managed to get back to her place. I don’t remember how or when I got home.
A couple weeks later, she asked me to come over in the evening for a movie. When I got there, she put on some music and sat down at her little glass table. “We’re going to a party later,” she said.
“Okay,” I said very excited. I’d be partying with adults! I sat down at the table and she started digging through her purse. She pulled out a little container and then carefully poured a white powdery pile onto the glass table top. She divided it up into lines. “I hardly ever do coke,” she said to me as she started to roll a dollar bill tightly into a little tube. She snorted one line and said, “I just bought a little today for fun.”
Cocaine? Holy shit! This is the stuff you get addicted to. The thing actors OD on! I didn’t want to die! How much is too much? I had no idea.
“Isn’t it addictive though?,” I asked
“No, I just do a little from time to time. Try it,” she said after rubbing her gums with her index finger.
“I don’t want to OD or anything.”
“You won’t OD. You’re not going to do enough to OD. Just do a couple lines,” she said as she snorted another line.
“How does it make you feel?,” I asked.
“You’ll see. You’ll just feel more awake,” she sniffed loudly and wiped her nose.
That didn’t sound very fun to me. What’s so fun about feeling awake? If it doesn’t make you laugh or do silly things or think bizarre thoughts, what’s the point?
“But what does it do?,” I asked not at all satisfied with her answers. I just didn’t get what was so great about it.
“Just try it. You’ll be fine,” and she acted like it was fine. She didn't seem any different at all.
I snorted one line, then two lines and then a third, complaining that I didn’t feel anything. In fact, it just made me want to go do something, anything.
We left her apartment and went to her friends’ party. I was surrounded by 30 and 40 year-olds. I was a sixteen years old, dressed like a punk, with dark coal circles for eyes and a shaved head save the bangs that came over one eye into a perfect point.
A man who looked like John Denver became my buddy. He brought me beer after beer in white plastic cups. We played foosball for what felt like hours. Flicking and flicking those little knobs and rods that hold the football men. I was so focused. That night, my wrists hurt so much I couldn’t sleep (of course the cocaine probably had something to do with it too). I felt normal in the morning but I had the incredible desire to snort, snort anything white and powdery. I crushed an aspirin and snorted it. Ouch! That burned. That was stupid. Screw this cocaine crap, not for me.
Arlene had to leave and visit her family back in New Jersey. I had the keys to her place. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened next. One night some friends from out of town joined me and Kayla. We had nowhere to hang out, so guess where we went? Yes. We went to Arlene’s where we drank and smoked massive amounts of cigarettes. My friends had no place to stay, so with much reluctance, I let them stay at her place.
I don’t know what they did that night but let’s just say they had no respect. I came in the morning and made them leave. Then I spent hours cleaning and arranging. It looked fine to me. I didn’t see anything broken so I left feeling confident that Arlene would not find out. But, you know she did, right? One clue might have been the ash tray we emptied several times onto the neighbor’s balcony below.
So, not too long after that, I was by myself in the kitchen and the phone rang. “Hello?”
“I can’t believe you did that,“ said Arlene
“Did what?,” I asked.
“I can’t believe you used my apartment when I was gone. I trusted you. Now I’m going to have to tell your mother.”
“Please don’t,” I started crying uncontrollably. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”
“I trusted you,” she repeated again. I think she was crying too.
“Just please don’t tell my mother. Why do you have to tell her?,” I begged.
“Because what you did is unforgivable. You don’t do that to friends. You don’t do that.”
After that, we weren’t friends anymore and I was grounded a very long time. What seemed so unfair was I had been a loyal friend in my mind. I didn’t tell my mother about all the drugs she did or what she did with me or about the parties.
One day, it must have been a year later, my mother and I were sitting at the food court eating crispy egg rolls and dipping them in bright red sauce. I told my mother I was going to quit drugs. She looked at me silently for a couple minutes and then said, “I didn’t know you were doing drugs. You mean pot?,” she sat patiently with her hands folded on the table.
This is when I told her everything. This is when I told my mother about her friend, Arlene. Until I spoke about it to my mother, I never realized how my mother would feel.
“I can’t believe she would do that to me. I can’t believe it,” she said utterly confused.
“What do you mean? Why are you so hurt about it? She didn’t do anything to you,” I said.
“How would you feel if one of your friends did drugs with your daughter?,” she stared intensely at me waiting for my response.
“I don’t know,” I confessed, “I guess I never thought about it like that.”
“Well, think about it, and tell me how you would feel,” she said.
My mother was so shocked and disgusted; she cut Arlene out of her life without a word, indefinitely, just like that. To this day, I think my mother still bears hurt and angry feelings about me and Arlene.
“Was I terrible mother?,” she sometimes asks me.
“No, you were the best mother ever,” I always say.
“Yeah, right. What about Arlene?,“ she’ll say, “And here I thought I was being such a good mother.”
“Mom!,” I say trying to get her to let it go, but her feelings of betrayal and disgust still lie there swaying ever so gently like seaweed in the undertow. Arlene, the epitome of what a friend is not.
Arlene was someone we would call obese back in the day, but nowadays she would only be considered a “plus size” or a “large” woman. She often was invited to our house on the holidays because she was single. As we’d sit around the dinner table, my father would tell jokes and Arlene would zealously laugh while the rest of us thought, “God, it wasn’t that funny.” I later recall thinking she may have been flirting with him.
My sister and I liked her though as teens, we couldn’t help but make fun of her after she left. “Nice biker shorts,“ my sister would comment one afternoon after Arlene had been at our house, comfortably squeezed unattractively into tight shorts.
“Nice bra,” I’d say one day after she left. She had worn no bra and we were horrified to see her long droopy breasts lying flat against her chest beneath her thin t-shirt.
Arlene became my math tutor. My scores went up significantly; she was excellent at keeping my interest and at explaining things. After I got my driver’s license, she asked me if I’d be interested in cleaning her apartment and she would be pay me well. I was very excited to make some extra money and I was a very good house cleaner on top of it.
It turns out Arlene was a total slob. It took me over three hours to clean her one bedroom apartment and she lived alone. She had creepy sex toy catalogs lying around her apartment but I never mentioned this to anyone. I would pop in one of her U2 CDs and clean until that place shined. Then, for a final touch, I would use her fancy apple cinnamon room spray. I’d mist the place once over before exiting.
One day I opened her oven to find it full with drugs and paraphernalia: rolling papers, several roach clips, a metal scale and a jar of marijuana. I decided to take a little of her pot. It wasn’t as if she could tell my mom. I cleaned her oven and returned everything to its proper place.
One evening we were studying algebra at her place and she asked me if I’d be interested in going to the drive-in movies that night. My mother said it was fine. Arlene was her trusted friend after all. Before we went, she stopped off at the liquor store and let me pick out whatever I wanted. I chose peach schnapps. Once we were at the drive-in, we both started drinking and she pulled out a pipe and a strange stick of weed.
“This is Thai Weed," she explained. She filled the pipe and handed it to me. I felt so grown-up that this 30-something woman was going to get high with me, a 16 year-old. I must have been great company. Who knows? I took a couple hits and felt very relaxed, unlike my usual paranoid high self.
“What’s Thai weed?,” I finally asked.
“It’s weed dipped in opium,” she said with her eyes barely open.
Wow! Now I could tell people I'd done opium! It sounded so exotic. “What’s it do?,” I wanted to know.
“Oh, it just makes you mellow,” and she definitely looked mellow.
We watched a double feature and by the end of the two movies, we somehow managed to get back to her place. I don’t remember how or when I got home.
A couple weeks later, she asked me to come over in the evening for a movie. When I got there, she put on some music and sat down at her little glass table. “We’re going to a party later,” she said.
“Okay,” I said very excited. I’d be partying with adults! I sat down at the table and she started digging through her purse. She pulled out a little container and then carefully poured a white powdery pile onto the glass table top. She divided it up into lines. “I hardly ever do coke,” she said to me as she started to roll a dollar bill tightly into a little tube. She snorted one line and said, “I just bought a little today for fun.”
Cocaine? Holy shit! This is the stuff you get addicted to. The thing actors OD on! I didn’t want to die! How much is too much? I had no idea.
“Isn’t it addictive though?,” I asked
“No, I just do a little from time to time. Try it,” she said after rubbing her gums with her index finger.
“I don’t want to OD or anything.”
“You won’t OD. You’re not going to do enough to OD. Just do a couple lines,” she said as she snorted another line.
“How does it make you feel?,” I asked.
“You’ll see. You’ll just feel more awake,” she sniffed loudly and wiped her nose.
That didn’t sound very fun to me. What’s so fun about feeling awake? If it doesn’t make you laugh or do silly things or think bizarre thoughts, what’s the point?
“But what does it do?,” I asked not at all satisfied with her answers. I just didn’t get what was so great about it.
“Just try it. You’ll be fine,” and she acted like it was fine. She didn't seem any different at all.
I snorted one line, then two lines and then a third, complaining that I didn’t feel anything. In fact, it just made me want to go do something, anything.
We left her apartment and went to her friends’ party. I was surrounded by 30 and 40 year-olds. I was a sixteen years old, dressed like a punk, with dark coal circles for eyes and a shaved head save the bangs that came over one eye into a perfect point.
A man who looked like John Denver became my buddy. He brought me beer after beer in white plastic cups. We played foosball for what felt like hours. Flicking and flicking those little knobs and rods that hold the football men. I was so focused. That night, my wrists hurt so much I couldn’t sleep (of course the cocaine probably had something to do with it too). I felt normal in the morning but I had the incredible desire to snort, snort anything white and powdery. I crushed an aspirin and snorted it. Ouch! That burned. That was stupid. Screw this cocaine crap, not for me.
Arlene had to leave and visit her family back in New Jersey. I had the keys to her place. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened next. One night some friends from out of town joined me and Kayla. We had nowhere to hang out, so guess where we went? Yes. We went to Arlene’s where we drank and smoked massive amounts of cigarettes. My friends had no place to stay, so with much reluctance, I let them stay at her place.
I don’t know what they did that night but let’s just say they had no respect. I came in the morning and made them leave. Then I spent hours cleaning and arranging. It looked fine to me. I didn’t see anything broken so I left feeling confident that Arlene would not find out. But, you know she did, right? One clue might have been the ash tray we emptied several times onto the neighbor’s balcony below.
So, not too long after that, I was by myself in the kitchen and the phone rang. “Hello?”
“I can’t believe you did that,“ said Arlene
“Did what?,” I asked.
“I can’t believe you used my apartment when I was gone. I trusted you. Now I’m going to have to tell your mother.”
“Please don’t,” I started crying uncontrollably. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”
“I trusted you,” she repeated again. I think she was crying too.
“Just please don’t tell my mother. Why do you have to tell her?,” I begged.
“Because what you did is unforgivable. You don’t do that to friends. You don’t do that.”
After that, we weren’t friends anymore and I was grounded a very long time. What seemed so unfair was I had been a loyal friend in my mind. I didn’t tell my mother about all the drugs she did or what she did with me or about the parties.
One day, it must have been a year later, my mother and I were sitting at the food court eating crispy egg rolls and dipping them in bright red sauce. I told my mother I was going to quit drugs. She looked at me silently for a couple minutes and then said, “I didn’t know you were doing drugs. You mean pot?,” she sat patiently with her hands folded on the table.
This is when I told her everything. This is when I told my mother about her friend, Arlene. Until I spoke about it to my mother, I never realized how my mother would feel.
“I can’t believe she would do that to me. I can’t believe it,” she said utterly confused.
“What do you mean? Why are you so hurt about it? She didn’t do anything to you,” I said.
“How would you feel if one of your friends did drugs with your daughter?,” she stared intensely at me waiting for my response.
“I don’t know,” I confessed, “I guess I never thought about it like that.”
“Well, think about it, and tell me how you would feel,” she said.
My mother was so shocked and disgusted; she cut Arlene out of her life without a word, indefinitely, just like that. To this day, I think my mother still bears hurt and angry feelings about me and Arlene.
“Was I terrible mother?,” she sometimes asks me.
“No, you were the best mother ever,” I always say.
“Yeah, right. What about Arlene?,“ she’ll say, “And here I thought I was being such a good mother.”
“Mom!,” I say trying to get her to let it go, but her feelings of betrayal and disgust still lie there swaying ever so gently like seaweed in the undertow. Arlene, the epitome of what a friend is not.
Smooth Criminals
The first time I got stoned was right after I finished a court mandated petty theft seminar. I was 15 years old. At present, my best friend was Kayla Kessler. Junior high school had ended. Shauna and I started high school at different schools and our friendship died out. Kayla and I had been best friends on and off since the fourth grade. Tall, thin and extremely smart, Kayla felt older than she really was. To my delight, she was into stealing and rebelling too.
So, we re-instated our best friend status through our common interests. After months of relentless shoplifting from make-up to eating at restaurants and abruptly leaving without paying, we got caught stealing at the local department store, May D&F.
An undercover police woman dressed as a granny pulled us aside right as we were ready to leave the store, our pockets full of fake jewelry and sample lipsticks we swiped from the make-up counters.
We were taken to the back of the store. We had to display our stolen goods in our hands while we sat on a stool and our photos were taken. A flash of me giving a big sarcastic grin appeared in my mind, but I was too devastated to be a smart ass so I just gave them some teenage attitude.
Then, we were put in the back of a police car and taken to the station. It was a long, quiet, painful ride. Kayla and I sat quietly in the back, staring out the windows and weeping. At one point, she turned to me and mouthed the words, “I love you.”
“I love you too," I said. And then we both started crying again.
Our parents were called to come get us. Kayla’s mother arrived first and I was left alone in the waiting room while the police explained to my friend’s mother the awful things we had done.
I was sitting by myself thinking, “I could run away! Yes! No one is looking,” but I had no idea what to do after I ran away from the place. When my parents arrived, we too were taken into a little room. The police man closed the door behind us. I’ve never seen a more disappointed look on my mother’s face. Both of my parents sat stiffly awaiting the news.
“Your daughter was caught stealing at May D&F,” he said dryly.
My parents turned and stared at me coldly. I looked down at the shiny white floor and hoped no one would address me.
“As she is a minor, this will not go on her permanent record. It will be erased when she is 18 years old.”
Silence in the room.
“She must appear in court and the judge will decide what happens.”
It turned out our punishment was a full day of rehabilitation, a petty theft seminar. Also, we were banned from the department store for two years. We imagined posters with photos of us and our goods displayed in our hands, placated all over the department store in big “Wanted” style.
One early Saturday morning, Kayla picked me up in her little old red car. She drove us to the university where our seminar was taking place. We were in a small room seated around a huge oval table. Our teacher was an older man with kind eyes and a calm voice. To break the ice, he had each one of us present ourselves and what we had stolen.
A Mexican man with a mustache said, “I stole a TV for my wife.”
A woman with long stringy blond hair and no make-up said, “I stole a carton of cigarettes so I could see the second floor of the prison. I heard they got good food there.”
“I do not belong with these people!,” I thought, “ I’m not one of them! I’m not a real loser.”
A well-dressed woman said, “I stole a Nestlé Crunch Bar while standing in-line at the grocery store,” she paused, “I don’t know why I did that. I’ve never stolen anything before.”
Three college guys were seated together. One of the young men spoke for the group, “We stole a picnic table from City Park and brought it back to our house," he paused and looked around at the group. “We also stole three of those orange construction cones.” The trio looked at each other and broke out into laughter. That sure seemed rebellious, I thought, stealing a picnic table?
Kayla and I were obviously the youngest criminals at the seminar. At break time, Kayla who was tall, confident and extroverted struck up a conversation with the college gang. One of the guys was 24, had a full five o’clock shadow and wore cowboy boots. He told us to meet them in the parking lot after the seminar.
After the seminar, we headed outside. The cowboy guy was standing by his big pick-up truck. “Hey, you guys wanna get high?,” he asked.
Kayla and I took little time to reflect on our answer. We were not going to turn down an opportunity like this. The only problem was we were expected home right after the seminar. Both of us were grounded for eternity. On the other hand, it was still afternoon and our parents didn’t know how long our seminar was supposed to be.
We both climbed into the truck. The cowboy’s name was Bart. He filled a brass pipe and lit it for me, “Inhale and hold it in," he said still holding in his own smoke-filled breath. The smoke burned my throat but I was determined to get stoned.
Soon, I felt like I was watching a slide show. Each time I blinked, it was as if a slide was changing. I started feeling very anxious. Our voices sounded high and ridiculous. I looked around and all of us had eyes like slits. Suddenly, I couldn’t swallow. I thought I was going to choke. “I can’t swallow,” I announced in a panic.
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Bart, “You got cotton mouth.”
“Cotton mouth? Cotton mouth! Yes! That’s exactly what it feels like!”
“I need water. We need to get some water,“ Kayla said as if in a trance. “I’m going inside.” She stepped out of the car and I followed her into the university building. The hallways were lit brightly. I held my hand out to block my eyes from the fluorescent rays. No one was around on a Saturday. I could clearly hear the buzzing of the lights.
We searched for a water fountain. My friend being a full foot taller than me covered more distance in less time than I and soon I was lagging behind. My eyes focused on her to guide me through the endless corridor. Her walk was slow and deliberate. She looked like an elephant, over-sized and somehow elegant at the same time. With each step she took, I could hear the sound dump-dee-dump-dee-dump in my head as if I were creating the sound effects for what I was seeing.
“Kayla,” I called out, “You’re walking like an elephant!,” I was worried and confused.
“What?, “she called back, “Stop being weird.”
We found the water fountain. I took long lapping sips like a lion in the savanna who had just found a precious stream. Cool water flowed into my mouth, down my throat, bringing about great relief. Every time I swallowed, I could hear an over-exaggerated sound inside my head, gulp, gulp. It was disturbing.
We left the building and found Kayla’s red car waiting for us all alone in the deserted parking lot. It was time to go home.
“Oh, my god,” I blurted, “we can’t go home like this!”
Kayla was not a good driver so I wasn’t sure what would happen now, but being grounded by our parents trumped her incapacity so we got in the car. Once she started driving, our paranoia really kicked in.
“Oh, my god,” she said repetitiously. “Oh my god! That car is going to hit us,“ or “Oh my god, the light is yellow!”
“Oh, no!,” I’d burst out, “Ahhh, “and I’d squeeze my eyes shut to protect us from harm. We somehow made it to my house. I have no idea if we were actually ever in danger.
I got out of the car and told myself, “Act normal! Act normal!” Kayla drove away and I headed towards the door.
My mother was waiting for me in the kitchen. “So, how was it?” she asked.
I tried to avert my tiny pink eyes. “Fine. I’m hungry,” I went to the fridge feeling hungrier than I’d expected. I pulled out a huge lump of left-over roast beef and grabbed a bottle of creamy cucumber salad dressing for dipping. I sat down. My mother sat across me, watching me, watching me.
I dipped the meat in the white creamy dressing and as I took a bite, I heard the roar of a lion echo in my head.(I guess I had an African-theme going on) Oh, no! I hoped I was acting normal. Quickly I announced my fatigue and retired to my bedroom where I fell asleep. Evening fell and I awoke when my father knocked on my door. “Come in," I said, still groggy.
He walked in and sat next to me on my bed. “Your mother said your eyes were all pink,” he looked at me with raised eyebrows waiting for an explanation.
“Oh,” think, think, think, “My boyfriend just broke-up with me,” I lied, “I was crying.”
“Oh,” my father looked concerned.
I looked down, feigning a teen with a broken heart. “I’ll be okay," I said.
He exhaled loudly through his nose. “Okay,” he got up and left.
Thank god I wasn’t high anymore. I hadn’t enjoyed it at all. It made me paranoid and it was scary. But, I will have you know that a great affinity for pot was in my cards.
So, we re-instated our best friend status through our common interests. After months of relentless shoplifting from make-up to eating at restaurants and abruptly leaving without paying, we got caught stealing at the local department store, May D&F.
An undercover police woman dressed as a granny pulled us aside right as we were ready to leave the store, our pockets full of fake jewelry and sample lipsticks we swiped from the make-up counters.
We were taken to the back of the store. We had to display our stolen goods in our hands while we sat on a stool and our photos were taken. A flash of me giving a big sarcastic grin appeared in my mind, but I was too devastated to be a smart ass so I just gave them some teenage attitude.
Then, we were put in the back of a police car and taken to the station. It was a long, quiet, painful ride. Kayla and I sat quietly in the back, staring out the windows and weeping. At one point, she turned to me and mouthed the words, “I love you.”
“I love you too," I said. And then we both started crying again.
Our parents were called to come get us. Kayla’s mother arrived first and I was left alone in the waiting room while the police explained to my friend’s mother the awful things we had done.
I was sitting by myself thinking, “I could run away! Yes! No one is looking,” but I had no idea what to do after I ran away from the place. When my parents arrived, we too were taken into a little room. The police man closed the door behind us. I’ve never seen a more disappointed look on my mother’s face. Both of my parents sat stiffly awaiting the news.
“Your daughter was caught stealing at May D&F,” he said dryly.
My parents turned and stared at me coldly. I looked down at the shiny white floor and hoped no one would address me.
“As she is a minor, this will not go on her permanent record. It will be erased when she is 18 years old.”
Silence in the room.
“She must appear in court and the judge will decide what happens.”
It turned out our punishment was a full day of rehabilitation, a petty theft seminar. Also, we were banned from the department store for two years. We imagined posters with photos of us and our goods displayed in our hands, placated all over the department store in big “Wanted” style.
One early Saturday morning, Kayla picked me up in her little old red car. She drove us to the university where our seminar was taking place. We were in a small room seated around a huge oval table. Our teacher was an older man with kind eyes and a calm voice. To break the ice, he had each one of us present ourselves and what we had stolen.
A Mexican man with a mustache said, “I stole a TV for my wife.”
A woman with long stringy blond hair and no make-up said, “I stole a carton of cigarettes so I could see the second floor of the prison. I heard they got good food there.”
“I do not belong with these people!,” I thought, “ I’m not one of them! I’m not a real loser.”
A well-dressed woman said, “I stole a Nestlé Crunch Bar while standing in-line at the grocery store,” she paused, “I don’t know why I did that. I’ve never stolen anything before.”
Three college guys were seated together. One of the young men spoke for the group, “We stole a picnic table from City Park and brought it back to our house," he paused and looked around at the group. “We also stole three of those orange construction cones.” The trio looked at each other and broke out into laughter. That sure seemed rebellious, I thought, stealing a picnic table?
Kayla and I were obviously the youngest criminals at the seminar. At break time, Kayla who was tall, confident and extroverted struck up a conversation with the college gang. One of the guys was 24, had a full five o’clock shadow and wore cowboy boots. He told us to meet them in the parking lot after the seminar.
After the seminar, we headed outside. The cowboy guy was standing by his big pick-up truck. “Hey, you guys wanna get high?,” he asked.
Kayla and I took little time to reflect on our answer. We were not going to turn down an opportunity like this. The only problem was we were expected home right after the seminar. Both of us were grounded for eternity. On the other hand, it was still afternoon and our parents didn’t know how long our seminar was supposed to be.
We both climbed into the truck. The cowboy’s name was Bart. He filled a brass pipe and lit it for me, “Inhale and hold it in," he said still holding in his own smoke-filled breath. The smoke burned my throat but I was determined to get stoned.
Soon, I felt like I was watching a slide show. Each time I blinked, it was as if a slide was changing. I started feeling very anxious. Our voices sounded high and ridiculous. I looked around and all of us had eyes like slits. Suddenly, I couldn’t swallow. I thought I was going to choke. “I can’t swallow,” I announced in a panic.
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Bart, “You got cotton mouth.”
“Cotton mouth? Cotton mouth! Yes! That’s exactly what it feels like!”
“I need water. We need to get some water,“ Kayla said as if in a trance. “I’m going inside.” She stepped out of the car and I followed her into the university building. The hallways were lit brightly. I held my hand out to block my eyes from the fluorescent rays. No one was around on a Saturday. I could clearly hear the buzzing of the lights.
We searched for a water fountain. My friend being a full foot taller than me covered more distance in less time than I and soon I was lagging behind. My eyes focused on her to guide me through the endless corridor. Her walk was slow and deliberate. She looked like an elephant, over-sized and somehow elegant at the same time. With each step she took, I could hear the sound dump-dee-dump-dee-dump in my head as if I were creating the sound effects for what I was seeing.
“Kayla,” I called out, “You’re walking like an elephant!,” I was worried and confused.
“What?, “she called back, “Stop being weird.”
We found the water fountain. I took long lapping sips like a lion in the savanna who had just found a precious stream. Cool water flowed into my mouth, down my throat, bringing about great relief. Every time I swallowed, I could hear an over-exaggerated sound inside my head, gulp, gulp. It was disturbing.
We left the building and found Kayla’s red car waiting for us all alone in the deserted parking lot. It was time to go home.
“Oh, my god,” I blurted, “we can’t go home like this!”
Kayla was not a good driver so I wasn’t sure what would happen now, but being grounded by our parents trumped her incapacity so we got in the car. Once she started driving, our paranoia really kicked in.
“Oh, my god,” she said repetitiously. “Oh my god! That car is going to hit us,“ or “Oh my god, the light is yellow!”
“Oh, no!,” I’d burst out, “Ahhh, “and I’d squeeze my eyes shut to protect us from harm. We somehow made it to my house. I have no idea if we were actually ever in danger.
I got out of the car and told myself, “Act normal! Act normal!” Kayla drove away and I headed towards the door.
My mother was waiting for me in the kitchen. “So, how was it?” she asked.
I tried to avert my tiny pink eyes. “Fine. I’m hungry,” I went to the fridge feeling hungrier than I’d expected. I pulled out a huge lump of left-over roast beef and grabbed a bottle of creamy cucumber salad dressing for dipping. I sat down. My mother sat across me, watching me, watching me.
I dipped the meat in the white creamy dressing and as I took a bite, I heard the roar of a lion echo in my head.(I guess I had an African-theme going on) Oh, no! I hoped I was acting normal. Quickly I announced my fatigue and retired to my bedroom where I fell asleep. Evening fell and I awoke when my father knocked on my door. “Come in," I said, still groggy.
He walked in and sat next to me on my bed. “Your mother said your eyes were all pink,” he looked at me with raised eyebrows waiting for an explanation.
“Oh,” think, think, think, “My boyfriend just broke-up with me,” I lied, “I was crying.”
“Oh,” my father looked concerned.
I looked down, feigning a teen with a broken heart. “I’ll be okay," I said.
He exhaled loudly through his nose. “Okay,” he got up and left.
Thank god I wasn’t high anymore. I hadn’t enjoyed it at all. It made me paranoid and it was scary. But, I will have you know that a great affinity for pot was in my cards.
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