Hi Sisters all,
Over time some of us have tried to think about what our childhood and adult lives would have been if we’d been grown up female. I’m starting this thread as a place for us to explore that alternate life. I invite you to take advantage of this space to reimagine your own life as a girl and woman.
How to do this? I can think of two approaches: an outline expanded in places, or vignettes. I’ll try vignettes, but in a brief outline framework.
There’s a problem. The interest to me comes from how my imagined femme life differs from my actual life history – how close does it come? How far? But how can I interest you, who don’t know my life? I’ll try to do that by putting the “vive la difference” material in brackets [] to show where it departs from my remembered experience.
And I don’t want to make a long-drawn-out thing of it, so I’ll write just a little bit to start with, and see how it goes.
***
[It’s a girl!] the doctor announces. Spank. Yowl. I think Daddy’s a little disappointed I was born a [girl.] He wanted a boy. Ugh! Thinking back now, I’m almost afraid at the thought that [I might have been born a boy! So glad I’m a girl] … though to start with, of course, I know nothing about all that.
I remember a glowing sunny day. Age three. [In my yellow dress, hair in bows,] I toddled happily down the path between the dilapidated barn and the rock garden, [a happy little girl exploring her] world.
My life seemed secure enough until age three and a half when my [little sister Alice] was born. [in reality brother Alan]. Suddenly I seemed cut off from all that parental attention.
While Mommy was at work I was taken care of by my wonderful babysitter Althea. She taught me songs, told me stories [about dating and primping. She showed me how to put my hair in pigtails and curls. She’d make me pout my lips and put lipstick on them, making me giggle. The red color had to be cleaned off, though, before Mommy got home, for Althea was not sure she’d tolerate her daughter being allowed to act so precocious, even in play.]
Now I’m out in the rain, stumping around in my favorite little rain slicker, waterproof hat and boots. Next I'm indoors learning to read, my teddy bear [and my pretty princess doll] cozy against me to either side. The words are hard but I love to puzzle them out, and I love to be told fairy tales because they have beautiful princesses in them and I dream I am one.
Okay, that’s all for now. More another time maybe. What about you? Love, Robyn Katie
Our "Girl Autobiographies"
Moderators: KimberlyS, CathyAnn
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Robyn Katie
- Miss Platinum Goddess
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Carol Ann
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Hi Robyn, I really don't know how to answer your question as after my mother caught me and made me dress the entire weekend and after a long hard talk she understood and was loving and kind. I have openly dress since I was 14 and there is no turning back.
Sorry if this doesn't fit the question but it's my answer.
Sorry if this doesn't fit the question but it's my answer.
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Amelie-Laveau
- Permanently Banned
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- Joined: Mon Aug 09, 2004 7:20 pm
Very interesting thread.
Let’s see,,hmmmmm,,,,, OK I was born a girl, but it really didn’t matter much, I was just number four out of six The look of disappointment on my fathers face, another freakin mouth to feed. My name wasn’t very girly, my name was number 4.
As a small child my clothes would be nothing special, just hand me downs from the older siblings, they could have been girls clothes but they could just have been likely boys clothes.
As a 10-12 year old, I’d spend most of my days out with the other girls of the hood,, probably not, they would just have picked on me the same. So, I’d just sit on the stoop reading all alone, some silly girls book, that would fill my head with dreams, these books would erase all reality out of my head and fill it with fantasies. Sometimes I would read teen magazines, especially ones with pictures of Donny Osmond.
About 15 I’d try and fit in with other girls at school but they would want no part of it. It would get to the point that I would no longer go to school, I’d just sit on the stoop in my black dress and black tights and read a book. Sometimes I would wear my tight jeans with the holes in the knees. Oh and I’d wear my favorite sneakers, purple cons.
The loneliness would soon get to this teen girl, she had no friends, no one liked her, the small apartment was too crowded and books weren’t enough to hide the feelings of being lonely, so she looked to older men for comfort, the men liked the way I looked,, men were easy, men are like dog doo,,, they are everywhere, but they didn’t want to know who I was, ,,, I was still number 4.
This little teen girl, 16 years old, in black tights spun a tangled web of lies, deceit and heartache among whoever she met, things got so bad that she had to leave home. So, she pack her belongings in a Macy’s shopping bag and left for the big city,, actually the big city was just five subway train stops away.,, how ironic that she took the number 4 train,, the same number as she was. She was wearing her favorite black dress and her spider ear rings. She read so many silly girly books that her head was filled with illusions of how life would be so exciting in the big city,, the bright lights of the city soon dimmed on this teen girl with the black dress and tights. She was only 16.
Next chapter--Better clothes and better men and better make-up. Oh,, wait a minute, just like Carol,, I was now living as a girl,, running away from home kinda gives one the freedom to dress as they please.
Let’s see,,hmmmmm,,,,, OK I was born a girl, but it really didn’t matter much, I was just number four out of six The look of disappointment on my fathers face, another freakin mouth to feed. My name wasn’t very girly, my name was number 4.
As a small child my clothes would be nothing special, just hand me downs from the older siblings, they could have been girls clothes but they could just have been likely boys clothes.
As a 10-12 year old, I’d spend most of my days out with the other girls of the hood,, probably not, they would just have picked on me the same. So, I’d just sit on the stoop reading all alone, some silly girls book, that would fill my head with dreams, these books would erase all reality out of my head and fill it with fantasies. Sometimes I would read teen magazines, especially ones with pictures of Donny Osmond.
About 15 I’d try and fit in with other girls at school but they would want no part of it. It would get to the point that I would no longer go to school, I’d just sit on the stoop in my black dress and black tights and read a book. Sometimes I would wear my tight jeans with the holes in the knees. Oh and I’d wear my favorite sneakers, purple cons.
The loneliness would soon get to this teen girl, she had no friends, no one liked her, the small apartment was too crowded and books weren’t enough to hide the feelings of being lonely, so she looked to older men for comfort, the men liked the way I looked,, men were easy, men are like dog doo,,, they are everywhere, but they didn’t want to know who I was, ,,, I was still number 4.
This little teen girl, 16 years old, in black tights spun a tangled web of lies, deceit and heartache among whoever she met, things got so bad that she had to leave home. So, she pack her belongings in a Macy’s shopping bag and left for the big city,, actually the big city was just five subway train stops away.,, how ironic that she took the number 4 train,, the same number as she was. She was wearing her favorite black dress and her spider ear rings. She read so many silly girly books that her head was filled with illusions of how life would be so exciting in the big city,, the bright lights of the city soon dimmed on this teen girl with the black dress and tights. She was only 16.
Next chapter--Better clothes and better men and better make-up. Oh,, wait a minute, just like Carol,, I was now living as a girl,, running away from home kinda gives one the freedom to dress as they please.
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Virginia
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Absaroka
- Miss Diamond Goddess
- Posts: 3344
- Joined: Fri Feb 04, 2005 8:30 am
I'll give it a try. More kleenex, Virginia...
Life was good till puberty. Maybe even better than if I had been a boy. After all, all the girls played ball in the street in front of our house with the boys, but they weren't expected to be very good, since they were girls. At least I played as well as that quiet little boy with the glasses that usually got picked last of the boys and behind a few of the girls. And if the boys picked on me I could hit them but when they hit me back it their heart wasn't in it because I was a girl. Yes it was nice to be a girl even if my parents got mad at me for swearing and getting dirty. More angry than they did at my brothers. I had an older cousin, she was a tomboy too. That quiet boy had a big crush on her.
But then came puberty. I got a figure, I got my period, and the boys got hormones. Suddenly all the freedom I had was gone. I couldnt' play in the river in the woods behind our house alone anymore. My parents said it wasn't safe. That was the beginning of me not listening to them, because I went there all the time any way. And then they said that nice girls didn't hang out at night either. I asked why and they said that they didn't raise me to be a whore. What was wrong with me? None of this made any sense. When did everything change? But I started to wonder if they were right. Walking home one night from a friends a man was walking behind me. I didn't know who he was and it scared me. I ran home. My brothers weren't afraid......why did I have to be afraid?
I wished I was prettier. There were boys I liked but this was 1968 and even though people think of that as the hippie days they weren't, not where I lived. Girls had to wait for boys to ask them out, and I waited and waited. Sometimes I felt bad for that quiet boy down the street. He asked girls out and they always said no. But at least he could ask. I had to wait.
He and I had something in common. We both were attracted to people that most folks thought were the wrong color for us. I would watch as he was teased and harrassed by the other boys. Eventually he gave up on that, stopped believing all the nonsense we heard from our teachers and folks in the church about brotherhood and equality. But what happened to him was nothing compared to what happened to me when I tried to let that cute black kid in homeroom know I liked him. He wasn't captain of the football team and I wasn't a cheerleader so we weren't cool which meant I was a bunch of words that I don't like to write. You know what they are, everyone used them back then. But suddenly I was real popular with half the boys on my street. All the white boys liked me now. Their girlfriends all hated me but I never really liked girls that much anyway. I liked to hang out with boys and now they wanted to hang out with me. Wanted to talk to me, put their arm around me, flirt with me. That boy in homeroom had no idea what he started, although he stopped talking to me pretty fast. But I started having fun. And I got to have sex. I only had sex with boys I liked but then I always liked boys. Then I found out about my new nickname, and I discovered a lot of people didn't want much to do with me except in certain situations. But I liked all my popularity and I felt like I finally had some sort of power. So I just limited myself to certain social situations. Either that or I stayed home. I got to be friends with that quiet boy who wasn't good at sports or talking to girls though. Funny thing is all we ever did was talk. I liked him too much to do anything else. I used to tell him how I wished all the boys I liked to fool around with and I could be friends again, like when I was 10 and we would play kickball together. But now I was a girl and there was just one way for a girl to play with boys. Sometimes the other boys would tease him for being friends with me when he didn't even "get any" I'd give him anything he wanted, but I didn't want him to fall in love with me so we never did anything. It would break his heart. So all we did was talk. I kissed him on the cheek once. I still remember it.
One night I got drunk with this guy. He was cute and shared a big bottle of tawny port with me. He let me drink most of it actually. I thought I liked him but he was just too pushy, too bossy. I changed my mind but he didn't like that. I tried to stop him but I couldn't. I was terrified and furious all at once. But I've always had that bad temper. Part of being a tomboy I guess. A week later I was drunk again and I taught him a lesson. A lesson he would remember the rest of his life. Too bad for him the rest of his life was so very short. I didn't really mean for it to turn out that way, I'm not that kind of person. Too bad for me I got caught. My lawyer tried to say I hadn't premediatated anything, that I was just in an uncontrollable rage over what he did to me. But they got half a dozen folks to tell stories about me. A lot of them were true, but not all. The jury thought a girl like me couldn't be raped because she must always be willing. They said the sons needed to be protected from me and their daughters needed to be taught a lesson. I guess it's really too bad for me that guy was white. My lawyer said he could have gotten me off if he hadn't been white like me.
There's another hearing next year. I'm getting so old that maybe they won't think I'm a danger to society anymore and let me out. But you never leave the walls behind. I don't think I'll ever be free no matter where I am.
I heard that quiet boy wrote me a few times here. But he wasn't on the list so I never got the letters. I'd love to see him some day. I hear life turned out pretty good for him. I think he'd still talk to me.
Absaroka
Life was good till puberty. Maybe even better than if I had been a boy. After all, all the girls played ball in the street in front of our house with the boys, but they weren't expected to be very good, since they were girls. At least I played as well as that quiet little boy with the glasses that usually got picked last of the boys and behind a few of the girls. And if the boys picked on me I could hit them but when they hit me back it their heart wasn't in it because I was a girl. Yes it was nice to be a girl even if my parents got mad at me for swearing and getting dirty. More angry than they did at my brothers. I had an older cousin, she was a tomboy too. That quiet boy had a big crush on her.
But then came puberty. I got a figure, I got my period, and the boys got hormones. Suddenly all the freedom I had was gone. I couldnt' play in the river in the woods behind our house alone anymore. My parents said it wasn't safe. That was the beginning of me not listening to them, because I went there all the time any way. And then they said that nice girls didn't hang out at night either. I asked why and they said that they didn't raise me to be a whore. What was wrong with me? None of this made any sense. When did everything change? But I started to wonder if they were right. Walking home one night from a friends a man was walking behind me. I didn't know who he was and it scared me. I ran home. My brothers weren't afraid......why did I have to be afraid?
I wished I was prettier. There were boys I liked but this was 1968 and even though people think of that as the hippie days they weren't, not where I lived. Girls had to wait for boys to ask them out, and I waited and waited. Sometimes I felt bad for that quiet boy down the street. He asked girls out and they always said no. But at least he could ask. I had to wait.
He and I had something in common. We both were attracted to people that most folks thought were the wrong color for us. I would watch as he was teased and harrassed by the other boys. Eventually he gave up on that, stopped believing all the nonsense we heard from our teachers and folks in the church about brotherhood and equality. But what happened to him was nothing compared to what happened to me when I tried to let that cute black kid in homeroom know I liked him. He wasn't captain of the football team and I wasn't a cheerleader so we weren't cool which meant I was a bunch of words that I don't like to write. You know what they are, everyone used them back then. But suddenly I was real popular with half the boys on my street. All the white boys liked me now. Their girlfriends all hated me but I never really liked girls that much anyway. I liked to hang out with boys and now they wanted to hang out with me. Wanted to talk to me, put their arm around me, flirt with me. That boy in homeroom had no idea what he started, although he stopped talking to me pretty fast. But I started having fun. And I got to have sex. I only had sex with boys I liked but then I always liked boys. Then I found out about my new nickname, and I discovered a lot of people didn't want much to do with me except in certain situations. But I liked all my popularity and I felt like I finally had some sort of power. So I just limited myself to certain social situations. Either that or I stayed home. I got to be friends with that quiet boy who wasn't good at sports or talking to girls though. Funny thing is all we ever did was talk. I liked him too much to do anything else. I used to tell him how I wished all the boys I liked to fool around with and I could be friends again, like when I was 10 and we would play kickball together. But now I was a girl and there was just one way for a girl to play with boys. Sometimes the other boys would tease him for being friends with me when he didn't even "get any" I'd give him anything he wanted, but I didn't want him to fall in love with me so we never did anything. It would break his heart. So all we did was talk. I kissed him on the cheek once. I still remember it.
One night I got drunk with this guy. He was cute and shared a big bottle of tawny port with me. He let me drink most of it actually. I thought I liked him but he was just too pushy, too bossy. I changed my mind but he didn't like that. I tried to stop him but I couldn't. I was terrified and furious all at once. But I've always had that bad temper. Part of being a tomboy I guess. A week later I was drunk again and I taught him a lesson. A lesson he would remember the rest of his life. Too bad for him the rest of his life was so very short. I didn't really mean for it to turn out that way, I'm not that kind of person. Too bad for me I got caught. My lawyer tried to say I hadn't premediatated anything, that I was just in an uncontrollable rage over what he did to me. But they got half a dozen folks to tell stories about me. A lot of them were true, but not all. The jury thought a girl like me couldn't be raped because she must always be willing. They said the sons needed to be protected from me and their daughters needed to be taught a lesson. I guess it's really too bad for me that guy was white. My lawyer said he could have gotten me off if he hadn't been white like me.
There's another hearing next year. I'm getting so old that maybe they won't think I'm a danger to society anymore and let me out. But you never leave the walls behind. I don't think I'll ever be free no matter where I am.
I heard that quiet boy wrote me a few times here. But he wasn't on the list so I never got the letters. I'd love to see him some day. I hear life turned out pretty good for him. I think he'd still talk to me.
Absaroka
Last edited by Absaroka on Sun Jan 25, 2009 2:14 pm, edited 1 time in total.
everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
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Erin L
- Miss Emerald Goddess
- Posts: 244
- Joined: Thu Oct 30, 2008 11:38 am
- Location: Queens, NY
Actually, I wrote an autobio of myself as a girl a few years ago as an exercise in self-discovery, and found it very illuminating. I also found it full of displacements of the "grass is greener" variety and realized that I had been using dressing, and my femme personna, as an escapist exercise. So, I deleted all the files and purged my wardrobe (again!) and decided to move on.
Several months ago, I started dressing again, and realized (at last!) that this is permanent, that I had to address this within my own consciousness directly and finally accept my dual-gender (but certainly not bisexual) nature. And I have.
I am now rewriting Erin's autobiography, adjusting for the fallacious assumptions I made on the first pass. It is now 70 pages in my WORD document and I am only up to age 13. But I'll post a little piece to see what you all think.
Several months ago, I started dressing again, and realized (at last!) that this is permanent, that I had to address this within my own consciousness directly and finally accept my dual-gender (but certainly not bisexual) nature. And I have.
I am now rewriting Erin's autobiography, adjusting for the fallacious assumptions I made on the first pass. It is now 70 pages in my WORD document and I am only up to age 13. But I'll post a little piece to see what you all think.
I'm not that kind of girl.
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Erin L
- Miss Emerald Goddess
- Posts: 244
- Joined: Thu Oct 30, 2008 11:38 am
- Location: Queens, NY
If Kathy was the most athletic girl in the neighborhood, I was one of the least. I could play hopscotch really well, and I could hold my own at jump-rope, but once we ventured into the games we shared with the boys, my standing sunk considerably. So, the first beautiful night of the summer, right around when first grade ended, when all the kids gathered in front of Bobby and Arthur’s house and decided to play a game of Ringolevio, I steeled myself knowing I would be one of the last kids chosen (Kenneth, who was a year younger than me and painfully slow, would be the last, suffering the gross indignity of being chosen even after all of the girls).
It was one of those evenings that just don’t seem to happen anymore. Kathy’s mom had called my mom and invited her over for some iced tea, which meant Kathy and I could play together. Bobby and Arthur’s mom saw them, and saw us hanging around with the boys, and came over to join them. Soon, there were about 10 adults, sitting on Kathy’s stoop or right next to it on lawn chairs, and we had more than a dozen boys and girls milling about, itching to play something, when Chris, two years older than me, suggested Ringolevio.
Chris and Bobby were the team captains and began choosing up sides. Sure enough, all the boys were taken first, except poor Kenneth. It was Bobby’s turn, and we all knew he’d pick either Kathy or Chris’ sister, Tina, who was almost as fast as Kathy.
“Um,” he said, hesitating. “I’ll take Erin.”
There were murmurs of disbelief, including from me, and even in the deepening twilight I could see him blushing. Chris quickly chose Kathy and Bobby took Tina, and soon the sides were set.
We got to hide first, and I knew my only hope at evading capture for any length of time was to hide well, so I chose Kathy’s yard. Of course, Kathy guessed that was where I’d hide, and she found me right away, leading me to the “jail”, a big tree right on the corner. She was grinning at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Bobby likes you. I thought so before, because he’s been hanging around us a lot lately, whenever you come over. That’s why he chose you for his team tonight.”
She went off again to look for others, but then I saw Chris not too far away. I wondered why he would be just standing there instead of looking for the other kids on my team.
But then Bobby came dashing in to free me, and Chris caught him just before he could touch the tree and yell, “Free!”
“Gotcha!” Chris said. “Now, you can join your girlfriend!”
Bobby was the fastest runner on our team, so they had to do whatever they could to free him or else we’d soon all be captured. Tina was the first to try, but she was easily snared by her brother. Raymond came next, but he was caught, too. Soon we were all together and Chris’ team came in to gloat.
“Whatever made you pick Erin?” Raymond demanded of Bobby.
“He’s in love,” Tina sneered, and everyone joined in, except Kathy who looked on with deep sympathy. And soon they were all serenading us, so that even the grown-ups could hear:
Erin and Bobby sittin’ in a tree
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
First comes love, then comes marriage
Then comes Erin with the baby carriage!
Later, Mom would say I was still blushing as we walked home that night. But she didn’t say anything about it until after I’d had my bath and had gotten into bed, and she came in to tuck me in. Then she asked what had happened, and I told her the whole story.
“Did he say anything to you about it?” she asked.
“No, I think he just felt really funny about everything, especially when everyone started singing at us.”
“But you think they’re right? You think he has a crush on you?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she said as she kissed me on the forehead, “that’s nice, even if you don’t feel the same way about him.”
Which is what every other girl in the neighborhood wanted to know, except Patty. When she heard of what had happened, she turned up her nose and said, “Well, I wouldn’t like it if Bobby had a crush on me. He thinks he’s so great!”
Kathy laughed out loud at that, and Patty went away, miffed.
“No one has a crush on her,” Kathy said after she’d gone, “because we don’t have any gorillas in the neighborhood.”
We both giggled up a storm over that. But when we calmed down, she looked at me and said, “You haven’t said anything at all. So, how do you feel about him?”
I still hadn’t sorted that out, yet. Before That Night, which is how I now thought of it, Bobby was just one of the kids in the neighborhood. Most of the boys looked up to him, because he was one of the older boys and seemed to know about lots of things that others hadn’t heard about.
In those years, most of the boys were interested in building their own go-carts. Most of them built them out of wood, using the wheels from old baby carriages (like the one I would soon be pushing?). Bobby and Arthur had an older brother around 19, who helped them a lot (they also had a sister in her early twenties, but more about her later) with their go-carts, but Bobby didn’t just let his older brother do the building – he learned about what worked and what didn’t, and he became an authority in the neighborhood on the subject.
In the summer, the boys would run their go-carts down the avenue that our apartment faced. It was also the favorite spot for sledding in the winter. There was a sharp hill going east on that avenue, and kids came from all over.
I could remember a time when some kids from several blocks away came to run their go-carts down our hill. Bobby and Arthur were there, and a few of us, and they had a race. Bobby won handily, but afterward told the other kids what they could do to make their carts better. I liked that about him.
Now, he was avoiding me and avoiding everyone else because he was so embarrassed. And at night, as I went to sleep, I thought about the fact that a boy liked me. He liked me, and it made me feel nice.
Then came the news that Bobby’s parents were moving all the way to California, because his father had been transferred there. They would drive there, moving by the third week in August. His grandmother, in whose house they lived, would stay behind.
We also found out that before they left, his sister, Anita, was getting married, and my parents and I were invited to the wedding, as were Kathy and her parents. We were both excited about it, and Mom later said I was impossible in fretting over what I’d wear and how I’d look.
She bought me a pretty dress, white with a baby blue sash and a small crinoline. I wore snow white lace-trimmed anklets and my favorite black patent leather mary janes. And she topped it off with a baby blue ribbon in my hair.
At the church, I couldn’t believe how beautiful Anita looked. And then I smiled when I saw Arthur in a little suit – he was the ring bearer. Bobby looked nice in a tan sportcoat, white shirt and bow tie, his hair slicked down. When he saw me, he smiled and waved, but he couldn’t come over to say hello.
At the reception, we were sitting with Kathy’s family – it was just her, her mother, and her older brother, Todd. Mom asked her mother if everything was okay, and just got a smile and a nod in return. My biggest surprise was when the band started playing – after the bride and groom had their first dance, other couples were invited onto the dance floor, and Mom and Dad were the first ones up.
And they were good. I mean, really good. I guess my jaw was still dropped when they got back to the table, because Dad said, “Whatsa matter? Didn’t you know Mom and I cut a mean rug?”
I got an even bigger surprise a little later, when Dad asked me to dance. I didn’t really know what I was doing, I just followed him and did what he said to do, but I must have done well because everyone complimented me afterward, even Kathy. I felt badly for her because no one had asked her to dance, but then Todd did ask her, although Mom later said it was because Kathy’s mom made him.
I danced with Dad a couple more times, and then I saw Bobby watching me. I went back to the table, and Dad and Mom started dancing together. I started talking to Kathy, but then she suddenly stood up.
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said, then walked out. I watched her as she went, wondering what it was all about. When I turned back, Bobby was standing next to me.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was barely more than a croak.
“Hi,” I replied.
“I saw you dancing with your father,” he said. “You really did great.”
I thanked him.
“Would you want to try to dance with me?”
I walked out to the dance floor with him. He put his arm around my waist, like the grown-up men were doing, and I put my hand on his shoulder like the women. We were doing little more than swaying to the music, but it felt like dancing.
I was vaguely aware of flash bulbs popping, but it didn’t occur to me until later that they were aimed at us. Years later, I would come across the picture that Bobby’s mom had given to mine – he had this look of intense determination, like he was going to see this through no matter what.
Looking at that picture, one would think that the determination was to see the dance with me through to the end. It wasn’t. When the music ended, he kissed me on the cheek; then he fled the room.
“Erin and Bobby sittin’ in a tree…”
When I got back to the table, Dad leaned over and whispered in my ear, so no one else could hear, “The most important thing is: never kiss and tell.”
It was one of those evenings that just don’t seem to happen anymore. Kathy’s mom had called my mom and invited her over for some iced tea, which meant Kathy and I could play together. Bobby and Arthur’s mom saw them, and saw us hanging around with the boys, and came over to join them. Soon, there were about 10 adults, sitting on Kathy’s stoop or right next to it on lawn chairs, and we had more than a dozen boys and girls milling about, itching to play something, when Chris, two years older than me, suggested Ringolevio.
Chris and Bobby were the team captains and began choosing up sides. Sure enough, all the boys were taken first, except poor Kenneth. It was Bobby’s turn, and we all knew he’d pick either Kathy or Chris’ sister, Tina, who was almost as fast as Kathy.
“Um,” he said, hesitating. “I’ll take Erin.”
There were murmurs of disbelief, including from me, and even in the deepening twilight I could see him blushing. Chris quickly chose Kathy and Bobby took Tina, and soon the sides were set.
We got to hide first, and I knew my only hope at evading capture for any length of time was to hide well, so I chose Kathy’s yard. Of course, Kathy guessed that was where I’d hide, and she found me right away, leading me to the “jail”, a big tree right on the corner. She was grinning at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Bobby likes you. I thought so before, because he’s been hanging around us a lot lately, whenever you come over. That’s why he chose you for his team tonight.”
She went off again to look for others, but then I saw Chris not too far away. I wondered why he would be just standing there instead of looking for the other kids on my team.
But then Bobby came dashing in to free me, and Chris caught him just before he could touch the tree and yell, “Free!”
“Gotcha!” Chris said. “Now, you can join your girlfriend!”
Bobby was the fastest runner on our team, so they had to do whatever they could to free him or else we’d soon all be captured. Tina was the first to try, but she was easily snared by her brother. Raymond came next, but he was caught, too. Soon we were all together and Chris’ team came in to gloat.
“Whatever made you pick Erin?” Raymond demanded of Bobby.
“He’s in love,” Tina sneered, and everyone joined in, except Kathy who looked on with deep sympathy. And soon they were all serenading us, so that even the grown-ups could hear:
Erin and Bobby sittin’ in a tree
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
First comes love, then comes marriage
Then comes Erin with the baby carriage!
Later, Mom would say I was still blushing as we walked home that night. But she didn’t say anything about it until after I’d had my bath and had gotten into bed, and she came in to tuck me in. Then she asked what had happened, and I told her the whole story.
“Did he say anything to you about it?” she asked.
“No, I think he just felt really funny about everything, especially when everyone started singing at us.”
“But you think they’re right? You think he has a crush on you?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she said as she kissed me on the forehead, “that’s nice, even if you don’t feel the same way about him.”
Which is what every other girl in the neighborhood wanted to know, except Patty. When she heard of what had happened, she turned up her nose and said, “Well, I wouldn’t like it if Bobby had a crush on me. He thinks he’s so great!”
Kathy laughed out loud at that, and Patty went away, miffed.
“No one has a crush on her,” Kathy said after she’d gone, “because we don’t have any gorillas in the neighborhood.”
We both giggled up a storm over that. But when we calmed down, she looked at me and said, “You haven’t said anything at all. So, how do you feel about him?”
I still hadn’t sorted that out, yet. Before That Night, which is how I now thought of it, Bobby was just one of the kids in the neighborhood. Most of the boys looked up to him, because he was one of the older boys and seemed to know about lots of things that others hadn’t heard about.
In those years, most of the boys were interested in building their own go-carts. Most of them built them out of wood, using the wheels from old baby carriages (like the one I would soon be pushing?). Bobby and Arthur had an older brother around 19, who helped them a lot (they also had a sister in her early twenties, but more about her later) with their go-carts, but Bobby didn’t just let his older brother do the building – he learned about what worked and what didn’t, and he became an authority in the neighborhood on the subject.
In the summer, the boys would run their go-carts down the avenue that our apartment faced. It was also the favorite spot for sledding in the winter. There was a sharp hill going east on that avenue, and kids came from all over.
I could remember a time when some kids from several blocks away came to run their go-carts down our hill. Bobby and Arthur were there, and a few of us, and they had a race. Bobby won handily, but afterward told the other kids what they could do to make their carts better. I liked that about him.
Now, he was avoiding me and avoiding everyone else because he was so embarrassed. And at night, as I went to sleep, I thought about the fact that a boy liked me. He liked me, and it made me feel nice.
Then came the news that Bobby’s parents were moving all the way to California, because his father had been transferred there. They would drive there, moving by the third week in August. His grandmother, in whose house they lived, would stay behind.
We also found out that before they left, his sister, Anita, was getting married, and my parents and I were invited to the wedding, as were Kathy and her parents. We were both excited about it, and Mom later said I was impossible in fretting over what I’d wear and how I’d look.
She bought me a pretty dress, white with a baby blue sash and a small crinoline. I wore snow white lace-trimmed anklets and my favorite black patent leather mary janes. And she topped it off with a baby blue ribbon in my hair.
At the church, I couldn’t believe how beautiful Anita looked. And then I smiled when I saw Arthur in a little suit – he was the ring bearer. Bobby looked nice in a tan sportcoat, white shirt and bow tie, his hair slicked down. When he saw me, he smiled and waved, but he couldn’t come over to say hello.
At the reception, we were sitting with Kathy’s family – it was just her, her mother, and her older brother, Todd. Mom asked her mother if everything was okay, and just got a smile and a nod in return. My biggest surprise was when the band started playing – after the bride and groom had their first dance, other couples were invited onto the dance floor, and Mom and Dad were the first ones up.
And they were good. I mean, really good. I guess my jaw was still dropped when they got back to the table, because Dad said, “Whatsa matter? Didn’t you know Mom and I cut a mean rug?”
I got an even bigger surprise a little later, when Dad asked me to dance. I didn’t really know what I was doing, I just followed him and did what he said to do, but I must have done well because everyone complimented me afterward, even Kathy. I felt badly for her because no one had asked her to dance, but then Todd did ask her, although Mom later said it was because Kathy’s mom made him.
I danced with Dad a couple more times, and then I saw Bobby watching me. I went back to the table, and Dad and Mom started dancing together. I started talking to Kathy, but then she suddenly stood up.
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said, then walked out. I watched her as she went, wondering what it was all about. When I turned back, Bobby was standing next to me.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was barely more than a croak.
“Hi,” I replied.
“I saw you dancing with your father,” he said. “You really did great.”
I thanked him.
“Would you want to try to dance with me?”
I walked out to the dance floor with him. He put his arm around my waist, like the grown-up men were doing, and I put my hand on his shoulder like the women. We were doing little more than swaying to the music, but it felt like dancing.
I was vaguely aware of flash bulbs popping, but it didn’t occur to me until later that they were aimed at us. Years later, I would come across the picture that Bobby’s mom had given to mine – he had this look of intense determination, like he was going to see this through no matter what.
Looking at that picture, one would think that the determination was to see the dance with me through to the end. It wasn’t. When the music ended, he kissed me on the cheek; then he fled the room.
“Erin and Bobby sittin’ in a tree…”
When I got back to the table, Dad leaned over and whispered in my ear, so no one else could hear, “The most important thing is: never kiss and tell.”
I'm not that kind of girl.
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Michelle Miller
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Absaroka
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Excellent writing Erin. I really enjoyed it. I hope you'll include more.
What I'd be interested in seeing more of is how this differed from your biography as a boy. What was the boy doing while you played ring a levio? at the wedding? Who was the girl you had a crush on as a boy?
Interestingly my tomboy cousin in real life was named Kathy. I adored her.
Absaroka
What I'd be interested in seeing more of is how this differed from your biography as a boy. What was the boy doing while you played ring a levio? at the wedding? Who was the girl you had a crush on as a boy?
Interestingly my tomboy cousin in real life was named Kathy. I adored her.
Absaroka
everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
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Erin L
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Thanks so much for the nice comments, girls. I'll look for other excepts to post, being mindful not to make them too long.
Absaroka - to quickly answer your questions, the boy played ringolevio with everyone else, and I really do recall a night like that - many nights, really - when neighbors just congregated. At the wedding, I spent the whole time trying to work up the nerve to ask Kathy to dance, but never quite made it. She moved away from the neighborhood shortly afterward, and I was crushed. I always thought that had I been a girl, she would have been my first very best friend. But my first real crush was not Kathy, it was a girl in my first grade class, and I practically swooned over her. As a young boy, I had at least one major crush a year until around fourth grade. I was a hopeless romantic, and I guess I still am.
Hugs,
Erin
Absaroka - to quickly answer your questions, the boy played ringolevio with everyone else, and I really do recall a night like that - many nights, really - when neighbors just congregated. At the wedding, I spent the whole time trying to work up the nerve to ask Kathy to dance, but never quite made it. She moved away from the neighborhood shortly afterward, and I was crushed. I always thought that had I been a girl, she would have been my first very best friend. But my first real crush was not Kathy, it was a girl in my first grade class, and I practically swooned over her. As a young boy, I had at least one major crush a year until around fourth grade. I was a hopeless romantic, and I guess I still am.
Hugs,
Erin
I'm not that kind of girl.
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Erin L
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Age 10...
One Saturday in the early spring, Dad decided to take me to work with him. Because he was an engineer on one of the piers on the Hudson River, it seemed odd – I wasn’t in any way the tomboy type. I even wore a skirt and sweater that day, anklets and saddle shoes.
He seemed to like that. And I had the sense from the beginning that he was looking to show me off as his little princess. We hadn’t really been very close, and this was a chance for us to try.
We took the bus to the subway, but before we went down to the trains, he wanted to make a stop. It was the first time I had ever been in a bar. I didn’t want a ginger ale at 7:30 in the morning, but I had one anyway.
The men there all made a fuss over me, which was nice. After about twenty minutes, we left and descended the stairs to the subway. They were the old trains, with the rattan seats and overhead fans, but as it was still cool, the cars were comfortable, although it took me a while to adjust to the noise.
Once in the city, we emerged to what for me was a completely alien world. I was astonished at the size of the buildings and the pace of traffic, even on a Saturday morning. We stopped in another bar, and again everyone seemed to know him and they were all very friendly to me, and I had another ginger ale.
When we got to his office on the pier, I couldn’t believe how dark and dirty it was. But there was a ship docked on one side of the pier, and I could see the front of it (Dad said it was the “bow”) from the window of his workshop. In short order, he took me on board.
After boarding, I followed him down a maze of hallways (he called them “companionways”) and stairs, until at last we were in a huge kitchen (“galley”). I repeated each of the new words, because it seemed important to him that I know and use them. He was showing me where the main stoves were when we heard a voice I recognized.
Dad’s friend, Tommy, was chief confectioner on board this ship, and whenever he was in port, Dad would bring him home to dinner. He always made a fuss over me and teased me about when I was going to get myself a boyfriend, and he was always gone the next morning when I woke up, and always left a dollar for me. I squealed with delight when I saw him and jumped into his arms.
“Better watch it, lass,” he said with a wink. “All these renegades will expect that kind of welcome the next time we’re in port.”
He then showed me around his section of the galley (and laughed heartily when I called it that, crying out, “Good girl, yourself!”) and explained in detail how he and his men turned out cakes, pies, tarts and other delights for a shipload of passengers. When I commented that it was probably much different than Mom and me making a cake for the holidays, he laughed and said, “Yes and no.” The difference was in the numbers.
But there were still individual touches to be added, and he showed me a cake he had been decorating for a crew member’s birthday. Then he let me help him finish decorating it, and complimented me on my skill. Later on, I got to try some of his other cakes, which was nice, too.
I tried not to look too bored when we went back to the shop, but when we stopped at the bar on the way home, I was really losing steam. Dad told me I was a good sport, and he hoped I’d had a good time. I told him I had.
Mom wasn’t happy when we got home. We were late, and although they didn’t argue, I could tell they were mad because they hardly said a word to one another. Later that night, Mom looked like she wanted to ask me something, but then thought better of it.
The chill didn’t last for long, because we were moving forward with something they had been planning for quite some time – we were going to get to go on one of Dad’s company’s ships ourselves. Moreover, we were going to do it during the school year, and I was going to miss three weeks of school for it. The trip, which would begin in early October, a month after I’d started fifth grade, would take us to England and Ireland.
“I can’t believe it!” Terri exclaimed when I told her and the other girls about it. We were in the schoolyard one morning near the end of the school year. “You mean you’re going to miss three weeks of school?”
I told her that was the plan. Karen, Diane and Catherine all told me that they’d miss me, but begged me to take lots of pictures. By the time we actually left, I had lots of other instructions, too.
They came from my fifth grade teacher, Miss Hudson. A tall, stern, masculine looking woman who made it clear from the first day of school that she would brook no nonsense, she pushed us hard in class and took a genuine interest in how we did. She gave me three weeks worth of assignments to make sure I kept up with my school work, and then she added something else.
“I also want you to write an essay about your trip,” she said.
“What kind of essay?” I asked.
“Any kind you want. You can make it a diary, or a narrative, or notes, but I know you write well, and so I want it to be thoughtful and well written. I want to be able to get a sense of what you’ve learned from this experience.”
“Wow!” Terri said as I repeated the conversation to her as we walked home from school that day. “She actually told you that you write well?”
We left on a Friday, October 4. The day before, I said good bye to everyone in school, including the girls. Then Terri walked me home.
“I’m going to really miss you,” she said when we got to my house. “Have a great time, and make sure you come back with lots to tell us!”
And then we hugged as hard as we could.
“And don’t give up!” she added. She was talking about an ongoing battle I was having with Mom.
Just before the trip, we had gone shopping for clothes to take with us. I had gotten some new dresses, skirts and sweaters to take, and I had been thrilled because they were more mature than the clothes I had at home. Feeling emboldened, I had asked to get my ears pierced, and Mom had said okay.
Then we had gone shopping for shoes. I was dying for a pair of heels, but knew that Mom would never agree. As much as I loved mary janes, I really needed something a little older looking.
When we got into the shoe store, I found a pair of pumps with a low Queen Anne heel, and after a moment of indecision, she agreed, as long as I understood that I had to wear socks or tights with them. When I argued that they’d look much better with stockings, Mom said that she had made her best offer. Reluctantly, I accepted her compromise.
I tried to use my easy acquiescence on the stockings issue as leverage for something else I was aching to try – makeup. Terri had told me that this was a lost cause, and that she didn’t plan on asking her mom about makeup until she was at least 13, but I thought these were special circumstances.
“No,” Mom said simply. “Absolutely not.”
My grandfather drove us into the city the next day, and because Dad worked for the ship company, we got to board really easily. We had a nice stateroom, and our steward, Everett, came around to introduce himself.
We were scheduled for the first sitting at dinner that night, and Dad insisted I get nicely dressed. I wore one of my new skirts and a soft pink sweater, along with a pair of flesh tone tights, my new pumps, and a pair of new earrings. I thought I looked okay.
It was a nice meal, but it was very subdued in the dining room, and just the three of us at the table. Mom was disappointed, and the after dinner Dad went to speak to someone about changing it. We were moved to a larger table at the second sitting.
We met them the next morning at breakfast. There was a priest from Canada named Fr. Bennett, who was a real cut-up; a British widow in her 60s named Mrs. Hargrove, and a Belgian woman in her 30s named Monique. The six of us might have appeared to be a rag-tag group, but we hit it off immediately, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together.
Fr. Bennett was began each day at breakfast by giving me a “special dispensation” from doing schoolwork that day, but I usually did some, anyway, because I didn’t want to fall behind. He was very funny, and always made us laugh. But it was Monique who drew my attention.
She had dark hair that she wore long, and which swept dramatically across her forehead. That served to accentuate her eyes, which were large, dark brown pools and which drew one’s attention to her high cheekbones, flawless complexion, and full lips. She was the first woman I had ever met whom I could truly consider beautiful, and every movement she made seemed carefully planned to exude a certain sensuality. I understood little, if any, of this, but I sensed something vital about this woman, something I wanted to learn to imitate.
I watched how she walked, listened to the way she spoke and studied her gestures. When I was alone, I would practice them. One morning after breakfast, I was on deck, looking out over the ocean, and absently practicing her hand gestures when she materialized beside me.
“Talking to the fish?” she teased, and I blushed. When I didn’t answer her, she asked me, softly but directly, if I had been imitating her. Reluctantly, I nodded, and she surprised me by smiling warmly.
“I am so flattered, Erin,” she said. “But the truth is, you are
only just beginning to approach being a woman, and you have a much brighter future ahead of you than I ever did.”
“But you’re so beautiful,” I protested. “Whenever you walk into a room, all the men’s heads turn. I think…I think you’re everything a woman should be.”
“Oh, Erin! You don’t understand! I look at you and I envy you! Such a bright girl, and a pretty girl, too. You are, what, ten years old? Yet, when you return home from this trip, you will have seen the world in a way that none of your friends will have yet seen it, and experienced things that no one else in your school has yet experienced. Those things will help shape the woman you become.
“The last thing I would want you to do is limit your growth to a handful of coquettish gestures you copy from me! Be yourself, Erin, and let yourself grow in the best way you can – you’re way!”
That night, there was a formal cocktail party to be given by the captain before dinner. I had already met some kids my own age on board, and friendships formed easily. I was not looking forward to a full hour while the adults had cocktails and I sipped ginger ale, so I asked permission to join them half way through the cocktail party, and Mom said I could.
After lunch, she laid out what she would wear that night – a black velvet dress with a full skirt over a crinoline, and spaghetti straps. I loved that dress, it was just so beautiful. She would wear black suede spike heeled pumps with it.
That afternoon, as my new friends and I hung out in the teen lounge, listening to “My Boyfriend’s Back” on the jukebox, I could feel myself sliding into a jealous funk. Mom was going to be in that gorgeous dress, heels and stockings, and I was going to be in my preteen dress and tights.
I glanced at my watch and knew that I would soon have to get back to the stateroom to get ready. On my way down, I passed the ship’s store and there, right at the entrance, was a display of nylon stockings. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I bought a pair in what I hoped was my size.
I raced down to the stateroom, clutching my parcel as if it were contraband. I passed Everett in the companionway and waved hastily. He looked at me quizzically and waved back, then went about his business.
As I started to get dressed, I realized I had nothing to hold my stockings up with. I decided to borrow a girdle from Mom. I had never worn one, but had watched her put one on many times.
I loved the sensation of the stockings on my legs. I felt pretty in a way I never had before. I put on my most mature looking dress, and slipped into my pumps with the low heel. Somehow, they felt just a little higher.
I looked in the mirror. Not bad, I thought, but it still needs something. In for a penny…
I opened one of Mom’s drawers, the one in which she kept a spare supply of makeup. A little blush, and I made sure I blended it in thoroughly, the way she had, and a touch of lipstick. Then I saw she had mascara, and I put a little of that on, too.
When I stared in the mirror, I was very pleased – that was the real Erin!
I set out for the promenade deck, where I was to meet everyone, and it was only when I entered the salon that I realized what I had done and what Mom’s reaction was likely to be. I was just about to turn around when I heard Fr. Bennett call out my name. I saw them all sitting at a small table, and I swallowed hard as I approached.
“Well,” Fr. Bennett said as I approached, “Look at you!”
“Oh, Erin,” said Mrs. Hargrove. “You look absolutely stunning!” Then, tuning to Mom, she added, “You must be very proud of her.”
“I’m always proud of Erin,” she said, not looking at me. Just then, a waiter came around ringing a small chime, signal that it was time to move to the dining room. I got up quickly and walked away, so that I wouldn’t have to face Mom or Dad, who’d just had a stunned look on his face. I found myself walking next to Monique.
“Ah,” she said softly. “Such style; such elegance. And such courage!”
“I think I overdid it with the makeup,” I said.
“Not at all. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“I know what you mean,” she assured me, patting me on the arm. “And while you will no doubt face some kind of reprimand, don’t be surprised if it is much less severe than you fear.”
The waiter treated me with exaggerated courtesy that evening, calling me “miss” and bowing low. Fr. Bennett and Monique directed a lot of conversation my way, but not in the way adults usually talk to children. They seemed to be interested in my opinions on things.
As the meal wore on, I relaxed. Once, when Monique excused herself to go to the ladies room, I was tempted to go with her and refresh my lipstick, but I realized I hadn’t brought it with me and besides, it would be seriously pushing my luck. And then Mom went with her, so it was just as well.
After dinner, Mom and I returned to the stateroom while Dad stayed up on deck, and I realized that I was about to pay for my crimes. She didn’t say a word until we were back in the stateroom, and even then she just turned and glared at me. Yet, even as I stared at the floor, I felt the shimmering nylon against my legs and was glad I had done it.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last. “I know you didn’t want me to wear stockings, yet, and I know you didn’t want me to wear any makeup…”
“And you did it anyway,” she said, coldly.
“I know. But Mom, I knew that you and Monique were going to be looking just so beautiful tonight, and I couldn’t stand the thought of just looking like a little kid.”
“You are ten years old, Erin. There’s nothing wrong with looking ten years old.”
“I know. But you’re always saying how mature I am for my age. What’s wrong with looking a little more mature? That’s all I wanted to do. Was that so terrible?”
She sat down on the bed next to me.
“I’m going to ask you something,” she said softly. “And I want you to be completely truthful with me. Will you do that?”
I nodded.
“All right. Did Monique put you up to this? Did she encourage you to do this?”
The question came out of the blue. Well, I thought, if she wants honesty, that’s what she’s going to get.
“No. We had a talk this morning after breakfast, and she told me that I shouldn’t copy her, try to be her, that I should be my own person. So, I thought about it and decided that I really wanted to look grown up tonight – it was important to me. I was going to ask you, but I knew you’d say no, and I didn’t want to fight. And I figured that if I did it and I showed you I could without looking sloppy or cheap, maybe…maybe you’d see that I really am mature enough.”
I was furious with myself. I could hear the tears starting to form, my throat starting to choke up – just like a hysterical child. But the tears didn’t come and Mom didn’t come back with a sharp reply.
“All right,” she said softly. “I believe you.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes.
“Mom,” I said at last. “How did you think I looked?”
She smiled.
“Lovely. Quite lovely.”
“Really?” I asked, and she nodded. Then she pronounced sentence.
“For the rest of this trip, you will dress your age. You are too young to wear stockings and you are too young to wear makeup, and you will not ask me for any reason. If an event occurs before we arrive home for which I think that either would be appropriate for you, I will tell you. But if I say nothing about it, you are to say nothing and do nothing about it.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved.
“Where are the cosmetics you used tonight?”
I gestured to her drawer. She retrieved them and gave them to me.
“Never use someone else’s makeup, and never let them use yours. It’s unsanitary.”
One Saturday in the early spring, Dad decided to take me to work with him. Because he was an engineer on one of the piers on the Hudson River, it seemed odd – I wasn’t in any way the tomboy type. I even wore a skirt and sweater that day, anklets and saddle shoes.
He seemed to like that. And I had the sense from the beginning that he was looking to show me off as his little princess. We hadn’t really been very close, and this was a chance for us to try.
We took the bus to the subway, but before we went down to the trains, he wanted to make a stop. It was the first time I had ever been in a bar. I didn’t want a ginger ale at 7:30 in the morning, but I had one anyway.
The men there all made a fuss over me, which was nice. After about twenty minutes, we left and descended the stairs to the subway. They were the old trains, with the rattan seats and overhead fans, but as it was still cool, the cars were comfortable, although it took me a while to adjust to the noise.
Once in the city, we emerged to what for me was a completely alien world. I was astonished at the size of the buildings and the pace of traffic, even on a Saturday morning. We stopped in another bar, and again everyone seemed to know him and they were all very friendly to me, and I had another ginger ale.
When we got to his office on the pier, I couldn’t believe how dark and dirty it was. But there was a ship docked on one side of the pier, and I could see the front of it (Dad said it was the “bow”) from the window of his workshop. In short order, he took me on board.
After boarding, I followed him down a maze of hallways (he called them “companionways”) and stairs, until at last we were in a huge kitchen (“galley”). I repeated each of the new words, because it seemed important to him that I know and use them. He was showing me where the main stoves were when we heard a voice I recognized.
Dad’s friend, Tommy, was chief confectioner on board this ship, and whenever he was in port, Dad would bring him home to dinner. He always made a fuss over me and teased me about when I was going to get myself a boyfriend, and he was always gone the next morning when I woke up, and always left a dollar for me. I squealed with delight when I saw him and jumped into his arms.
“Better watch it, lass,” he said with a wink. “All these renegades will expect that kind of welcome the next time we’re in port.”
He then showed me around his section of the galley (and laughed heartily when I called it that, crying out, “Good girl, yourself!”) and explained in detail how he and his men turned out cakes, pies, tarts and other delights for a shipload of passengers. When I commented that it was probably much different than Mom and me making a cake for the holidays, he laughed and said, “Yes and no.” The difference was in the numbers.
But there were still individual touches to be added, and he showed me a cake he had been decorating for a crew member’s birthday. Then he let me help him finish decorating it, and complimented me on my skill. Later on, I got to try some of his other cakes, which was nice, too.
I tried not to look too bored when we went back to the shop, but when we stopped at the bar on the way home, I was really losing steam. Dad told me I was a good sport, and he hoped I’d had a good time. I told him I had.
Mom wasn’t happy when we got home. We were late, and although they didn’t argue, I could tell they were mad because they hardly said a word to one another. Later that night, Mom looked like she wanted to ask me something, but then thought better of it.
The chill didn’t last for long, because we were moving forward with something they had been planning for quite some time – we were going to get to go on one of Dad’s company’s ships ourselves. Moreover, we were going to do it during the school year, and I was going to miss three weeks of school for it. The trip, which would begin in early October, a month after I’d started fifth grade, would take us to England and Ireland.
“I can’t believe it!” Terri exclaimed when I told her and the other girls about it. We were in the schoolyard one morning near the end of the school year. “You mean you’re going to miss three weeks of school?”
I told her that was the plan. Karen, Diane and Catherine all told me that they’d miss me, but begged me to take lots of pictures. By the time we actually left, I had lots of other instructions, too.
They came from my fifth grade teacher, Miss Hudson. A tall, stern, masculine looking woman who made it clear from the first day of school that she would brook no nonsense, she pushed us hard in class and took a genuine interest in how we did. She gave me three weeks worth of assignments to make sure I kept up with my school work, and then she added something else.
“I also want you to write an essay about your trip,” she said.
“What kind of essay?” I asked.
“Any kind you want. You can make it a diary, or a narrative, or notes, but I know you write well, and so I want it to be thoughtful and well written. I want to be able to get a sense of what you’ve learned from this experience.”
“Wow!” Terri said as I repeated the conversation to her as we walked home from school that day. “She actually told you that you write well?”
We left on a Friday, October 4. The day before, I said good bye to everyone in school, including the girls. Then Terri walked me home.
“I’m going to really miss you,” she said when we got to my house. “Have a great time, and make sure you come back with lots to tell us!”
And then we hugged as hard as we could.
“And don’t give up!” she added. She was talking about an ongoing battle I was having with Mom.
Just before the trip, we had gone shopping for clothes to take with us. I had gotten some new dresses, skirts and sweaters to take, and I had been thrilled because they were more mature than the clothes I had at home. Feeling emboldened, I had asked to get my ears pierced, and Mom had said okay.
Then we had gone shopping for shoes. I was dying for a pair of heels, but knew that Mom would never agree. As much as I loved mary janes, I really needed something a little older looking.
When we got into the shoe store, I found a pair of pumps with a low Queen Anne heel, and after a moment of indecision, she agreed, as long as I understood that I had to wear socks or tights with them. When I argued that they’d look much better with stockings, Mom said that she had made her best offer. Reluctantly, I accepted her compromise.
I tried to use my easy acquiescence on the stockings issue as leverage for something else I was aching to try – makeup. Terri had told me that this was a lost cause, and that she didn’t plan on asking her mom about makeup until she was at least 13, but I thought these were special circumstances.
“No,” Mom said simply. “Absolutely not.”
My grandfather drove us into the city the next day, and because Dad worked for the ship company, we got to board really easily. We had a nice stateroom, and our steward, Everett, came around to introduce himself.
We were scheduled for the first sitting at dinner that night, and Dad insisted I get nicely dressed. I wore one of my new skirts and a soft pink sweater, along with a pair of flesh tone tights, my new pumps, and a pair of new earrings. I thought I looked okay.
It was a nice meal, but it was very subdued in the dining room, and just the three of us at the table. Mom was disappointed, and the after dinner Dad went to speak to someone about changing it. We were moved to a larger table at the second sitting.
We met them the next morning at breakfast. There was a priest from Canada named Fr. Bennett, who was a real cut-up; a British widow in her 60s named Mrs. Hargrove, and a Belgian woman in her 30s named Monique. The six of us might have appeared to be a rag-tag group, but we hit it off immediately, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together.
Fr. Bennett was began each day at breakfast by giving me a “special dispensation” from doing schoolwork that day, but I usually did some, anyway, because I didn’t want to fall behind. He was very funny, and always made us laugh. But it was Monique who drew my attention.
She had dark hair that she wore long, and which swept dramatically across her forehead. That served to accentuate her eyes, which were large, dark brown pools and which drew one’s attention to her high cheekbones, flawless complexion, and full lips. She was the first woman I had ever met whom I could truly consider beautiful, and every movement she made seemed carefully planned to exude a certain sensuality. I understood little, if any, of this, but I sensed something vital about this woman, something I wanted to learn to imitate.
I watched how she walked, listened to the way she spoke and studied her gestures. When I was alone, I would practice them. One morning after breakfast, I was on deck, looking out over the ocean, and absently practicing her hand gestures when she materialized beside me.
“Talking to the fish?” she teased, and I blushed. When I didn’t answer her, she asked me, softly but directly, if I had been imitating her. Reluctantly, I nodded, and she surprised me by smiling warmly.
“I am so flattered, Erin,” she said. “But the truth is, you are
only just beginning to approach being a woman, and you have a much brighter future ahead of you than I ever did.”
“But you’re so beautiful,” I protested. “Whenever you walk into a room, all the men’s heads turn. I think…I think you’re everything a woman should be.”
“Oh, Erin! You don’t understand! I look at you and I envy you! Such a bright girl, and a pretty girl, too. You are, what, ten years old? Yet, when you return home from this trip, you will have seen the world in a way that none of your friends will have yet seen it, and experienced things that no one else in your school has yet experienced. Those things will help shape the woman you become.
“The last thing I would want you to do is limit your growth to a handful of coquettish gestures you copy from me! Be yourself, Erin, and let yourself grow in the best way you can – you’re way!”
That night, there was a formal cocktail party to be given by the captain before dinner. I had already met some kids my own age on board, and friendships formed easily. I was not looking forward to a full hour while the adults had cocktails and I sipped ginger ale, so I asked permission to join them half way through the cocktail party, and Mom said I could.
After lunch, she laid out what she would wear that night – a black velvet dress with a full skirt over a crinoline, and spaghetti straps. I loved that dress, it was just so beautiful. She would wear black suede spike heeled pumps with it.
That afternoon, as my new friends and I hung out in the teen lounge, listening to “My Boyfriend’s Back” on the jukebox, I could feel myself sliding into a jealous funk. Mom was going to be in that gorgeous dress, heels and stockings, and I was going to be in my preteen dress and tights.
I glanced at my watch and knew that I would soon have to get back to the stateroom to get ready. On my way down, I passed the ship’s store and there, right at the entrance, was a display of nylon stockings. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I bought a pair in what I hoped was my size.
I raced down to the stateroom, clutching my parcel as if it were contraband. I passed Everett in the companionway and waved hastily. He looked at me quizzically and waved back, then went about his business.
As I started to get dressed, I realized I had nothing to hold my stockings up with. I decided to borrow a girdle from Mom. I had never worn one, but had watched her put one on many times.
I loved the sensation of the stockings on my legs. I felt pretty in a way I never had before. I put on my most mature looking dress, and slipped into my pumps with the low heel. Somehow, they felt just a little higher.
I looked in the mirror. Not bad, I thought, but it still needs something. In for a penny…
I opened one of Mom’s drawers, the one in which she kept a spare supply of makeup. A little blush, and I made sure I blended it in thoroughly, the way she had, and a touch of lipstick. Then I saw she had mascara, and I put a little of that on, too.
When I stared in the mirror, I was very pleased – that was the real Erin!
I set out for the promenade deck, where I was to meet everyone, and it was only when I entered the salon that I realized what I had done and what Mom’s reaction was likely to be. I was just about to turn around when I heard Fr. Bennett call out my name. I saw them all sitting at a small table, and I swallowed hard as I approached.
“Well,” Fr. Bennett said as I approached, “Look at you!”
“Oh, Erin,” said Mrs. Hargrove. “You look absolutely stunning!” Then, tuning to Mom, she added, “You must be very proud of her.”
“I’m always proud of Erin,” she said, not looking at me. Just then, a waiter came around ringing a small chime, signal that it was time to move to the dining room. I got up quickly and walked away, so that I wouldn’t have to face Mom or Dad, who’d just had a stunned look on his face. I found myself walking next to Monique.
“Ah,” she said softly. “Such style; such elegance. And such courage!”
“I think I overdid it with the makeup,” I said.
“Not at all. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“I know what you mean,” she assured me, patting me on the arm. “And while you will no doubt face some kind of reprimand, don’t be surprised if it is much less severe than you fear.”
The waiter treated me with exaggerated courtesy that evening, calling me “miss” and bowing low. Fr. Bennett and Monique directed a lot of conversation my way, but not in the way adults usually talk to children. They seemed to be interested in my opinions on things.
As the meal wore on, I relaxed. Once, when Monique excused herself to go to the ladies room, I was tempted to go with her and refresh my lipstick, but I realized I hadn’t brought it with me and besides, it would be seriously pushing my luck. And then Mom went with her, so it was just as well.
After dinner, Mom and I returned to the stateroom while Dad stayed up on deck, and I realized that I was about to pay for my crimes. She didn’t say a word until we were back in the stateroom, and even then she just turned and glared at me. Yet, even as I stared at the floor, I felt the shimmering nylon against my legs and was glad I had done it.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last. “I know you didn’t want me to wear stockings, yet, and I know you didn’t want me to wear any makeup…”
“And you did it anyway,” she said, coldly.
“I know. But Mom, I knew that you and Monique were going to be looking just so beautiful tonight, and I couldn’t stand the thought of just looking like a little kid.”
“You are ten years old, Erin. There’s nothing wrong with looking ten years old.”
“I know. But you’re always saying how mature I am for my age. What’s wrong with looking a little more mature? That’s all I wanted to do. Was that so terrible?”
She sat down on the bed next to me.
“I’m going to ask you something,” she said softly. “And I want you to be completely truthful with me. Will you do that?”
I nodded.
“All right. Did Monique put you up to this? Did she encourage you to do this?”
The question came out of the blue. Well, I thought, if she wants honesty, that’s what she’s going to get.
“No. We had a talk this morning after breakfast, and she told me that I shouldn’t copy her, try to be her, that I should be my own person. So, I thought about it and decided that I really wanted to look grown up tonight – it was important to me. I was going to ask you, but I knew you’d say no, and I didn’t want to fight. And I figured that if I did it and I showed you I could without looking sloppy or cheap, maybe…maybe you’d see that I really am mature enough.”
I was furious with myself. I could hear the tears starting to form, my throat starting to choke up – just like a hysterical child. But the tears didn’t come and Mom didn’t come back with a sharp reply.
“All right,” she said softly. “I believe you.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes.
“Mom,” I said at last. “How did you think I looked?”
She smiled.
“Lovely. Quite lovely.”
“Really?” I asked, and she nodded. Then she pronounced sentence.
“For the rest of this trip, you will dress your age. You are too young to wear stockings and you are too young to wear makeup, and you will not ask me for any reason. If an event occurs before we arrive home for which I think that either would be appropriate for you, I will tell you. But if I say nothing about it, you are to say nothing and do nothing about it.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved.
“Where are the cosmetics you used tonight?”
I gestured to her drawer. She retrieved them and gave them to me.
“Never use someone else’s makeup, and never let them use yours. It’s unsanitary.”
Last edited by Erin L on Wed Jan 28, 2009 8:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
I'm not that kind of girl.