“Grunt grunt grunt,” (go hide under the skins, I’ll find you later) she would say and off they would go.
For Cindy and George, it happened was like this:
George dropped his pacifier behind the couch. I know, he was now five but the pacifier barely had time to be in his mouth anyway, what with all the crying. Cindy set George down on the floor, wiped some snot off her blouse, slightly slid the couch out from the wall and disappeared behind it.
George immediately stopped crying. Startled by this turn of events, Cindy immediately poked her head back up to see if George had suddenly passed away or been abducted by aliens. Upon seeing Cindy’s disembodied head, he giggled. Cindy popped back down. George outright laughed, while standing up and walking closer to the back of the couch, snot drooling down his nose and onto his chin the whole way. “I found you,” George said laughing, when he peered fully behind the sofa. That may have been the first time George ever managed to string two or more words together not interrupted by tearful crying.
Cindy suspected she was onto something. That whole day, Cindy hid behind things and George came and found her, laughing. That night George slept so soundly and quietly, his parents got no sleep at all for the seventeen times they got up to check and see if he was still breathing.
George became an expert finder. No matter where Cindy hid, George could find her. In the closet in his parent’s bedroom, no problem, under the dining room table, Gotcha! In the kitchen pantry, Ah-ha; laughing the whole time. Was that the new cat going into the litter box? George was there poking his head in to find her also. Sadly, she ran away as well.
Now poor simple Cindy was getting a little tired. After all, no matter how big the house was, there were only so many places to hide, but an idea did occur to her, finally.
“George, now you hide, and I will find you.”
George’s eyes became wide, his lower lip started to quiver, then he smiled. “Okay”, and off he skedaddled. Now remember, George was small. He could fit into and hide in places no normal child of five or even three could. Though Cindy did have to insist the oven and inside the back of the commode was off limits. Cindy spent all day trying to find George who turned out to be quite a creative little fellow.
In the hat box under his parent’s bed? Cindy never did find him, and he eventually ran off to bed, happy as a lark. Behind the books on one of his Father’s bookcases? Finally, he came out to happily eat dinner. In the cookie jar, on the high shelf? Don’t be silly, he wasn’t that small.
Cindy may have slowed down in her searches for George, and who could blame her? George was perfectly happy hiding for two or three hours curled up behind the winter coats, muffling his giggles.
It was a happy and quiet time in the house with only George’s laughter or snores indicating his presence. (For a little guy, he sure had some lungs).
Until the fateful day they came.
Barbara decided it was time for new furniture, the old having been unceremoniously sprayed with George’s snot and tears for the last five years. Like all socially conscious and respectable families, Barbara donated the old stuff to charity. The overall’d men came and off they carted all the old living room furniture, leaving the room bare except for the big old rug on the floor, ready for the new furnishings. All the while George was still playing Hide and Seek. The absence of furniture couldn’t stop him.
Sadly Cindy, who may have been fantasizing about a particularly handsome and muscular moving man didn’t think to look for George until bedtime.
The lump under the rug was no longer giggling, but no longer crying either.
The End.
Hector
The school was one of those small, under-funded country institutions where every teacher and administrator knew your entire family. They knew everything every older sibling, every cousin, and in some cases even, parents when they went there did for good or for bad. By the time you managed to go, they each already had an opinion, an expectation of what you would be like and what you would do, based purely on family history. All small country schools were the same, especially these in the English countryside where family upbringing accounted for everything. “Well, look at the parents (or aunt or brother), what do you expect?” Little or no consideration was given to individuality.
Of course, in general this rule only applied to the bad. If you somehow managed to excel in some area beyond your family history, say sports or academics, the general rule of thumb was that it was accomplished despite your family. Most probably a direct result of the (imaginary) extra care and concern shown to you from these very teachers and/or administrators. “I thought I saw something different about her,” meaning to differentiate you from your bad familial influences. Then your children, should they be unfortunate enough to go there also, had the extra burden of being expected to do special things too.
Hector had it even worse. Imagine being the only Latino child in this quaint English seaside village school. The teachers had no family history to pull apart to account for Hector’s bad grades, disciplinarian problems, excellent sports achievements or whatever. They only had every single thing they had ever seen on TV or in the movies or heard about the entire Latino culture and peoples to judge Hector by. It was a heavy burden to bear for a young man of barely nine years old.
Hector’s parents ended up here purely by a series of accidental events. It was quite amusing actually, except possibly to Hector’s family, but that is a story for another time. Suffice it to say, no one in Hector’s family wanted to be there among the English country snobs.
Hector had a tough time of it.
“Of course he got into a fight, they’re a hot blooded people,” one might over hear in the teachers’ lounge. Forget that the real reason was that several older boys were bullying a younger kid and Hector stood up to his defense. And after being called several choice insults pertaining to his parentage and culture, had no choice but to fight.
Or, “of course his homework wasn’t completed, they are lazy by nature.” Forget that Hector was busy helping to care for his elderly and ailing grandmother all evening while his parents were again kept overtime at work to make up for some imagined lack of work ethic. “Maria, clean the dining room again, please. Really you could do so much better if you just tried.” Or to his father, “Some of the men are complaining they can’t understand your directions, you are going to have to go through it all and make sure it was done right.”
When Hector failed to grasp the reason for all the kings and queens and wars and petty family rivalries that tore England apart for so many years hundreds of years ago, it was said, “what do you expect, he isn’t from a refined culture like ours they barely have a government.”
When certain drugs started rearing their ugly faces in town, heads were turned and behind empty hands it was whispered to one another, “you know where that came from.”
Not surprisingly, like many a marginalized young person judged only on skin tone, Hector began to feel like he had something to prove.
Hector’s parents worried about him. They knew if they were having a tough time acclimating, or being accepted for themselves, he was having a terrible time. Kids his age are so cruel and rarely does teacher interference help. Hector did his best to ignore the taunts and the ignorance of his classmates. He felt that if he excelled at classwork or at athletics, he could be accepted. At his age, acceptance is important, but down inside Hector knew it would be a mistake to do so at the cost of his heritage.
When the date of a traditional Latino holiday was approaching, Hector asked for permission to set up a little display of his culture on a table in the library, which he would man all day to answer questions. Also, his teacher could give him extra credit for the extra work (two birds, one stone).
“Would that be appropriate,” several of them twittered in the teachers’ lounge. “It’s just one table,” a more open-minded member of staff commented. “But don’t we want him to fit in more, not stand out,” asked the old curmu
dgeon who taught music. “They want to live here, they should at least try to be English.” And on and on, many voices of prejudice arguing against the few of reason.
Finally, as the day approached to where it would almost be too late to get it done, the answer came down: “Maybe next year, thank you for the nice idea though.”
Hector was disappointed but also a little relieved, after all what nine-year-old wants that much attention? But he wasn’t finished. He knew the road to his peers’ acceptance wasn’t his conforming to them, his skin will always be darker. It was them liking and respecting him as he was.
Hector started inviting his classmates to his home for meals, homework, or just fun. Some came, some did not. All who came seem friendly enough and enjoyed themselves. Hector’s parents were glad to see he was making friends here, finally. However, at school little changed. The kids Hector thought he was reaching were still too encumbered by peer pressure, fear or shame to admit their friendships with Hector.
Some of these kids’ fathers worked for Hector’s father, who was a supervisor at the factory. In Hector’s mind, they should be less inclined to prejudice, not more. In actuality, Hector’s family was one of the better off in this little village, having a two-income family. But the fact that a Latino was placed above them, just made the fathers more unreasonable and thus the kids, no matter how well deserved the placement. In contrast, the families Hector’s mom worked for as a maid, those that had kids were nicer to Hector, in a condescending kind of way.
Smarter and older people than Hector didn’t understand the psychology that made this so, so how could Hector?
Nearing the end of the school year in an atypical warm and sunny month, Hector stumbled upon an idea. Part of the reason his family ended up here, he knew from his parents, shall we say, discussions, was due to a cousin of his fathers who worked at the embassy in London. Hector of course has been in the embassy, and it was great. Built and decorated in the style of his country, with courtyards and traditional gardens, the embassy boasted a museum with a film detailing the shared history, mutual respect and good works they and the English people had accomplished not only in both nations but around the globe.
Hector doubted he could bring the embassy to them, but his plan was to bring them to the embassy. After all, his class took field trips for all sorts of stupid reasons. They went to a goat farm to see the goats. They went to a veterinarian’s office to see the vet work. They went to a small archeology dig to see bits of dug up old stone. It was boring, mundane stuff in Hector’s mind.
He set about arranging it right away.
“Dad, my class wants to take a field trip to the embassy. How do I do it?” Forget that his class knew nothing about it, yet. Proudly, his dad called his cousin who was happy to make the arrangements.
Hector ran to school the whole way the next morning with the news for the administrator.
“Whoa, there Hector, I’m not sure we can just send your whole class off to London for the day, even if the ambassador invited you. I’m sure it’s a great idea, but I’m not sure it’s in the budget. Maybe next year,” dismissing Hector with what he hoped was a genial smile.
They all had a good talking over this latest idea of Hector’s in the teachers’ lounge that lunchtime. “Imagine, going to London, just to see some buildings with a courtyard.” “Actually, I hear the gardens there are beautiful, I’d love to go”, was fairly drowned out with the negatives, “too far, not safe, too costly.” What they all meant was, “too Latino.”
It just so happened, Hector’s father’s cousin came visiting that evening. The phone call reminding him it had been too long since he saw the family. He was there when Hector arrived home from school.
“So, Hector” after all the hugs and kisses, “is your class excited about coming to the embassy?”
Hector was crestfallen, battling tears. “The administrator says we can’t. The school can’t afford it.”
Hector’s father and his father’s cousin exchanged a knowing look. “I’ll take care of it, leave it all to me, eh, Hector?”
The next day the ambassador himself called the school administrator, not only inviting Hector’s class to the embassy for a day, but also offering to pay for the whole trip, out of the cultural budget. When the administrator still tried to object, the ambassador offered to call the central supervisor’s office, “if it would help”. The trip was scheduled for the next Thursday and permission slips were sent out forthwith.
The bus picked up Hector’s class at 8:00 am for the one-and-a-half-hour trip into London. The kids were all very excited, and the two teachers as well, though they tried to hide it. Imagine an invitation from the ambassador himself. They felt puffed up with their own importance.
All the kids were encouraged to wear their best school uniforms and Hector was similarly decked out in his school hat, jacket and tie. Upon arrival in London, the bus disgorged the excited and noisome flock of children squarely in front of the embassy’s main gates. The two teachers present were getting flustered getting them all under control, especially the curmudgeonly old music teacher. As the bus pulled away to park in a lot about a block and a half away, she realized she left her purse under her seat with the pills she had to take with her lunch.
“Oh My,” she exclaimed. “My purse is still on the bus.”
“I’ll go get it,” said the other teacher, “it’s not far.” But the old music teacher felt worried about herding all these troublesome children herself.
“No, we have all these children to look after,” and spying Hector listening, said “Hector, be a dear would you, and run to the bus driver and get my purse, you know where it is, don’t you?”
Well, he didn’t, but what nine-year-old boy would admit ignorance? He saw the bus went that way, and heard it was only a block and a half. “Sure thing,” being ever ready to please. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” And off he went.
Now we will never know if the thug was trying to kidnap Hector for ransom, mistaking him for some wealthy family’s child, or if poor Hector was just in the wrong place at the wrong time perhaps seeing something he shouldn’t of. However it all transpired, Hector didn’t make it home that day from London, or any day after.
The End
Ida
Ivy and her twin sister Ida believe in Mermaids (with a capital ‘M’). They believe in Mermaids with their whole hearts. Of course, they also believe in the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and all sorts of other fantastical creatures and beings. Belief isn’t the problem.
Ivy and Ida don’t want to be the Easter Bunny. They want to be Mermaids.
“Isn’t that just so adorable”, you might think, as did Ivy and Ida’s Aunt Louise, upon first hearing about it.
Now Aunt Louise is a wonderful person, forever happy to be doing things for her family and her neighbors. Baking, sewing, cooking and what not, Aunt Louise is a giver, if ever there was one.
At first, Ivy and Ida’s parents saw no harm with their girls’ infatuation with Mermaids. They were just the age, after all. Mermaids and unicorns one day, boys the next. Or so they thought (Ivy and Ida didn’t actually like unicorns, or boys, not yet anyway).
In the beginning, they were happy to buy Ivy and Ida all sorts of Mermaid themed stuff, Mermaid pillows, Mermaid coloring books and story books about Mermaids, Mermaid shaped pancakes, you get the picture. But no matter how much Mermaid paraphernalia Ivy and Ida got, the more it seemed they wanted.
When Ivy and Ida’s teacher (they were in the same class) sent a note home to their parents asking to speak with them, they didn’t give it any special thought. Teachers speak to parents, it’s how it works.
When Ivy and Ida’s teacher showed their parents some Mermaid drawings Ivy and Ida had done, two thoughts immediately crossed their minds. Our kids are really good little artists and what the hell?
The drawings were graphic. A pair of Mermaids were wooing sailors to their violent deaths. A pair of Mermaids were ruling an underwater world. A pair
of Mermaids who were copulating with humans. The most disturbing part, the absolutely most terrifying part, for Ivy and Ida’s parents, the Mermaids in the drawings had Ivy’s and Ida’s face.
The teacher felt at a loss. She was young and inexperienced and her “How to be a Teacher for Dummies” book had no relevant advice. “Are the children subjected to violence at home”, she asked. “Of course not”, the parents truthfully answered. “Is there some traumatic childhood event that they are repressing”, she asked. “Of course not”, the parents truthfully answered. “Are they being bullied by someone”, the teacher asked. “Of course not”, the parents truthfully answered. The teacher was better than she gave herself credit for. She asked all the right questions, but unfortunately there seemed to be no good answer to the Ivy and Ida Mermaid dilemma.
Back at home, all the Mermaid stuff went into the trash and was carted off to the dump. The Mermaid pillows? No more. The Mermaid posters? Good-bye. The Mermaid bedspreads, lamp shades, and Mermaid pancakes? Adios. The Mermaid books? Burnt to ash that blew away on the wind.
26 Absurdities of Tragic Proportions Page 5
