Lessons Learned Sometimes Come in Unpleasant Packages

In 1974, my brother turned eighteen and was shy six weeks from graduation.  Mother informed him he had to get a job.  He got a job at McDonald’s in East Lansing. Mother and I joined Weight Watchers and I lost over thirty pounds.  I was finally able to find someone who could cut my natural curly hair in a style different from a pixie.  My Mother hated dealing with my hair and she insisted I wear it very short.  I always wanted long hair but she insisted girls with curly hair could not have long hair. Later in life I learned I could have had beautiful long hair, but there would have been a period of time that I would have had to deal with a “large afro” until the weight of my hair pulled it down in to beautiful locks.

So here I was entering high school with new eye glasses that did not resemble cat eyes, a new haircut and I was thin and shapely.  I was so excited to be going to high school.  There were so many things to look forward to, wearing make-up, dating, getting a driver’s license, finding a job and graduation! But most I was looking forward to not be a fat ugly kid.

But in the summer of 1974, I learned a lesson that has stood with me the rest of my life.  Boys are pigs. The kids in the neighborhood always hung out at the park.  I was actually being noticed and somewhat accepted by those kids that I had lived next to for over four years. I tend to think my weight loss and my new appearance had a lot to do with this as I was coming out of those awkward years that you either resurface as pretty or pretty ugly.

I used to take our dog, Koochie Koo for walks at night and one particular night a group of “popular boys” and girls were hanging at the park.  They had told me about a “fort” that they had built back in the woods, where several of us kids had built forts throughout the year.  I walked back there and they had erected a tent and we all went inside, but eventually everyone disappeared except for Tom and I and Koochie Koo.  The kids had been drinking and there was beer all over the floor of the tent.  Trust me, the thoughts running through my head was not that I was in this tent alone with a boy, but the dog was going to smell like beer and I’d be dead.  Advances were made and rejected as I worried so much about the dog getting wet and smelling of beer that I took off.  You have to know by now, my Mother  would assume what happened and asked questions after she spanked you. I left and headed home.  It was dark and my Mother would be upset that I had been gone.  She knew it took so many minutes to walk the dog and you had better not be late or she assumed you were up to no good.

I walked back to the house, which wasn’t far from where this alcohol hide away was erected and I immediately bee lined for the bathroom.  I had to wash the bottom of my shoes and I gave the dog a bath following up with a shower and taking my clothes to the basement laundry as they had gotten wet when I was in the tent and any scent of beer would have sent me six feet under without any hesitation.

School started shortly after this, perhaps within days or a week. I had acquired a nickname unbeknownst to me that was not flattering.  I really had no idea what these initials stood for but I was soon to discover it was not pleasant.  I guess when boys are among boys and they are sophomores and juniors in high school, you feel compelled to brag about events that were not witnessed or occurred.  Perhaps you want bragging rights to impress your friends that you are a “man.” I really don’t know why children are so mean spirited, but this moment in a tent where nothing happened was announced by word of mouth I swear as soon as the school doors opened that September day in 1974.

I learned quickly that you are not innocent until proven guilty. I learned that children are followers of those that may be in a more favorable clique than you are. I learned that children form alliances, but I also learned that those who are your friend will stand by you and there are some that will be brave enough to ask questions, or get to know you and make their own call regarding your character. I discovered those that had their own struggles will join the bandwagon to take the heat off of them.  I discovered that girls do not stand by girls and boys may like you, but they will not step forward and take a stand in front of their friends, but they will do it on the sly.  I learned that friendships can go by the wayside if another one of their friends feeds into this unjustified gossip. I learned that four years in hell is a long time and I could not wait to get out of high school.

This is not an experience that I care to remember nor do I care to share, but it is important that you understand this changed me on many levels. I had to live with this alone.  I could not share with my Mother or I would not be here. She would have done nothing,

This experience and the four years I had to endure it, was a corner stone to my foundation that I relied on heavily to make future decisions. Had my parents not introduced me to roller skating at a young age and my Mother not driven me to the south side of Lansing to skate once a week, where I could meet new friends from different schools, who saw me for who I was, a young girl who was just like them, I don’t know how I would have survived those years.

I was able to “fit” in as much as I could with other teens without snide remarks or looks like I had the plague.  I lived for the roller skating rink and going to the cottage until I was old enough to drive and struck a deal with my Dad.

He had just bought my Mother her first car.  Up to this point, we had one car and he drove it to work.   If Mother needed a car or wanted the car to go visiting her siblings or parents, she would drive him to work and have to pick him up when his shift was over.  He would either work nights or days, so depending on his shift, she might have to go into Lansing to pick him up at 2 AM.  Many times, especially on a Friday night, we’d pick him up and drive to the cottage, arriving in the wee hours of the morning.  I didn’t care what shift my Dad worked, but when I started going skating, I loved when he worked the night shift because I could go skating Friday night and then afterwards head to the cottage for the weekend. If he worked days, my parents would drive me to the roller skating rink at Houghton Lake on Saturday night so I could skate.  Many times they might join me and I loved that more as I didn’t know many at the rink at Houghton Lake and this was an activity we had done for years as a family.

But once I turned sixteen, things changed dramatically for me.  For once, I had freedom. As I mentioned Dad had bought Mom her first car.  It was nothing fancy, but it was more than she had ever had and she loved the freedom it allowed her as well.

My goal was to get out of DeWitt. I wanted a job so I had my own money on a regular basis and I wanted a car.  My parents gave us a lot, but we had to earn certain things and a car was one of those things.  My brother never craved that independence, to work and own his own car.  He was still sitting in front of the television probably oblivious to the fact that his life as a dependent of my parents was coming to a screeching halt.

I was marking the calendar daily, counting the days until my Independence Day, April 7, 1976! I got my license and immediately inquired as to what I had to do to seek gainful employment.  My Mother said I had my whole life to work and was not in favor of this desire of mine.  My father, held the carrot for me.  If you get a job, I’ll get you a car.  I had a job within 24 hours.

My brother at this point was twenty years old and still living at home.  Make a note of this, as you will find equality once again did not weigh in my favor when I write about how my Mother kicked me out after I turned eighteen, but that is a story within itself.

My brother was working for Suits News.  It was a warehouse for paperbacks and magazines that were “recycled.” The books and periodicals were shipped there and the covers were ripped off and shipped back to the publisher and the book or periodical was destroyed.  My brother took an interest in reading at this point in his life.  Something I had enjoyed for years now.  He actually took a break from television and placed his nose into a real book, not a comic book.

So, I went to McDonald’s in East Lansing where he had worked and secured a job as a crew member. I used to love McDonald’s.  We always had it on our way to the cottage and it was such a treat, but my first night was spent on the quarter pounder grill and I went home smelling like a grease pit.  It took years before I could eat a one again.

Until my Dad could follow through on his end of the deal, I was to drive my Mom’s car, a navy blue and primer spotted 1970 Volkswagen Bug. It was a car, but it needed a paint job. It was temporary or so I thought.  I was on my way to work one day and had an errand to run in downtown Lansing. I was in the left hand lane to turn onto Michigan Avenue and head out to East Lansing for work.  I noticed the traffic was slowing and turned my right turn signal on to merge into the right lane.  A new driver follows the rules to the tee, I turned ever so slightly to check my blind spot and a car that was parked along the curb pulled out in front of me and I experienced my first car accident.

The front of the Volkswagen was caved in.  In Volkswagen's that is the area for the trunk.  As luck would have it, this occurred in front of the Lansing Police Department Headquarters.  Who did I call?  Wrong!  I did not call my Mother.  I called my Father.  I had never called him at work, but I figured out how to do it and he came to the phone.  I was remotely calm considering I had just smashed my Mother’s car.  I told him I had an accident and without hesitation his response was, “how is the car?” I remind him of this often, what about ME?  Wouldn’t you think the first question out of your mouth would be to ask your child how they were? Not my dad.  He has always been a common sense kind of guy and this was drilled into our heads for years. His reasoning for not asking me was simple, I had made the call, so I must have been alright, but he wanted to know if the car was drivable or if he needed to come get me. Nice cover, Dad, I would still have preferred you to ask me how I was.

The car was drivable and I went onto work.  I drove home later, I am not sure if my Mother knew  I had had an accident, I’m sure my Dad would have called her, but there was nothing said, except the keys were handed over to me and I was now the proud owner of a navy blue, primer dotted, caved in trunk 1970 Volkswagen.  It was not the car I dreamed of when Dad and I struck this deal.