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Leaving the Gangly, Awkward Girl Behind
I felt inept, alone and out of place most of my life. My sisters were nearly old enough to be my mother--ten and fifteen years older than I was. On my own most of the time, even before school age, I attempted to keep up with the older kids on the block, tried to impress and be just like them. Believe me, that always got me into hotter water than I ever wanted to feel in that old galvanized tub we used for weekly baths.
Once, at age three, I received a bag of rocks for Easter from a teenage neighbor playing a joke on a naïve child. And around age two, I pulled off my blouse while the neighbor kids cheered and applauded. Anxious to please, I shed my clothes and stood naked on top of the loft in the big old garage that had once been a barn. The opened garage stood right on the edge of the alley behind my house for all passersby to see.
I remember Mom showed up in a tizzy, grabbed me down and wrapped me in a blanket. With me in her arms, she marched into the house and up the stairs to a neighbor’s apartment. Hearing her words, I realized I’d done something really bad. I buried my head in her shoulder and cried as she recounted the horror to her friend.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bond fire. I wasn’t caught, but the stench stayed with me. In my zest to impress my peers, to be part of the group, I fell for more of their shenanigans. One time, the two older girls from next door invited me to a movie. Mom said okay if I cleaned up. So I dashed inside to change into my Sunday best, but when I returned, I was crushed to discover the girls had run off without me.
At age ten, some older boys took my classmate’s hat and tossed it up on a high fence. Gangly me retrieved the hat, but the boys poked fun at my unusual height, leaving me humiliated instead of pleased with myself. Also that year in ballet class, I was the only girl wearing a bra—an oddity for my age in those days. Already full grown, I stood five foot five inches towering over the other ballerinas. Needless to say, I ditched ballet class.
In grade school the nuns didn’t take kindly to me. When I sang like a bird, but not to their liking, they called me beautiful but dumb. Or when I spoke too loudly in class, they smacked my hands with a ruler. My being left-handed also irked them, calling my penmanship horrendous, making me practice my name over and over, hour after hour.
For minor infractions, Sister Mary Jerome would stand me in the dunce’s corner. And, although I was innocent, she blamed me for breaking the school’s antique juke box that stood next to where we all silently filed past, one by one, on our way to the lunchroom.
It also seemed to take a lifetime to learn not to leap into situations—to look, study and think long and hard before jumping in. I married too young, on my second go-round, I married an abusive man; later I had my heart broken again in two separate relationships. I always wanted to please, to be accepted and belong. Marriage, it turned out, would not bring about this elusive goal.
Now it doesn’t matter if I fit in. People can accept me or leave me. My friends like me for who I am—a sometimes bull-headed, often outspoken, at times intense, but always ready to lend a hand…not to please these day, but simply because someone needs help.
In my journey through life, I’ve learned the hard way not to leap into the abyss. I’m completely content now with this imperfect being I’ve turned out to be. And mercifully, that stumble-bum, gangly girl no longer exists; for she is safely tucked away where she belongs—in the past.
Leaving the Gangly, Awkward Girl Behind
I felt inept, alone and out of place most of my life. My sisters were nearly old enough to be my mother--ten and fifteen years older than I was. On my own most of the time, even before school age, I attempted to keep up with the older kids on the block, tried to impress and be just like them. Believe me, that always got me into hotter water than I ever wanted to feel in that old galvanized tub we used for weekly baths.
Once, at age three, I received a bag of rocks for Easter from a teenage neighbor playing a joke on a naïve child. And around age two, I pulled off my blouse while the neighbor kids cheered and applauded. Anxious to please, I shed my clothes and stood naked on top of the loft in the big old garage that had once been a barn. The opened garage stood right on the edge of the alley behind my house for all passersby to see.
I remember Mom showed up in a tizzy, grabbed me down and wrapped me in a blanket. With me in her arms, she marched into the house and up the stairs to a neighbor’s apartment. Hearing her words, I realized I’d done something really bad. I buried my head in her shoulder and cried as she recounted the horror to her friend.
Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bond fire. I wasn’t caught, but the stench stayed with me. In my zest to impress my peers, to be part of the group, I fell for more of their shenanigans. One time, the two older girls from next door invited me to a movie. Mom said okay if I cleaned up. So I dashed inside to change into my Sunday best, but when I returned, I was crushed to discover the girls had run off without me.
At age ten, some older boys took my classmate’s hat and tossed it up on a high fence. Gangly me retrieved the hat, but the boys poked fun at my unusual height, leaving me humiliated instead of pleased with myself. Also that year in ballet class, I was the only girl wearing a bra—an oddity for my age in those days. Already full grown, I stood five foot five inches towering over the other ballerinas. Needless to say, I ditched ballet class.
In grade school the nuns didn’t take kindly to me. When I sang like a bird, but not to their liking, they called me beautiful but dumb. Or when I spoke too loudly in class, they smacked my hands with a ruler. My being left-handed also irked them, calling my penmanship horrendous, making me practice my name over and over, hour after hour.
For minor infractions, Sister Mary Jerome would stand me in the dunce’s corner. And, although I was innocent, she blamed me for breaking the school’s antique juke box that stood next to where we all silently filed past, one by one, on our way to the lunchroom.
It also seemed to take a lifetime to learn not to leap into situations—to look, study and think long and hard before jumping in. I married too young, on my second go-round, I married an abusive man; later I had my heart broken again in two separate relationships. I always wanted to please, to be accepted and belong. Marriage, it turned out, would not bring about this elusive goal.
Now it doesn’t matter if I fit in. People can accept me or leave me. My friends like me for who I am—a sometimes bull-headed, often outspoken, at times intense, but always ready to lend a hand…not to please these day, but simply because someone needs help.
In my journey through life, I’ve learned the hard way not to leap into the abyss. I’m completely content now with this imperfect being I’ve turned out to be. And mercifully, that stumble-bum, gangly girl no longer exists; for she is safely tucked away where she belongs—in the past.
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