Starting Over

I think my teachers and the priests breathed a great sigh of release when I moved and had to be transferred to another catholic school. They said they would miss me, but I didn’t believe them for a second…they looked too relieved!

If I thought a new school would be any different, I had another thing coming. And, if my family thought a new school would give me a fresh start and keep me out of trouble, they had another thing coming. If anything, it gave me more power to get into even more mischief because now I would meet my partner in crime, my soon to be best friend. I don’t think catholic schools were ready for the two of us, at least not together.

It was the middle of my fourth grade year. The sun beamed down on our little schoolyard with the children gaily skipping rope, or racing each other from one end of the yard to the other, or standing around gabbing excitedly with their friends about this thing or that. I sat upon the steps to our school with two of my friends, Rochelle and Tenisha. Tenisha braided my hair, while Rochelle talked incessantly about the great injustices done to the black race. I didn’t disagree. Great injustices were done to many groups of people. I listened.

We were called the “Oreos” because they were black, and I was white. (It was okay to say black then; you have to say African American now to be proper. I wonder, does that mean I should be called Italian/Irish instead of just plain 'ole American?) You could usually find me in the middle and Rochelle and Tenisha on either side of me, and this was how we earned our nickname. It didn’t bother me, very little did.

I watched as a black car pulled up the driveway and a blonde-haired girl got out. “Who do you think that is?” I said to no one in particular. Rochelle, barely pausing from her long spiel, said, “Oh, great another white girl, like there isn’t enough white children in our school to try and suppress the creativity of the minority black children trying to learn here!”

Stifling a giggle, I ignored her and looked back at Tenisha, who rolled her eyes. Being the pioneer of the bunch and a seasoned veteran of six months in my new school, I yelled, “Let’s go find out!” and, jumping up, led the way. Tenisha shared my enthusiasm and followed close behind. Rochelle cautiously hung behind Tenisha still rambling on.

I ran up to the new girl and breathlessly stopped in front of her so quickly that Tenisha nearly rear-ended me. “Are you new?” Tenisha blurted out. I laughed and squealed, “Duh!” We all laughed. We found out her name was Elizabeth but liked to be called Beth, and she immediately was at home with our small group of “rebels”.

A Day in the Life of Me, Part One

Most of my trips into my inner worlds or dreams were happy, and I was content to allow the quiet of the night lull me into the grand adventures that awaited. Occasionally, though, my dreams would take me into darkness; I wasn't so fond of those.

Although I was almost 8 outwardly, I was only an infant in this dream, crawling through a long, narrow tunnel. I would not have enough room to stand in it if I were capable of doing so, and there was only enough room to reach my arms out in either direction. The darkness was impenetrable except for an illumination directly on and around me like it funneled from the top in the shape of a triangle downward. I could feel my fear and anxiety as I cautiously moved forward, hesitating with each small step. Suddenly, a hand shoots up out from under and grabs me. I awaken with a startle, crying.

The sun is beginning to shine through my window, wiping away the darkness leftover from the evening, and beckoning me to a new day. I wipe my tears with my sheets and take a deep breath. I had been having this dream for as long as I could remember dreaming, and I couldn't remember a time when I didn't dream.

Soon after Nan entered my bedroom. Hearing her shuffling down the hallway, I squeezed my eyes shut. "Tammy, time to get up, honey. Time for school." I pretended not to hear. I hated school. What was the point? She sighed, came closer, and shook me. "I know you're awake, and I know you heard me. Let's go." It was my turn to sigh.

"Ah, Nan, I don't feel good, and I didn't sleep either."

"Come on, Tammy, none of this… Out of bed now!" The tone of her voice made me stand up and take notice. She would have none of it today so, defeated, I threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. She turned and gazed at me as she was walking out my door. "Oh, look! You are cured! It's a miracle!" Her sarcasm was not lost on me.

(To be continued...)

Introduction

Grown-ups! I don’t get them. They do the strangest things, and they don’t like to answer questions either. They either dodge your questions altogether, or they answer them without really answering them. Catholic schoolteachers and priests weren’t any different in my experience.

The Sacrament of Penance or Confession was another thing that never made much sense to me. Actually, not too much of the Catholic religion did. (This, of course, is my own personal feelings; and not meant to be a put-down on Catholicism. Each path has its place. It just didn’t happen to be mine.)

I struggled with this quite a bit growing up. A voice always whispered, “This isn’t right. It isn’t like that at all.” I’m still not exactly sure who the Voice was, but it got me into lots of mischief. Some may say this voice was my conscience, a departed loved one, or maybe even a guardian angel. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter who it was as much as what it was saying to me, and the experiences that resulted from the deep questions that flooded my mind and my heart on any given day.

I would like to share those experiences with you. Some you may relate to, and maybe some you won’t. Perhaps, you came away with treasures from your own childhood religion, and this is not meant to make light of them in any way. This is simply one little girl’s views and opinions of life, religion, and love.

Readers beware: Must have a sense of humor!