Beside my childhood home there is a small pond and beyond that is "the woods." It is not a very dense woods, certainly not a forest. I used to follow the creek inside for a long time, walking along the edge, crooked turns and dips. Sometimes I would take off my shoes and socks, tying the shoelaces together and shouldering them as I stepped into the water onto mossy stones and pebbly creek beds. I'd cross from one side of the creek to another side by stepping stones, but occasionally by straddling a log laying across the creek walls, then scooting slowly over the bark until I reached the other side. I was too scared to walk across, afraid that I'd slip and fall head first.
One Thanksgiving a cousin and I went hiking beside the creek. We'd left pretty early in the morning thinking we'd come back in time before dinner. But we became distracted and more interested in following the creek, getting to where we were going, finding out where it went. We weren't even hungry. It was an adventure. We weren't concerned about sharing our own stories about what was happening at home, or about school life. We were only interested in discovering the next turn of the creek or what was beyond the little grove of trees. Maybe it was a really sunny and warm day, just right for creek crawling. Maybe it was a need for a little freedom from everyone else, even ourselves, and hiking through sunlit oaks, pines, maples, birches, and ironwoods. Finding smooth colorful pebbles was like finding a pearl. Sometimes we stumbled upon rubbish, a boot protruding in a sandy creek or a rusty oil or soda can wasting away between vines and mossy roots.
Then we heard our names being called from far away. We didn't have watches on, so we didn't know how much time had passed. But we knew that our names being called meant we were in trouble. We'd gone too far, literally. We had followed the creek about a mile or two away from the house, definitely on someone else's property now. My father and my uncle both shouting our names, concerned, frustrated, and a little angry. We finally caught up with our fathers, and upon arriving back at the house, we were told we could not go into the woods anymore. We could not be trusted beyond the pond's embankment. We might would get lost.
Another creek I used to follow a lot was the one down below my Uncle Tommy's and Aunt Cathy's house. The house is surrounded by trees, and down a short path I found another creek I could follow. This one was bigger than the one at home, prettier moss growing, the sun shining brighter through the oak and pine trees, the sandy creeks seemed cleaner, and I found little flowers, muscles, turtles, and frogs here. It became a personal tradition to go down to the creek either before or after Thanksgiving dinner. After a while my youngest cousins were able to join me. At first my personal get-away seemed less my own, but after a brief interlude I enjoyed knowing others were interested in the same natural treasures.
I have not been in a creek in a long time, where I can get my toes wet and sandy, fingers in mossy embankments, digging for shells or smooth pebbles. I'll return one day this Summer, I'm sure.
Showing posts with label mississippi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mississippi. Show all posts
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Name-Calling
It was in middle school when much of the name-calling began. I never had quite fit in with my peers, but it was in fifth grade when that became even more pronounced. I did something at school that I had previously only done at home. I was in class and a boy -- I think his name was Jeff -- was sitting behind me kicking my seat. He was kicking it in that hypertension kind of way, a way to release pent-up energy, but this was not something I knew at the time. All I knew was this boy kept kicking my seat while we were taking a spelling test. I was trying to concentrate, but my nerves were shaken with his repetitive seat kicking. So I turned around and growled at him. I didn't growl loudly but a small deep guttural growl. I think my instinct told me to respond in this way instead of saying "stop it" because I knew we were not allowed to talk during the test. So I figured growling was not talking, right? But everyone heard me, not just the boy, and there was laughter and my face probably turning bright red. I don't remember if or how Ms. Tyner punished me for disrupting the class. Maybe she didn't because she knew I was about to get enough punishment from my peers. She just didn't know for how long.
This was the beginning of the DOG and UGLY years. Kids used a combination of Dog Ugly and calling me any kind of name they could use. There was even an acronym for DOG to be a more extensive insult, but I don't remember it. It was mostly boys who did this teasing and taunting, but the girls were bad enough in their own way: exclusivity. So when P.E. time came I often ended up playing with kids who were a year older or younger than me, kids who didn't know what happened in my classroom.
In seventh grade a new student came to Madison. His name was James and he became buddies with Roger. Roger had a vicious attitude, very bad ass and rebellious. He acted up a lot. James slid right into Roger's little circle of bad ass buddies when James snapped an attitude with me in American History class. He must've observed how others had been treating me and decided that he had to fit in and this was the way to do it. So he was vehement each time he "baaaah!" at me in the hallways, calling me a goat and making the loudest noises possible. No teacher ever seriously told him to stop. And other peers just smirked and laughed, amused at his antics.
One day, right after Ms. Stringer's American History class ended and most of the other students had left the trailer and were heading indoors to their lockers and to break, I called James over and said I needed to ask him a question. Since his buddies weren't around he didn't cock an attitude but he listened to me nicely ask, "Why do you make fun of me? Did I do something to you? What is it about me that makes you call me names?" And maybe the sad sincerity of my asking him these questions prevented him from being rude, but all he offered up as an answer was, "I don't know" while looking me straight in the face. I shook my head, lowering it, and he left. But the name-calling didn't stop after that. But I knew I had glimpsed for a brief moment that he sincerely didn't know why he did it, just that he felt he had to do it.
Since much of my middle and junior high school years was spent surviving constant name calling from my peers, I never made it a habit to do the same to others. I knew it hurt. I knew it was alienating.
This was the beginning of the DOG and UGLY years. Kids used a combination of Dog Ugly and calling me any kind of name they could use. There was even an acronym for DOG to be a more extensive insult, but I don't remember it. It was mostly boys who did this teasing and taunting, but the girls were bad enough in their own way: exclusivity. So when P.E. time came I often ended up playing with kids who were a year older or younger than me, kids who didn't know what happened in my classroom.
In seventh grade a new student came to Madison. His name was James and he became buddies with Roger. Roger had a vicious attitude, very bad ass and rebellious. He acted up a lot. James slid right into Roger's little circle of bad ass buddies when James snapped an attitude with me in American History class. He must've observed how others had been treating me and decided that he had to fit in and this was the way to do it. So he was vehement each time he "baaaah!" at me in the hallways, calling me a goat and making the loudest noises possible. No teacher ever seriously told him to stop. And other peers just smirked and laughed, amused at his antics.
One day, right after Ms. Stringer's American History class ended and most of the other students had left the trailer and were heading indoors to their lockers and to break, I called James over and said I needed to ask him a question. Since his buddies weren't around he didn't cock an attitude but he listened to me nicely ask, "Why do you make fun of me? Did I do something to you? What is it about me that makes you call me names?" And maybe the sad sincerity of my asking him these questions prevented him from being rude, but all he offered up as an answer was, "I don't know" while looking me straight in the face. I shook my head, lowering it, and he left. But the name-calling didn't stop after that. But I knew I had glimpsed for a brief moment that he sincerely didn't know why he did it, just that he felt he had to do it.
Since much of my middle and junior high school years was spent surviving constant name calling from my peers, I never made it a habit to do the same to others. I knew it hurt. I knew it was alienating.
Camp Wahi
I joined the Girl Scouts when I was in sixth grade, after meeting Stacy and her family. Her mother, nicknamed Smokey, was my troop's leader. Stacy's family was a late '80s version of the Brady Bunch: 3 brothers and 3 sisters, but the gender grouping was not as us/them as the Bradys. I remember one of our meetings at Smokey's house, all the girls piled on the floor in the living room, listening to the troop leader speak, and picking out the next badge we'd work towards as a group. I don't remember the troop meetings as much as I do the summers away to camp for weeks at a time.
Camp Wahi. It felt like it was hundreds of miles away from home when Mom drove me there for the week. I rarely got homesick; I'd come home after being gone a couple of weeks and Dad would say, "You were so busy you never wrote a letter home." I wasn't like some girls, crying at night because they missed their mothers and fathers. I missed mine, but I also knew I would see them again in a week or two. They weren't gone; they were right where I left them.
I went to Camp Wahi three summers in a row: '89, '90, '91. Each Summer felt completely different. The girls were different, gone in a flash each year, not to return again the next summer. Two of the summers I stayed there I camped in the tent cabins. These housed four girls at a time, four beds, two on each side with an open space in between. You stored your suitcase and boxes and bags and books under your bed. You brought your own pillow, sheets, blankets. Mosquito spray. If you brought a book you never had time to read it, after being tired from hiking or crafting all day, swimming lessons, playing games or pranks with other campers in their tents. Every summer was different. Some were so filled with activity that I cannot remember them all in the blur of faces and fuzzy recollections.
One summer I met Anne. I remember her because her name was my middle name and when we discovered this we became instant friends. I was in her tent constantly, listening to her walkman, sharing stories, playing games, and looking at magazines. She told me a lot about her family. I listened to the stories, the mysteries and the mythical, but none of those remained all these years. I do remember her extra nipple though. She wore a one-piece swimsuit and whenever she met someone new she had to share her story, show them her third nipple: a faded, slightly raised area that never really formed fully. She was an interesting little soap opera, bouncing around, energetic, all-nighter to my night owl habits. Mornings were never good to us.
The next summer there was Robin. She wasn't a camper like the rest of us, but a camp counselor in charge of a few cabin areas. She wasn't my section's camp counselor, but I saw her during some of the camp functions, in the mess hall, at the pool, all over the camp. She had short hair, an easy-going personality, always smiling, playful and fun. I remember the first day I saw her because I only saw her from behind and thought to myself, "what? A BOY here at Girl Scout camp?!" But then she turned around I realized her features were feminine, plus her smile was big and her eyes lit up when she talked with you. I don't remember much else about this summer... I think I was there for the off-camp camping trip session. Canoeing to the other side of the lake, setting up camp, tents, getting wood and tinder, campfire, s'mores. Hoot owls, star constellations, singing around the campfire. But Robin wasn't part of that session and was back at camp with the other girls for swim lessons, crafts, or some other Girl Scout activity. Maybe it was knots she instructed?
The third time I went to this camp I was a little older than most other campers, and the camp counselors I knew in this session reminded me of my sister. One of them was nicknamed Scottie. She had dark wavy hair she sometimes wore in pigtails. Remember, this is '88 or '89. I remember less about the friends and the camp counselors than I do about the activities. I found a raccoon pawprint, made a mold of it, and earned a badge in wildlife. Learned the names of trees and flowers in the area, and some other things. Might have created a book with various leaves in it, labeled with names, type of tree, etc. This session we were not in the tent cabins but in the log house, which I didn't like as much. It just didn't seem like camping to me. This was my last time to go to Camp Wahi, and my last time to be a Girl Scout. I was always a junior and never promoted to cadet, which I noticed on the Girl Scouts website isn't called that anymore.
Maybe sometime I will drive out to Brandon, Mississippi, to see the camp. I think large parts of it would have been renovated since the years I ran around, hiking up and down small hills, swimming, making leather crafts or tie-dying t-shirts. My appreciation for nature was encouraged there.
Camp Wahi. It felt like it was hundreds of miles away from home when Mom drove me there for the week. I rarely got homesick; I'd come home after being gone a couple of weeks and Dad would say, "You were so busy you never wrote a letter home." I wasn't like some girls, crying at night because they missed their mothers and fathers. I missed mine, but I also knew I would see them again in a week or two. They weren't gone; they were right where I left them.
I went to Camp Wahi three summers in a row: '89, '90, '91. Each Summer felt completely different. The girls were different, gone in a flash each year, not to return again the next summer. Two of the summers I stayed there I camped in the tent cabins. These housed four girls at a time, four beds, two on each side with an open space in between. You stored your suitcase and boxes and bags and books under your bed. You brought your own pillow, sheets, blankets. Mosquito spray. If you brought a book you never had time to read it, after being tired from hiking or crafting all day, swimming lessons, playing games or pranks with other campers in their tents. Every summer was different. Some were so filled with activity that I cannot remember them all in the blur of faces and fuzzy recollections.
One summer I met Anne. I remember her because her name was my middle name and when we discovered this we became instant friends. I was in her tent constantly, listening to her walkman, sharing stories, playing games, and looking at magazines. She told me a lot about her family. I listened to the stories, the mysteries and the mythical, but none of those remained all these years. I do remember her extra nipple though. She wore a one-piece swimsuit and whenever she met someone new she had to share her story, show them her third nipple: a faded, slightly raised area that never really formed fully. She was an interesting little soap opera, bouncing around, energetic, all-nighter to my night owl habits. Mornings were never good to us.
The next summer there was Robin. She wasn't a camper like the rest of us, but a camp counselor in charge of a few cabin areas. She wasn't my section's camp counselor, but I saw her during some of the camp functions, in the mess hall, at the pool, all over the camp. She had short hair, an easy-going personality, always smiling, playful and fun. I remember the first day I saw her because I only saw her from behind and thought to myself, "what? A BOY here at Girl Scout camp?!" But then she turned around I realized her features were feminine, plus her smile was big and her eyes lit up when she talked with you. I don't remember much else about this summer... I think I was there for the off-camp camping trip session. Canoeing to the other side of the lake, setting up camp, tents, getting wood and tinder, campfire, s'mores. Hoot owls, star constellations, singing around the campfire. But Robin wasn't part of that session and was back at camp with the other girls for swim lessons, crafts, or some other Girl Scout activity. Maybe it was knots she instructed?
The third time I went to this camp I was a little older than most other campers, and the camp counselors I knew in this session reminded me of my sister. One of them was nicknamed Scottie. She had dark wavy hair she sometimes wore in pigtails. Remember, this is '88 or '89. I remember less about the friends and the camp counselors than I do about the activities. I found a raccoon pawprint, made a mold of it, and earned a badge in wildlife. Learned the names of trees and flowers in the area, and some other things. Might have created a book with various leaves in it, labeled with names, type of tree, etc. This session we were not in the tent cabins but in the log house, which I didn't like as much. It just didn't seem like camping to me. This was my last time to go to Camp Wahi, and my last time to be a Girl Scout. I was always a junior and never promoted to cadet, which I noticed on the Girl Scouts website isn't called that anymore.
Maybe sometime I will drive out to Brandon, Mississippi, to see the camp. I think large parts of it would have been renovated since the years I ran around, hiking up and down small hills, swimming, making leather crafts or tie-dying t-shirts. My appreciation for nature was encouraged there.
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