Yes, I Remember

Middle school can be described as a place where the excitement of friends and one’s growing freedom collide recklessly with heightened social fears and anxiety. In 1978 that collision arrived for me in the form of a cute 7th grader. My harmless flirtation crashed head on with one of life's most unsettling lessons.

The flirtation was quiet, dreamy, somewhere between unease and anticipation, I don’t even think we were speaking more than a sentence or two at our lockers, but the energy was palpable. My only mistake embarking on this new entanglement was not accurately measuring the reaction to our flirtation from his ex. She and her little gang of feathered hair friends were stalking me between classes. Avoiding their paths, even if it meant walking the long way around campus, was pushing me a little too close to my limit of tardy slips that would lead to detention. If there was anything that I possibly feared more in those moments than having my slight frame shoulder checked in the breezeways, it was explaining to either of my parents that I had detention.

My father had only been to the middle school one time. School mostly came easily to me and I was put in the old school GT program, which meant I often missed my regular classes for “enrichment.” This only added to the difficulty I was having managing all the distractions. On what initially felt like any random school day, I showed up to science class unaware and unprepared for a test, which my teacher determined was something of concern. She notified my parents and my father drew the short stick. While my teacher voiced her concerns, my father nodded a few times as if he was listening, and then he rudely dismissed her with a few cringeworthy comments and went back to work. He didn’t thank her for her concern or her time. He did not suggest I’d do better next time or that it wouldn’t happen again. He was more annoyed by the interruption than worried about my success in her class. My father was free to be dismissive but I had science class every other day for the rest of the semester. Facing the teacher after my father had been so rude was enough to ensure I never showed up unprepared for class again.

Looking back, I’m sure my father was aggravated that day in large part because my mother was a housewife which should have cleared him of all child rearing and educational duties between the hours of 9 and 5. My mother was likely having a day of leaden paralysis where she self-medicated with valium and was therefore unavailable to attend to the summons. These dark days presented obstacles for my family, but none that couldn’t be managed. For the entirety of these days my mother stayed in bed, and if on occasion she did get out of bed, it was simply to sit in one of the black, wing-tipped leather chairs in the formal living room with all the curtains pulled tightly closed, her robe snugly fastened and her slippered feet tucked up under her like a child. She may or may not spend that day crying, but even that would be barely audible as her valium-days were mostly silent. When she stayed in bed, her bedroom was nearly pitch black, with clothes piled up on every surface, and only a sliver of light coming from the slightly ajar bathroom door functioning as a night light. She never called out to us, and we certainly didn’t disturb her. From time to time I’d wonder what would happen if we all ran in and jumped on the bed, maybe laughing or simply to give her an awkward snuggle of some sort. Would it have brightened her day or would we have been berated? My best guess is the latter since somehow, at some moment in time, we learned not to bother her on those days.

At home, just like middle school where joy and confusion found ways to coexist, mixed in with the heaviness were the days you’d walk in to smell fresh cookies baking or the table covered in canning jars filled with peach jam or homemade applesauce. Mom might be using her dehydrator to turn fruit into leather or beef into jerky, or she’d spend the day chopping and freezing a flat of strawberries she picked up from a farm truck parked up the road. The windows would all be open with fresh air pouring in. The Carpenters might be playing Top of the World on the console record player, or maybe Merv Griffin would be questioning his guests on the TV loud enough to hear it throughout the house. Whatever the details, you knew that it was a good day to grab a snack and brazenly go outside and play knowing dinner would be served hot and fresh and from scratch when your father pulled in the driveway. Those days the clothes would all be clean, folded and put away. The house wouldn’t necessarily be clean, but it still felt light and airy and, dare I say, happy.

When I got home from school, I didn’t have to guess what I was walking into, I could easily see if the drapes on the front of the house were drawn or open. If the drapes are drawn, it might even be that all the doors are locked and we will entertain ourselves outside till my father comes home from work. But either way, you knew what you were facing. It was absolutely, 100% a totally different situation if you had to reach out to my mom from school because there was no way to know if the drapes at home were drawn or open.

For many years after the incident where my blossoming flirtation turned into my worst nightmare, my mother would use any opportunity where an audience was present to ask me “Do you remember that time when those girls wanted to beat you up at school and you were so scared I had to come get you?” It wasn’t a brag that she was my knight in shining armor that day. It wasn’t to show how far I’d come in the way of standing my ground and growing up. It was to watch me squirm in uneasiness, it was a show of power and a reminder of who’s boss. “Do you remember?” she’d ask. I always wanted to scream that “Yes, not only did I remember, but those girls beating me up might have been less scarring than you showing up in your robe and slippers and marching into the principal’s office to scream at them because I had called you instead of riding my bike home from school.” And not only that, to pour salt in the wounds she inflicted, in front of the crowd of students waiting in the bus lines, she shoved my bike in the back of her brown chevy station wagon and yelled at me to get in the car.

When we were passing the empty bike racks my mother saw a group of girls clumped together and asked me if that was “them,” and because I was obviously having a lapse of better judgment that day, I admitted that yes, that was “them.” My mother stopped the car, rolled down her window and yelled at these barely teenaged girls that they better leave me alone. In my head, the entire scenario would only cause me an exponentially more amount of trouble at school, but I was at a loss as to how to manage the situation. It was extremely clear to me that my mother was not upset because I felt that my life was in danger after being blocked from leaving school that day, she was upset because she had to get out of bed. I don’t just know this because she came to the school with a bedhead and dark circles under her eyes, I know this for certain because the drapes were drawn and the house was silent when we arrived home. My mother went straight back to bed and even fell asleep which was pretty impressive after having that level of adrenaline flowing through her veins. I think I must have disassociated from the stress of it all because I don’t remember the rest of that day or if we even told the rest of the family about what happened that night. It’s all black.

What I do remember is what happened the next day and how I learned bullies are just regular people too. I was so worried that I would never hear the end of my mother showing up at school and ranting and raving in her robe and slippers, for all to see and hear, that I forgot that those girls each had their own parents to deal with. When the loud speaker boomed into my first period class summoning me to the office I had a bit of an out-of-body experience. When I finally got the self-awareness needed to stand and head out of the classroom I took the tiniest, slowest steps known to man over and over again until I could not avoid walking into the office where my fate would be discovered.

The receptionist immediately told me to go sit in a room down the hall. On arrival I saw my nemesis, shoulders crouched, hair falling forward to hide the tear stained cheeks of the girl who less than 24 hours earlier was threatening to kick my ass. I felt my sarcastic side returning and thought “not so brave now, are we.” I admit I was still not sure what was happening and therefore I ever so quietly took a seat and dared not make eye contact. Sitting in that room, likely holding my breath, I heard the faintest voice whisper “I’m sorry.” I never found out what had transgressed in the time before I joined the scene, but I knew this girl was scared and upset and her parents were talking to the principal and seemed angry, it was a lot to take in.

More importantly, I wasn’t scared anymore, not of this tough girl and her feathered haired friends and not of being embarrassed by the events of the day before. I felt a sense of relief and possibly a faint hint of sympathy for someone who all but terrorized me for a few weeks over a boy whose name neither of us would even remember. Over the next few years I would call my mom more times to pick me up from school, or sleepovers, or uncomfortable situations; I might not know who was coming but never doubted she’d show up. So yes mother, I remember. I’m still reconciling the humiliation of your protection that day.