The Cheer Leader
Page 2
AUGUST 11, 1964
Here we all are back in the front yard. It is Bobby’s tenth birthday and we all have on hats with yellow streamers coming off the top. Bobby is standing beside his new red bike and he is holding up both hands for ten. I hold up seven fingers; Daddy doesn’t have enough fingers to hold up so he just smiles, and Mama (with a look of discomfort on her face) holds up little Andrew who cannot even hold up his head and therefore, cannot keep his hat on. It keeps sliding forward and he looks like a little slobbering aardvark. Mr. Monroe (who still lives next door and is even fatter than before) takes the picture and catches little Andrew’s spittle right before it hits Mama’s blouse.
Looking back, I can remember seeing that slobber hit Mama’s blouse and run down her left bosom. She squealed and again got a look of discomfort. I realize now that this look did not come solely from the slobbered upon blouse but just from little Andrew in general. You see, (unlike me) Andrew was not planned or on the up and up. It was like playing Bingo and not really concentrating; covering all four corners and not even realizing; meekly yelling “bingo” as an echo to another bingoer and even though you have bingo, you lose. Mama was not prepared; when I am a Girl Scout some years in the future, I learn that that is something you must always be. Like me, Mama has changed her mind on a few occasions. In the future she claims that little Andrew (Andy) is a “blessing,” “the sunshine of her life.” And like Mama, I can honestly say that I, too (though it may be hard to believe), have screwed up once or twice.
JANUARY 15, 1965
This is the second grade class. I am circled on the front row where the short people stand. I look a little disturbed because Ralph Craig had just asked, “Why do cherry trees stink?” He did not even give anyone time to think of an answer before he said, “George Washington cut one.” That was the worst joke that I had ever heard and it upset me that I had actually heard a “bad” and nasty joke, and especially about the father of the country. In due time, however, the joke did not bother me, because I had heard far worse, because I had suddenly realized that George was a person and naturally he had cut one; he had cut several. What has bothered me from time to time is that cherry tree in general and that whole little story about “I cannot tell a lie, it was I.” I tend to think that the story itself is a lie. There is no proof, no picture of him standing there, guiltily, with his little hatchet. It is merely a way to provide insight into the father of our country. I have heard another story about him that is shunned in the schoolroom. I have heard that he died of syphilis and pneumonia, the former which he got from someone other than Martha and the latter which he got on his way to see the carrier of the former. It seems to me that that is more historical than the cherry tree or the euphemistic approach that he caught his cold (and nothing more) while standing in that horrid little icy boat crossing the Delaware; yet, people just don’t want to discover or accept a change in history, because it is easier to believe what everyone else believes. It is why there is religion, songs hit the charts, skirts rise and fall, the emperor made such an ass of himself strutting around in his underwear. It is why at one point in my life, those people close to me wore kid gloves, went out of their way to abnormally make everything seem so normal. No one had the guts to tell me that I was hanging by a thread, not for fear of my reaction as much as their own fear of an inconsistency, a change. It was far easier to say that I had had a “little upset,” was “going through a phase.” And so it goes, truth sacrificed for ease, which is why George will forever be the honest, truthful father of our country and why I was May Queen. It’s all relevant. “I cannot tell a lie” is important and fucking out on Martha is not. “Little problems” are acceptable and so on.
OCTOBER 12, 1966
It was a very important day but we still had to go to school. This is a picture that I drew myself. There is the Pinta, the Nina and the Santa Marie (just like in the song). The good-looking man in the navy London Fog (he’s on top of the Nina) is Chris and the woman on the other side of the ocean is the queen. Her little balloon of speech says, “Way to go, Chris!” and his says, “I have discovered America.” I have discovered that I was not artistically inclined. However, when I drew the picture, I thought that I had done an excellent representation. The teacher said so, too (a polite encouraging lie). Now, I see that the entire picture is rather flat when the whole point was to prove roundness. Chris’ arms are much too long (for this is not a picture of evolution, another favorite topic) and he should probably have a beard after being on that ship so long. The man most definitely deserves some sexy feature, a cleft in his chin, narrowed tempting eyes, or even a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He deserves something but it is too late to rectify my past ignorance. Then, I spent much of my time wondering where the New World would be if Chris hadn’t found it. Even now, sometimes, I think about all of that. Right out of the blue, I will think, “Columbus had balls” because he took a chance, because he did not base his beliefs on what other people thought, because he discovered the truth. I admire that because chances are hard to take, the truth is often difficult to face, because somewhere in the back of his mind, there must have been a slight doubt, a slight fear of finding himself clinging to the edge of the world, dropping into that pit of darkness that everyone else “knew” was there. And yet, he kept going after the bit of proof that was necessary for his beliefs.
OCTOBER 31, 1966
Cindy is having a Halloween party and I am the one at the back with the white sheet on. I knew that my costume was not original but I liked the way that it felt inside of the sheet; I felt like I was in bed and dreaming the party. Tricia McNair, the new girl in the third grade, was one of four black cats. She is the cute black cat lying down in front of the group with her long black tail held up for all to see. For a new person, she was not the least bit shy and had been immediately accepted. Beatrice was an old person (she is the black cat wearing glasses) and yet, she still was not fully accepted. I have always thought that there should be some logical theorem behind all of that, some correlation between new people and old people, but I have never figured it out. Ralph Craig, whom you will recognize by now, claimed to be a stoplight which is why he has a red dot painted on his forehead. Tricia McNair, right after the picture was made, won the prize for the best costume which really wasn’t fair to the other three black cats, but I didn’t voice my concern. It was much easier to stay in my sheet and not call attention to myself. Besides, being a ghost was so unoriginal that I felt by doing it, I had been original. I suppose that deep down, I felt that I deserved the prize, not the physical prize, for what did I care for a tacky little plastic jack-o’-lantern, but the title, the recognition that went along with it. I consoled myself throughout the party first by congratulating Tricia McNair and then by telling myself that my turn would come. Besides, I was not yet ready to expose myself.
APRIL 1, 1967
This picture is unexposed; it is very dark and it is grouped with all of the pictures from the Girl Scout campout. There are pictures of a bonfire, bags and bags of G.S. cookies, Cindy posed by a tree, Tricia swinging from a tree, Lisa with a Tootsie Roll Pop (oral fixation), but it is the dark one that I am concerned with. It could be another picture of the cookies or the bonfire, but since it is so dark and scary looking, I see another picture: I am in the tent and everyone else is asleep. I have a dire need to use the bathroom but I am afraid to walk down the path to the latrine; I should have gone earlier when the whole troup went to shine their flashlights down the latrine to look but I was engrossed in a winning way conversation with the scout leader who I hoped would give me my cooking badge even though that very day she had caught me burying my food in the woods. (To get the badge you had to eat what you cooked.) She was no April Fool and I had missed my chance to use the bathroom. There, in the dark, perched on a ratty little cot, I sit, my legs crossed tightly, humiliated, guilty for not having one badge on my sash, and suffering that excruciating pain of not being able to use the bathroom. I could
n’t go out beside the tent because I was scared of frogs, snakes and whatever else might be out there, and so through the darkness, I endured the hurt, the little pee shivers that made me jerk involuntarily, the hurt pride of not having one badge. It was my first real experience with the pains of loneliness, failure, darkness; the pains which come when one denies those very natural bodily functions. I have felt this way on various other occasions (even when I did not have to use the bathroom and was not sitting on a ratty little cot in a Girl Scout tent somewhere in the mountains). The likenesses are that there have been times when I really didn’t know where in the hell I was except in a bed, under a tent, under a sheet, an exposed ghost; and again, I did not always finish what I started. This is why I feel that this one mysteriously dark, unexposed picture is very important to my life in general.
JULY 4, 1967
It is a holiday and I am celebrating the fact that this country owes its birth to Chris Columbus, by sitting in the bathroom. I am wearing my new old blue bathrobe and it is just the right length because it reaches the tops of my bobby socks. The bathrobe was comfortable and the pink scarf that I wore on my head seemed to hold all of my thoughts together. I felt like a poet and so I spent hours making lists of words that rhymed so that I would have them when I was ready to let myself go. At that particular time, it was easier to fool everyone, especially Daddy who always got a real kick out of the “dress-up” pictures. Had he known then what he came to know later, he probably never would have laughed and teased me so, and thus would have robbed me of something very special. Teasing, when done properly, can be one of the finest indications of love, and it is quite sad when people decide that they will not ever do it again. Of course, I can’t blame them. Who wants to feel responsible for hurting someone that they sincerely love?
AUGUST 1967
In this picture, I am at VBS (Vacation Bible School) and I hate VBS because I have to see people that I feel I should not have to see over the summer. I am wearing a long purple dress and have just fished Baby Moses (a Chatty Cathy all wrapped up in a beach towel and put in a fruit basket) out of the bullrushes (a large azalea bush). Ralph Craig is Goliath which is why he has a rock taped to his forehead, his tongue out of his mouth and is lying flat on his back. Cindy is all wrapped up in long silky blue scarves because she is Mary and she is holding Baby Jesus (a Betsy Wetsy in swaddling clothes). Beatrice had wanted to be Jesus all grown up but the teacher would not let her. The teacher thought that it was acceptable for Betsy Wetsy to be Baby Jesus but that no one should try to play grown up Jesus. Beatrice got very angry and this is why she is all wrapped up in towels and lying on the ground right near my bullrushes. She had told the teacher that if she couldn’t be Jesus, that she would be Lazarus and play dead just like Ralph Craig.
Even in this prominent position of the princess’ maiden who discovered Baby Moses, I look somewhat perplexed. It is because Ralph Craig, before his death scene, came up and whispered a word to me that I did not know, a word that you would say if you used the name Buck in the Banana Nanna Fo Fanna song. I did not know that it was an ugly word, though I had my suspicions, so I did not tell the teacher. Too, as ugly as I thought Ralph was, I liked to look at him sometimes. I changed my mind after I asked my mother to define the word. Ralph had said that that was what he was going to do to me. It made me afraid of him and yet, I still had to look at him even though I did not want to. It was like he had a power; even Beatrice was in his spell because later that same week when he commanded that she pull up her skirt or get a busted nose, she obliged. I realized that being popular did not mean that you had everything. Beatrice had an experience (self-exposure) which I would not have for a long long time. This one incident at VBS caused a lot of trouble because it made me afraid of boys and what they had. I think it also had a hell of a lot to do with the knot that I would get in the pit of my stomach at the very mention of VBS.
SEPTEMBER 30, 1967
I am upset in this picture because I feel that I do not fit in. It is an odd thing because outwardly, I do fit in; I am one of the most popular girls in the fifth grade (along with Cindy, Lisa and Tricia McNair). It has been this way for some time, our four names always said together as if it is one name, TriciaLisaJoandCindy; I am third in line. We maintain this close friendship so that other people will not be forced to make decisions about whom they like best (that choice comes much later). However, I also learned something very important from all of this, something political; there are divisions within groups that have already been divided from other groups and ideally should be whole. They are not; nothing is whole; even people, without realizing, split themselves up into little parts. This theory is one that came to mind much later, for then I was simply confused by the issue. You see, all three of my best friends had asked me in private to be their best friend and I had avoided answering for suspecting that they had asked each of the other two the same so that they would eventually be everyone’s best friend and therefore have power. For times such as that, I had chosen for my answer, huh. Not “huh?” but “huh,” like “I see” or “Oh, yes,” and thus had not committed myself to any particular belief. This tactic works, for the person then assumes your answer to be whatever they would like for it to be and yet, there is no proof of exactly what the response meant. It is confusing, but then it was the easiest way to maintain my position. Noncommittal is easy or at least appears to be for it allows you to stay on the up and up with everyone. The problem, of course, is that you eventually have no opinion that you can think of except that which is thought by others and you never know if what they think is true or false. Monkey see, monkey do.
I was disturbed by other things as well. For instance, sometimes Tricia tried to hold my hand and I felt that I was much too old for that. There was a motive behind it. Was it a subtle suggestion to the others that we were best friends? Was it a way to make Cindy and Lisa try harder to be her best friend? Or was it that strong human urge to expose and possess people who do not wish to be exposed or possessed? I was saving my hands for a future encounter with a male for that struck me as being normal and when done tastefully, with discretion, I thought could be a worthwhile event. Naturally, I did not reveal this thought for it was one of those very sound, very old, bathroom, bathrobe thoughts that I had to save just as I saved my hands.
Here, Cindy is holding hands with Tricia and it is strange to see because Cindy was my friend first and yet, she doesn’t seem to be bothered by holding hands with a girl. Nor, was she bothered when Tricia turned and spoke directly in her face. It was my belief that people just shouldn’t do that and yet, I was helpless to make them stop. A reprimand on such an issue would have committed me to an inescapable opinion that would set up a conflict between myself and the other three popular girls, three to one, and I had no desire to be on the outside. I had ideas that I needed that position, that if I hung in there, one day, my name would come first. Although I clearly had thoughts and opinions I did not reveal, I felt that I had to do one silly thing so I would not be rejected and could fit into the popular picture. I said, “Boolahbuster! Boolahbuster!” and then I squatted down and made a frog noise. This kept me in for a good two weeks without holding hands.
OCTOBER 12, 1967
We were sailing along on the Pinta, the Nina and the Santa Marie. This is little Andy sitting in the bathtub. He is surrounded by little plastic boats and stretched and tattered Huzzy whom he loves (in a way that I never did). On this very sacred day, Andy chose to play with himself (if you know what I mean) more than he played with the boats and I was quite distressed by this. Bobby saw a great deal of humor in the situation and Mama passed it off as a normal response. They did not see that little Ralph Craig glint in Andy’s three-year-old eyes as I did. I thought that Mama should possibly beat him but she didn’t and I had to console myself with the thought that after me, there was very little sense left for Andy to receive, sort of like, “where were you when they passed out the brains?” Of course, now I realize that that is not ho
w it works and that Andy is quite intelligent in his little assy way. He was merely into blatant exposure while his sister was discreet, tactful, mysterious and sneaky.
JUNE 18, 1968
I am getting ready to go to Moon Lake with Tricia. She is wearing a hot pink two piece that shows her navel, an “inny.” The rest of us are wearing one pieces with skirts around the ass. Lisa has a look of discomfort on her thin bird face because she has (just three hours before) started her period for the first time. She is very early, but I learn in the future that Lisa is early in whatever she does. She is the first person that I know of (in my age group) that has one and she will tell us all about it at the lake after we have all been swimming and she hasn’t. Tricia will act like she knows all about it and Cindy will ask lots of questions. I will not say anything as I usually don’t when I am perplexed. Lisa’s descriptions will so link periods to tidal waves that I will spend the next two years of my life in constant fear even though my mother will try to soothe my prepubescent worries.
AUGUST 10, 1968
Here I am with Jeff Johnson. We are getting ready to ride our bikes up to the Quick Stop to get a can of boiled peanuts and two strawberry Icees. Bobby is the smart ass that takes the picture as a subtle way to give me hell for having a boyfriend. I don’t really but Bobby won’t listen to good sense so I make a face and Jeff just smiles this real nice smile that Bobby will call a sissy smile when the pictures come back long after Jeff is gone.