January 27, 2016

Pom Poms

We huddled on the floor in her room as Beth whispered, words tumbling out. Her eyes locked on mine, she tried all at once to impress and ask for approval. I knew little about the subject, it could have been car brakes instead of arousal and sex. At 13, I was still a runt, still wore an undershirt.

She told me how Adam, one of the most popular boys in our class, led her downstairs to his bedroom. After making out for a long time, he began trying to open her bra. Finally unhooking the back strap, he slid his hand around, cupping it on her breast. With his other hand, he pulled at her jeans. It was awkward. She didn’t want to seem easy by helping. Finally, he pushed his hand inside her underwear and fingered her. Paralyzed hearing such talk, I wanted to look away but couldn’t. He started asking if she wanted to do it. “DO it.”

Head bowed, Beth was practically looking at me through her eyebrows. “And he’s feeling me up, you know? And we’re, like, doing it, and I’m like...but it’s good, you know?” We both assumed she lost her virginity, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what happened. “What do you think?” she asked.

January 19, 2016

The Vow of Endurance

(Names have been changed. Rest in peace, sisters.)
I’ve always been impressed with people who can name their grade school teachers. I can’t. My father can name teachers he had 80 years ago. He sees them in his mind’s eye and recounts when they hollered and smacked kids. And when they gently buttoned little coats or taught history and ignited his imagination.

I do remember names of teachers I didn’t get. Sister Mary Katherine, an Irish, spinstery nun that kids feared. Sister Mary Ellen, a tomboy-plus-spitfire nun. For the life of me, I cannot remember the names of my Kindergarten, 1st, 2nd, or 3rd grade teachers. And I really liked Kindergarten! I know that my 1st grade teacher, a new and young nun, left our school and the Dominican order when that year ended. My 4th and 5th grade lay teachers moved out of state and onto other vocations. My 6th grade teacher, a very popular nun, left the order when I was in high school. Huh.

Mostly, school was a series of autumn-winter-springs, in plaid uniforms with neat desks that went from “I’m going to be a model student,” to so messy I couldn’t close the lid all the way.

A few teacher memories remain tattooed inside my head. Permanent marks on a kid who didn’t understand what she was seeing. They stay intact because something happened.

For many years, I wondered, “Why were they allowed to teach children?”