Georgie and I have a great time, together, downstairs in my unfinished basement, where we've been creating a huge set of lungs out of chicken wire and paper mache. One day, when our waist-high project is looking good and close to done, Georgie is about to walk out of my front door when she turns toward me and gushes, unexpectedly, about how swell she thinks I am and how badly she feels about not inviting me to her party, which is a day or two away, but: “Annie, everyone (except me) knows that if you come Joseph won't
andifJosephwon'tMichaelwon't
andifMichaelwon'tBobwon't
andifBobwon'tLouiswon't
andifLouiswon'tBarrywon't
andifBarry won'tGarywon’t
andonandonandonandon
Andthatwouldruinmyparty
SoIreallywanttoinviteyoubutIcan’t.”
Then throwing her arms around me and hugging me tightly, Georgie walks out; my screen door bangs shut and without glancing back, she skips home with party plans dancing in her mind. At least that's what I assume for years to come. How do I know that Georgie is not feeling every bit as confused and conflicted by Joseph's edict as me? How do I know how much she (and others) want to include me? How do I know? I don't. Any more than you do. Assume to know what others feel? Big mistake. Huge. (Great line—on or off Rodeo Drive.)
I remember the names of all those boys. I have to work to remember the names of my neighbors, today, but every boy's name is etched into a dark spot in my mind. Though none of these guys has a problem with me, it takes only one, wielding power, to lead the rest, thus turning the tides, drowning my dream of someone, caring enough to place an invitation in my eager hand, while smiling at me.
Patterns of wishful thinking (and peer pressure) are classic at every age and stage, proving THE POWER OF ONE to be a really big deal. Oh the joy of feeling included instead of excluded, left out, forgotten—socially worthless. No wonder why kids join gangs.
With trust and innocence intact, I’d climbed into a bus where kids, who didn't know me from beans, singled me out as the butt of their jokes. A boy I was crazy about grabbed me, scared me; I fought him off and watched myself turn into a pariah, ostracized from the social scene—meaning that I wasn't invited to one b/g party throughout 7th and 8th grades.
Though these sad situations had once served as reasons to throw pity parties for myself, you’ll see my attitude change for the better each time a detail, which I'd forgotten to remember, emerges. I know this to be true, because here's what happened while I was pounding the rough draft of FIRST KISS into my keyboard—about fifteen years ago: One by one, a series of forgotten details rose to the surface, and sharp as tacks, each detail pierced an old perception as fast as soap bubbles go pop. In short, as these details refocused my conscious awareness, objectivity blew the hot air out of my old, defensive, and thus narrow views.
As this series of details emerges, you'll watch my defensive perspective expand in mind blowing ways. For example, I'd never questioned whether my first kiss had been Joseph's, as well. Once that possibility smacked me in the head, a rock in my brain cracked open and questions, concerning Joseph's side of our story, rolled out.
Each time insight expands my perspective, the narrowness of my subjective focus heightens and the depth of my sensitivity follows suit.
As heightened sensitivity makes me aware of my complicity in flinging misery back and forth, my compassion for Joseph deepens, and I feel guilty as hell! For quite a while the fact that I was blind to his misery made me feel worse for Joseph than for me. Then this insight hit, which freed me from undeserved guilt: I realized that during this critical period of pre teen development, lots of us had sat on the bench while a select group of first stringers practiced their dance steps on the foot ball field of first love.
Once I came to see that my experience with Joseph had likely been more common than not, I stopped throwing pity parties for myself. In fact even then, while crying in my cups, I knew lots of kids in our class had had much tougher nuts to crack than me. In hindsight I came to see that Joseph may have been one of those kids—some abused in school. Some at home.
Recently, my mom asked: Why didn't I realize that you weren’t invited to any parties, Annie? With a smile and a shrug I replied: Who knows? I never showed my sad face to you or brought that subject up. Though you'd made lavish parties for Lauren's birthday and mine when we were little, perhaps thoughts of preteen parties had not made it onto your list of priorities. As children, both you and Dad had sailed in steerage across the ocean before standing in endless lines at Ellis Island. As teens you'd endured the depression. Parties are one thing. Survival is another. Your mind was busy with life. Each time you looked at me, I smiled. Lots takes place that none of us know.
As for me, other than scratching night after night, my smiles were not fake. I'd felt deeply loved at home, did well in school—made the jr. high cheerleading squad—enjoyed lots of surface ‘friendships’ with the girls—though I’d trusted none to care when it came time to pass out party invitations, because I'd not considered that they may have felt as confounded and conflicted as me. So if I felt left out on party nights and cried silently while scratching—because Lauren's bed was about three feet from mine—well that didn't stop me from having a blast at P.J. parties—including my own. And did I invite all the girls? No. Did I pine over others who'd felt left out? Well, maybe, just a tad, because I knew who fit in and who did not. And so it goes. That's life.
Though it’s common to assume that people who smile are free of care, hindsight suggests that feeling ostracized on party nights was more debilitating than losing my self confidence on the bus. Though my mirror had reflected the taunts on the bus, I remained utterly perplexed as to how nice girls could care less who got hurt as long as their parties got off without a hitch. And as I'd not thought to deem myself insensitive, I added girls to the list of those who could not be trusted to really care.
This list was easy to keep track of because it was short: Boys on one side. Girls on the other. As none knew that I'd swallowed my social self confidence whole, everyone saw me as out going, happy-go-lucky, just fine—including me. On second thought, thank goodness I'd swallowed my social self confidence—whole! Up until recently, I'd thought I'd lost it. Left it to rust on that bus. Now, insight suggests that though I couldn't find it, I'd carried it wherever I went, tucked safely away deep inside. And eventually, whatever we stuff inside can be retrieved if we're not afraid to dive in and do whatever it takes to extract buried pain. And having worked at extraction, here's what's to be gained:
As pain hollows out, self confidence has space to spread out and feel at home.
If we scoot a few years back across the time line, we can watch a ten year old friend from my old neighborhood ask me if I'd like to see how strong her boyfriend is. Within seconds of saying—Sure—this ten year old guy lands a punch to my eight year old stomach that knocks the wind out of me, and as I crumple to the ground, writhing in the fetal position, unable to breathe, I remember my friend (?) and her beau scampering away.
What gets into people? Only the dark side of the mind knows for sure.
That's why it's pure joy to connect with a friend who has your back.
Though it has always been clear that men hold lots of power, this is one girl who had something sweet for me—my relationship with my dad. With no grandpas alive to spoil me and as my sweet mother and Lauren had been as inseparable as a pretzel ever since my little sister's birth (Why? Patience, my friend. That detail will surface shortly in another story) I was free to buddy up with Dad. Each time Dad came home from work, I’d run, eagerly, to greet him, and his bear hug would swoop me into a safety net made of much more than love. Dad was my friend. If Mom and Lauren walked hand in hand, so did Dad and I. From an early age, we'd walk and talk, arms swinging, holding hands. And though Dad's legs were much longer than mine, I tried to match his stride. In terms of spirit, we matched like ice cream and fudge. And though some things don't change, others do—like when I grew up and discovered the wonders of—listening skills...
It's a fortunate child, who grows up with a tender, loving mom and a dad who proves that strong men can be open, tender, loving, funny, silly, corny, dependable, responsible and creatively resilient—a hero who'd save me from anything—except for those times when he got mad—because my best bud was a passionate guy in every way. As for me—well—in addition to matching Dad's high spirited stride, I'd had reason to learn the art of sugar coating every bitter pill that fate could offer up—(Why? Later gater.)—with the exception of Saturday nights when those parties took place and I'd quietly torture myself.
Though privately feeling darkly left out, I'd while away my time watching T.V. with Lauren till bedtime when, under the cover of night, I'd cry silent tears and scratch and toss and turn in bed until it was time to awaken, go downstairs, get the waffles going and feel my spirit rising, because I loved waffles, and—Sunday was Dad's day off, so we all looked forward to family-fun-day.
Sometimes Dad and I would jump into the car and take a quick ride over to see his mom, who lived with one of his sisters. And I loved that, too. As the oldest grandchild of nine, on Dad's side of the family, my little cousins seemed like a bunch of frisky puppies to me, and I had great fun playing with them. Four at one house. Three at the other. All born within the space of six years. Being eight years their senior, I got in my fair share of babysitting, as well. When it came to sailing along with extended family, it was my good fortune to be part of such a tightly knit crew.
On Mondays, Lauren and I would walk to school, where I’d talk to, fool around with, play jump rope-study-and-giggle with all the girls, who I’d wanted to stick pins into on Saturday night. Oh yes—one more thing—I'd continued to moon over Joseph, who'd continued to shoot me the bird. Life is complex. Love, too.
If never showed how sad I was, how confused, rustrated, conflicted—was I more angry than denial allowed me to feel? Was I—heaven forbid—rageful? Where did every negative feeling I'd stuffed go? Into the creation of put-downs directed at yours truly? Negative energy that's not released exists as tension, suppressed. You know, like a jack in the box, just waiting to pop and shock everyone in sight...
Though tis better to give
Than to receive
It's tough
To squeeze juice
Out of a sweet plum
After that plum prunes up.
High self esteem
Searches for answers
Low self esteem
Packs honest emotion inside
Most of us exist
Somewhere between
The tree of life
And a tightly packed
Can, bag, or jar.
Picture thyself as Champagne
Give thyself a shake
And uncork!
Drink to life
L'Chaim!
Just as I'd never had the gumption to ask Joseph why he 'hated' me, I never exposed my confusion, inner conflict, sadness, fury or feelings of social worthlessness—except for one time when having mustered the courage to walk to his best friend’s house, I rang the doorbell and hoping that Michael would greet me with a smile, I readied myself to expose my inner self as his front door opened ...
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