I was proud of my mom when she was healthy and I was little, but as a teen, I am sad to say, I was embarrassed to bring friends over to my house. Besides for living in a motorized wheelchair or in bed, Mom had large bruises up and down her arms and legs from bumping into things. This bruising was a side effect of the prednisone, a steroid drug that she took for the pain. Her hands were swollen and her hair was now frizzy on the sides and flat in back from lying in bed and sweating. Despite my dread at the thought of introducing my mom, I still had friends over. But if they said something later, like “What’s wrong with your mom’s arms?” I’d cringe and feel protective of her, and get angry inside because it wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. A lot of the time Mom wasn’t home at all, because she had one illness after another that landed her in the hospital for weeks at a time.
The times I remember most are not when she got angry at me for not cleaning my room or when I disappointed her with my monster teen-pregnancy slipup; the memories I cherish are when she would joke and we would laugh together. One time, in the middle of the night, she grunted before I had the pot slid into the commode, pretending she was pooping on the bare carpet. I was horrified and didn’t think it was particularly funny because I would have been the one to clean it up, but she thought it was hilarious.
Sometimes, when I would go see her in the hospital, she would pat the bed next to her and say, “Come and lay down next to me.” So I’d crawl up there and have to lie on my side so I’d fit. Then she would clunk her arm on top of me and pat me and say with a sigh, “My little blessing.” I could physically feel her love swirling around me in a warm glow.
Mom had good days and bad days. If it was a bad day and the phone rang, she’d lean over to grab it, wince with pain, and cry out at the sudden movement. She’d lift the receiver from the cradle and say calmly, “Oh, hello, Edith. I’m fine, just fine, how are you?”
Her cheery tone never faltered.
One time I asked, “Mom, why don’t you tell people how you really feel?”
“People don’t want to hear about your aches and pains. What can they do about it, anyway? Besides, I hate sympathy.”
When Mom was in her mid-forties she accidentally got pregnant with me. Then, when I was a teen, I accidentally got pregnant. I regret to think that a baby in the womb might be able to sense how welcome they are. Perhaps I could feel the level of anticipation for my arrival by the way Mom rubbed her belly. And maybe I could feel the retching and discomfort of the nausea that filled our space. Maybe the haunting feeling I get now and again of “not belonging” is an echo from my time in utero.
When I think about how the mom and baby are connected in such an intimate way, I feel a profound sadness at how I acted when I was sixteen. I never thought of it as a real baby. I knew it intellectually, but I never touched my belly with any love or care. It was just a horrible growth attached to my insides, sucking the life out of me. All I could do was pray for a miscarriage. I heard that one in five pregnancies self-terminate because it is nature’s way of taking care of imperfections. I never thought in terms of the precious life I was sheltering and nourishing within my womb. I hated everything about it. I was nauseated and then I was getting fat. It was an embodiment of my sinful nature and flagged my lack of self-control. It was a shame generator, spewing ugliness and self-loathing.
That is how I related to my pregnancy and all I could know during this dark time in my life.
JUDY 3 YEARS OLD
JUDY 7 YEARS OLD
BACKYARD OF 5806 N. FAIRFIELD CHICAGO BUNGALOW
PART I - COMING OF AGE
CHAPTER 4
THE GOODNESS METER
I always thought of myself as a good girl, but I had my struggles. There was the time that my best friend Jane and I stole eggs from her family restaurant, stood on the patio rooftop, and pelted the customers’ cars. It was fun hearing them crack and watching them explode in a yellowy burst on the windshields and car tops. It wasn’t so fun when Jane’s mom asked about it and Jane ‘fessed up. She then banned Jane from playing with me. Several months later, when I started to come around Jane’s house again, I cringed when I ran into her mom. I tried to forget about it, but since I didn’t face Jane’s mom and apologize, I stayed sick with regret. I was too ashamed to tell anyone about it, especially my parents, who wondered why I hadn’t been playing with Jane lately.
I met Jane in third grade while at the school bus stop, shortly after we moved to Glenview. She pretty much ignored me at first while she played with her gaggle of brothers, sisters, and cousins. As we waited for the bus, I gawked as the kids balanced on the white rocks that bordered their restaurant driveway. They pretended they were suspended over the ocean and if they fell, sharks would eat them. I wanted desperately to play. I thought Jane was cute with her pixie haircut and navy-blue pea coat. I was envious when someone cracked a joke and laughter skipped through them like a stone on the water. How could I make friends? After standing on the sidelines for a few weeks, Jane asked me if I wanted to try it. Now the pressure was on. I was relieved when the bus pulled up and my performance was cut short. On the bus, I sat next to Jane. The ice was broken.
I came home from school skipping and singing. I made a friend, which I desperately needed since I was new to Our Lady of Perpetual Help School. In the following years, some of our favorite things to do were pretending we were Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn as we explored the river in the forest preserves across from Harms Road, or asking George the imaginary butler to fetch fancy shoes and dresses for Barbie’s date with Ken.
“Good, I was good,” I told myself, but what about the time I stole the gumdrops from the drugstore when I was five and Mom asked where I got the colorful candy? She marched me back into the store to apologize to the pharmacist. I was so disgraced that I made an inner plea to never, ever try that again.
And then, worst of all: the time I got caught playing doctor. I had met this kid, Julie, on our block and had invited her over to our house. When Mom finished her phone call she asked what we were doing in the bathroom with the door closed. When I said “playing doctor,” Mom asked if we had our clothes on. When I said no, Mom told the little girl to go home and then gave me a lecture, saying proper girls don’t act like that and I should never, ever play doctor. The shame from that episode stuck on me like a permanent wood tick.
Otherwise, I got good grades in school, did my homework, and never got in trouble with the cops, unlike my older brothers. I think Mom and Dad had big plans for me, because they bragged about any little skill I stumbled upon, to the point of embarrassment.
When I was thirteen, I had serious questions about my score on the goodness meter. I started liking boys and dreamed about doing things that I probably shouldn’t. At first I omitted these embarrassing sins in the confessional, but then my conscience got the better of me, so I included the full spectrum of my offenses.
While kneeling in the dark with my head next to the wall, the shutter slid open and Father said, “You may start now.”
I couldn’t see anything, but I could tell the voice was Father Ryan’s. I was glad it wasn’t Father Monson, because he was the pastor of the church and recently preached about avoiding the kinds of sins I was about to confess.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been about one week since my last confession.”
“Go ahead, my child.”
“I was unkind once. I didn’t tell the truth once. And …” my voice lowers… “I had six impure thoughts.”
“Ask God’s forgiveness, dear child, and say ten Hail Marys and fifteen Our Fathers. You have been forgiven. Go in peace.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The shutter slid shut. I felt relief for the quick ending.
I knew that if I was really bad, I would have gotten a lecture and a bigger assignment. The nuns taught us that of all the hundreds of religions in the world, Catholics were members of the one true religion. It was a sacred privileg
e to be able to have our sins forgiven in confession, because without it, you could end up in hell. If you had venial sins, like impure thoughts, then you went to purgatory and had a chance to work off the dirt, eventually making it to heaven. I wasn’t sure what this work entailed; I pictured hundreds of disembodied souls swinging hammers, and then, one by one, after so much time, Jesus came down and handed them a pass to heaven.
But the most horrible circumstance was if you died with a mortal sin on your soul. You would go straight to hell with no chance to get out. These offenses might include murder, coveting another man’s wife, and sex before marriage. In hell, you would burn for eternity. I pictured screaming souls, hands reaching upward for forgiveness, but God turning a deaf ear. I knew about burns. Back in the days when Mom was still able to fry chicken, I got too close. The grease splattered and seared my arm with eternal throbs of pain.
At this stage, my impure thoughts were about doing the wrong things with Bob Flannigan, a boy I knew in school who had a swanky way about him and wore his hair like Elvis. I dreamed of kissing him and falling into bed, like I saw in the movies, folding into a tight embrace, every part of our bodies touching. Then I’d get carried away and dream about taking our clothes off and feeling each other’s body, skin on skin. The visions made me weak in the knees. I knew I would never actually do that; that was acting like a slut. That was being like Linda K. The boys at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School giggled and whispered foul gossip that stunk up her reputation. I would never go that far; but still, I was a sinner. Father Monson said that thoughts precede actions, so any nasty thoughts were a sin.
I had a hard time keeping track of the exact number of impure thoughts I had between confessions and wondered how accurate I had to be to get wiped clean. What if I said six, but really had twelve? Is that the same as if I never went to confession at all? But for goodness’ sake, it was impossible to keep perfect track of the number. What was I supposed to do? Carry a scratch pad along with me, counting the bad thoughts one by one? I could just hear my friend Annie asking me, “Why are you marking up that scratch pad?” And then I would say something like, “Oh, I’m checking off the times I think of God.” Well, that was half the truth, because prayers often followed the impure thoughts. Prayers were supposed to cure us of our deviant ways, like dousing a campfire with water.
I always wanted to impress Annie and longed for us to be tighter friends. I remember the first time she invited me to sleep over in seventh grade. I was popping with good fortune, now that I was “in” with Annie, part of the popular crowd. She had tawny blonde hair, emerald-green eyes, and a swimming pool. She had a confident air about her; she never minced words but got straight to the point. This self-confidence was a rare commodity when most everyone else in my world worried about what others thought. Annie commanded a small army of boy admirers. Her soldiers were always the cutest and the coolest.
I hadn’t really made out with a boy yet: the closest I got was in sixth grade. I spun the green 7-Up bottle and it pointed to Jimmy Bartlett. He had to kiss me. He grabbed my hand and led me to the make-out room. It was pitch black and a bit freaky, but in an effort to expedite the task, I closed my eyes and puckered my lips. He had his hands on my shoulders, but stood a foot away. Since he had little reference as to where my lips actually were, he planted a kiss on the side of my nose. We were both embarrassed by our juvenile attempt and quickly left the room, holding hands to make it look like we’d actually made out. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but I thought he was kinda cute, even if he was a greaser. My friends and I didn’t hang around with the greasers. They wore leather, tossed swear words around like confetti, and slicked their hair back with Brylcreem. I felt criminal for kissing in the dark like that.
I thought Bob Flannigan’s kisses would be much different. We would actually hug before we started kissing, and it would transport me to some dreamy state, liquid with love. There I went again with my bad thinking. Tally one for the confessional.
In a halfhearted way, I really did try the praying, but it didn’t work so well. I thought this was evidence that God was displeased with me and not really listening.
Confession was something I did because I had to. I never felt truly cleansed, because I didn’t give any details about my impure thoughts. Eventually, I just came up with a template that included a sprinkling of each type of sin: lying, impure thoughts, disrespecting my parents. I could have gotten something out of confession if it had been more like a counseling session, discussing exact incidences with the priest and together coming up with a way to do better. But in reality, I didn’t want to change my ways. So I just threw out a list of sins and thought that would probably cover it. At least I was fulfilling my confessional duty.
As a young child, sex was this gauzy apparition that slinked about our house, with no one mentioning its presence. At an early age, I got the impression that I shouldn’t be touching myself in certain places. It came from getting caught playing doctor, but then it was probably earlier, when I was a toddler. Mom had disgust in her voice when she told me to get my hands out of my pants. The message was clear: anything having to do with the private parts was untouchable.
The real message could have been that sexual desire is natural and a sacred part of our humanness. Perhaps this attitude might have encouraged conversations about my budding sexuality, prying the dirt loose from my blackened soul, a much-needed shot of self-esteem.
I know the clergy’s lessons were well intended and specifically aimed at girls like me, perhaps so I could avoid getting into trouble. But the mandates fell short because they were not accompanied by any explanation of why. The theory was simple; when you are tempted in the Garden of Eden, you just divert your eyes and think about cookies or milk or sunflowers. Switch the tracks of the mind, for it is a sin to have sexual thoughts. This goes against the grain of human nature and had us fighting a losing battle.
CHAPTER 5
HUMMINGBIRD NESTS
I was intrigued with the buzzing feelings I had when a boy paid attention to me, but there was always that taint of guilt that drizzled down on me. Although my friends and I spent the greater part of our time talking about the boys at school, I would never let my mom or dad know about any of the big things in my life, like the crush I had on Bob Flannigan. I couldn’t wait to grow up. I already wore nylons with a garter belt and tiny elevated heels. When Dad first saw me in the grown-up garb he said, “What on earth’s goin’ on around here?” but Mom said it was okay because I was now a young lady. Dad just muttered something about me being too young for that sort of thing, shook his head, and dropped it. But more than the heels and nylons, I wanted a bra. I looked at ads in the Sears catalog and saw how perfectly they fit and helped shape your figure. They looked so feminine and substantial and womanly.
At seven or eight, when my new teeth came in, they were crooked and too big. When my breasts came in, they were tardy and too small. My friends were blossoming, but my body had no clue spring had sprung. They were whispering about what a pain it was having to use Kotex with the belt and how uncomfortable it was. I was thinking that I wouldn’t mind. I would like it: it would mean I was a woman. Mom said I was immature for my age. What an insult! There’s nothing worse than delayed development when you want to hurry up and grow up so you can get the attention of the boys.
I started anticipating some buds in fourth grade when Nancy Griffin showed up after summer vacation with a full figure. I didn’t even know we were old enough for that sort of thing. The boys thought it was the funniest joke in the world, running past Nancy on the playground and calling out, “Where’d you get those jugs?” Nancy got the fly-by treatment until the leaves fell off the trees, and then I guess they got tired of it, since Nancy ignored them.
I wouldn’t have wanted to be the first one at school to blossom, but it was worse to be the last. By sixth grade I was worried that something was wrong with me. I was still what we called “two raisins on a breadboard.”
There it was, under the glass counter, laid out on a royal-blue velvet cloth. It was snow white with pink lacy fringe and a tiny silk bow nestled between the cups of stretchy material. It was very petite, not like the large cups Mom wore with all the wire and padding. No, this one was for young ladies who were freshly budding like the leaves on the lilies of the valley at Easter time.
They called them training bras. I guess you were training your new developments to spend the rest of their lives inside cups that would forever hold them perky like when they were new. The bra followed the same principle as the stretch panel in maternity clothing. You could wear it a long time, even though your body was changing. That way you didn’t have to run out and get a new bra every week or two. I thought it was very economical and clever. More than ever, I hated the ribbed cotton undershirt I wore. It was hot and hung on me like a gunnysack. People could probably see the telltale U-shaped neck that showed right through my chintzy uniform blouse.
The boys at school were curious about who wore a bra and who didn’t, so they came up behind you and nonchalantly swiped a finger down your back to see if there was a telltale bra clasp under your shirt. Luckily, I was gifted with a super awareness of their intentions and was able to spin like a yo-yo if they were up to their tricks. The last thing I wanted was to publicize the fact that I wore an undershirt. If I wore a bra, I wouldn’t have to worry about such things. In fact, I might even pretend I didn’t see them coming and let them do their whammy snap.
Sunlight on My Shadow Page 3
