Tag Archives: Difficulties growing up

The Lost Girl

Posted on by
Reply

            Serena hated reading aloud or being asked to write on the board. She shrunk inside and out if a classmate got to close, or heaven forbid, the teacher should lean over her shoulder to see what she hadn’t written.

            She’d learned these things at home, where a wrong look, a too loud sound, a spoken word could get her smacked around. Or maybe just shaken up a bit.

            Her father insisted she keep her eyes down, at all times, because he said he hated the golden outlines around her pupils. They sickened him. Made him think of devils. Caused him to beat the shit out of her.

            So at school, Serena kept her eyes focused on the top of her desk, all day long, not wanting to call attention to herself. The teacher might hate her eyes, too.

            The only time she raised her eyes was when the teacher had written something on the board. Or when her name was called.

            Serena jumped one Friday afternoon when the teacher tapped her desk with a ruler.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Ms. Brown barked.

Serena raised her eyes, just far enough that she hoped would satisfy Ms. Brown. She blinked a dozen times, trying to keep tears from dripping down her cheeks.

“Good,” the teacher said. “Now, answer the question: who built the pyramids in Giza?”

Serena shook her head. “I…I don’t know.”

The classroom filled with laughter, as it did every time Serena spoke up.

“Shush,” the teacher said as she waved her hand at the rest of the class. “Get to work. Right now.”

Serena read the next question on the quiz. “What’s the lion-shaped pyramid called?” She brought her pencil to her chin and tapped, once, twice, three times, but nothing came to her.

School had always been incredibly difficult for her. When her classmates began reading chapter books, Serena tried to pick out the few words she did recognize. When it came time to answer questions about the passages, she remembered nothing. And when the teacher called on her to answer aloud, her classmates always, always laughed until they were bent over from the effort.

Serena sighed. If she wrote nothing, she’d earn a red check mark. If she wrote the wrong answer, she’d get the same mark. She shrugged, started writing The King, when a shadow fell across her desk and the tiniest movement of air caressed the back of her neck.

“Are you okay?” Ms. Brown whispered. “Do you feel safe at home?”

Excellent questions, Serena thought, ones she’d been asked a million times. “Yes,” she squeezed out.

Ms. Brown leaned over and rested her elbows on the top of the desk. “I want you to tell me the truth, not some made-up answer you give to send everyone away.” She bent her head over until her chin nearly touched the wood. “I promise that you won’t get in trouble.”

Serena had heard all this before and knew that Ms. Brown was lying. No one could protect her from her father. Her Aunt Marg had tried to remove her from the home, but her father had punched her Aunt in the stomach so hard that the air whooshed out in a painful-sounding grunt.

“Serena, blink twice if you are scared to go home or if you don’t feel safe there.”

The girl thought about it. Nodded once, then blinked twice, just in case this time it might make a difference.

Ms. Brown nodded, sighed, then slowly raised her head. “Don’t go home when school ends. Someone will be here to take you to a safe place.”

Serena raised her head, and for the first time all year, joy lit her face.

My Own Coming of Age Story

Posted on by
Reply

Most kids travel from childhood into the teen years after their thirteenth birthday.

Not me.

At that age I was still firmly under my mother’s control. If she thought she saw a zit of blackhead, I was treated to pinching and squeezing.

If I needed a new blouse, she bought it. Same with pants, shorts, shoes. Because she was old-fashioned and ultra-conservative, I dressed like an old lady.

If she said I had to attend Mass, I did. Take Communion or go to confession? Yep.

She was a terrible cook, but I had to eat everything she prepared in the amounts she deemed necessary. No wonder I was overweight.

My parents controlled everything I did, said, and perhaps even my thoughts until I got accepted to the University of Southern California and so would live on campus.

Imagine my ecstasy when I unpacked my belongings in my half of a dorm room! It was small, but it was mine.

From that moment on, I chose what time to get up and go to bed. What to wear, where to go, and thank goodness, what I ate. Those three years were the happiest, and at times, saddest, of my life.

On good days, when I hadn’t struggled with my classwork, I floated across campus. In my hip huggers, cowgirl hat and barefoot. Unless it was raining or cold. I decided when and where to study, who to share meals with, who I dated.

The sad days were the ones before I discovered lonely people like me, when I broke up with a boyfriend, when a class was harder than I expected. And yes, when my mother demanded I come home for the weekend.

My coming-of-age journey began at age eighteen and ended when I married at age 24.

It took that long because even though I was at college, my mother still tried to control my life. She used guilt to get me to call home, to come home. She cried when I didn’t call, saying I didn’t love her anymore.

It was about that time that I realized that, no, I didn’t love my parents. Probably never had. At first I blamed myself, thinking there was something wrong with me. Doesn’t everyone love their parents?

Around my senior year, I accepted the fact that most, likely, my parents never loved me. I was the disappointing daughter, the middle child, holding a spot between the cherished older brother and the spoiled younger sister.

Once you truly understand your place, you are instantly set free.

I no longer had to answer every beck and call. I no longer had to carry the guilt my mother tried to place on my back.

I could do what I wanted, wear modern-styled clothes (if I could afford them), and date even a young man who didn’t look like me, but who like me for who I was.

I love reading Young Adult stories in which the protagonist struggles to come of age. Mostly they are nothing like who I was at that age, but yet there are common themes that I could identify with.

Independence. Identity. Place in the World.

Coming of age isn’t easy, but once you’re on the other side, life is a million times better.