Tag Archives: essay about being scared

The End

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            I love music. Have loved it since I was quite young. I seldom sang where someone could here me, primarily because my family told me I couldn’t sing.

            My bedroom was the only place I felt comfortable singing, always in a soft voice. Unfortunately, I shared the room with my younger sister. That meant that I could only sing when she wasn’t in the room. And because she knew how to annoy me, she’d pop in whenever she heard the door close.

            We had a backyard, though. I started going outside whenever the dog was there, to keep her company (she was like a therapy dog long before there were such things). That worked only as long as it wasn’t raining or foggy, and since the house was up on Skyline Boulevard in San Bruno, it was often in fog.

            I took to walking the dog, carrying a small radio. I’d sing as we strolled up and down hills. One day, lost in song, I didn’t see the loose dog charging mine. I picked up Lady Coco and cradled her to my chest as the evil monster leapt up, over and over, trying to kill her.

            Because I was miserable at home, I had to get out of the house every day, usually at least twice a day, to give myself to calm down, to let the tears dry up, to settle my stomach. Even though Coco had been close to being killed, I wanted, no needed, to walk her.

            I left the radio behind and carried a wooden baseball bat. My music wasn’t with me, so I couldn’t sing.

            I traded my sanity for safety. I never regretted the choice.

            I didn’t sing again for many years. Well, until I bought my first car and found radio stations I liked. As long as I was alone (I frequently was forced to drive my sister places), I could sing.

            I never took a music class in high school or college. I never joined the church choir. I never sang on camping trips. And when my husband gave me a guitar for Christmas one year, I never accompanied myself.

            My first real teaching job was at a Catholic Elementary school. Teachers attended many workshops and seminars, dealing with a wide range of topics. Most were sort of okay. Not earth-shattering.

            Then we all went to the Cathedral in Oakland for three full days of music, services and workshops. Well known writers attended, singing tracks on their albums. Oh, how I loved those sessions!

            Music came back, full blast. I began singing, at church, with my students, to music in my car and at home. (I was now married, to a wonderful man who encouraged me to try everything.)

            Our church formed a small choir to sing at our Mass. I sat near the pianist, singing along. A friend convinced me to join. I did, but sang in a whisper, terrified that I’d hit a gazillion bad notes.

            The numbers of participants varied widely. Sometimes there might be six, others just two. Then one Mass it was just me. The time had come for me to raise my voice and sing.

            I’m not sure how I summoned the courage, but I did. Not just for that one Mass, but for many to come. I was often a soloist, leading the congregation in the psalm (standing up front at the podium).

            I did okay.

            Then that choir director was replaced with a very, very young overconfident, full of himself director. He did an excellent job encouraging people to join. He taught us how to really “read” music, to follow the symbols for dynamics, to blend voices.

            All was going well until we held a session at a choir member’s house. I was scheduled to be the cantor at Sunday’s Mass. During a break, I approached the director to go over the psalm. He informed me that I couldn’t sing, that I had to get rid of the vibration in my voice.

            I felt me cheeks get hot, packed my bag and left.

            I didn’t return to the choir until that director was replaced with a smiling, pleasant, encouraging young man.

            He made me feel welcomed and valued. I returned to cantoring the psalm and was often the only choir member (during the pandemic when we held Mass in the school parking lot.)

            He left for a new job.

            The new director brought a soloist with an incredible voice. She only seemed to know about four songs, the words were never projected for the congregation to see, and he made no attempt to form a choir.

            He left suddenly a few months ago. The new director, another young man, this one a graduate in Music, started a choir. I joined shortly after.

            A week ago he asked me to cantor the psalm. Just the thought of singing up there, in front of the congregation made my head hurt. He encouraged me, met me privately to go over the psalm.

            Sunday came. I practice out in the garage, going over and over the psalm. I knew I wasn’t ready, I knew I wasn’t hitting the right notes, and I knew I was too scared to do it.

            When I arrived at church, I should have said something, I should have declined (there were two seasoned cantors there who could have taken over) but I didn’t.

            Two of my friends recorded my “performance”. I didn’t have to listen as I knew every off-key note I’d hit.

            The humiliation was so great, so painful, that I could barely walk out of church.

            The intent was to add me to the rotating list of cantors. When rehearsal comes up Friday, I will announce boldly, clearly, without hesitation that I will never, ever cantor again.

            I will sing with the choir, where I feel both comfortable and confidant, but my days of being a cantor have come to an abrupt end.

The Crowd Around Me

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I transferred to USC at the end of my freshman year of college, completing a number of requisites at the local community college. I’d wanted to got to Ohio State where I’d live with my grandma. She needed help: I needed a place to stay. But my parents wouldn’t let me although I never understood why.

Even though we lived just south of San Francisco, they shook their heads when I asked to enroll at San Francisco State. At that time, freshmen had to live on campus. The university was in a safe neighborhood, but that didn’t matter. For some bizarre reason, my parents felt it was a hotbed of rape.

My brother and I had both applied to USC, both were accepted, and both got state scholarships that covered my entire tuition. Because he was going there, that was the only college my parents accepted.

At that time, back in 1970, the football team was a powerhouse, winning game after game, going to the Rose Bowl my first year there. Students got in free, or almost free. My brother’s friends invited me to tag along.

I was sued to Tommy Trojan riding in on his white horse, the song, the yell, the roar of the crowd, but everything was amplified in that stadium.

USC won, but I couldn’t tell you the score all these years later. I do recall my jubilation and the excited voices as we streamed out and headed toward the car.

My junior year the team, once again, made it to the Rose Bowl. This time I didn’t go with my brother’s friends, but with a young man I’d met in my dorm.

We didn’t have assigned seats that year, so we joined the crowd building outside the stadium.

Fencing had been installed, closing off all points of entry. As my friend and I walked from our car to where we’d wait, we were pulled by the flood of humanity. There was an electrical feel of excitement, almost as if someone had dropped live wires in our midst.

There was yelling, cheering, and pushing. And more pushing. At first, we didn’t mind as we were up against the fence, practically ensuring good seats.

We’d arrived hours before the game. Pasadena can get hot even in January, and it was that day. I stupidly hadn’t worn a hat, but I was still a teenager, likely to do stupid things.

It was also before people carried water bottles everywhere, so with the sun streaming and the suffocating crowds, I began feeling a bit off. There was nothing to be done except stand and wait.

The crowd got restless and began screaming to be let in. Police officers were deployed to where I was, on the opposite side of the fence. The protests grew louder, and profanities flew.

Around twelve-thirty, only thirty minutes began kickoff, a surge began behind me. Elbows pressed into my back as I was shoved against the fence.

I grabbed the metal wires, hoping to stay on my feet. My right cheek was smashed against the bars, forcing my head as far left as if could go.

My friend tried to shield me, but someone squeezed in between us. I could just make out the top of my friend’s head, but with my arms pressed against metal, I couldn’t reach out for his hand.

The crowd continued pushing, making it hard from me to breathe. I opened my mouth wide to try to take in air, but it didn’t help. I began feeling lightheaded and yelled my friend’s name, but he couldn’t hear.

A larger wave, a crush of people, surged, lifting me off my feet. I thought I was going to die, even though this was before we’d heard of people dying by stampede.

I let go when I felt the fence move. As it collapsed, the crowd forced me to step on the twisted metal.

As soon as I was on stadium grounds, the crowd roared past me. I found a bit of shelter close to the building. Tears poured down my face because I was frightened, I still couldn’t breathe, and I understood that I almost died.

My friend found me, thank goodness, and together we entered the stadium. The best seats were gone by now, but we didn’t care. From where we sat, we were able to see the game.

Most importantly, we realized what a terrifying experience that had been.

USC won.

A Fool

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            My parents wouldn’t let me attend the college of my choice. I’d applied to and been accepted at Ohio State University. My grandma had agreed to let me live with her, in exchange for light duties at her house. It would be a short bus ride, doable even in the winter.

            My parents, being what we now call “helicopter” parents, didn’t want me leaving the San Francisco Bay Area where we now live.

            That left San Francisco State, a good choice for a would-be teacher. They also disapproved of that, as they refused to allow me to live on campus or commute into the city.

            My brother and I both received State scholarships that would pay 100% of our tuition, to any college in the state. So I could have gone to SF State at no cost, but that didn’t matter.

            My brother applied for USC, down in Los Angeles. I was told I could apply there as well, and if he got in, then I could go.

            That’s how I ended up at USC, a rich-kids’ school. I was completely out of my league. My first roommate was so rich that she only wore clothing items once. She’d pile them up, then on the weekend her mother would appear with a rack, yes, an actual rack, of items still in plastic bags.

            My clothes were mostly made by my mother, although I’d learned how to sew and had made bell-bottoms and one-yard skirts, both in style with what were then called hippies.

            Academically I was fine. As a math major, as long as I stayed in my department, I aced my classes. I found Russian easy, but not any of the mandatory sciences, social studies and English courses.

            Socially, I was a misfit. A painfully shy teen with large black-framed glasses just doesn’t seem to interesting to vibrant, do-everything classmates.

            Although my brother was also socially awkward, he fit in with the engineering students who were just like him. He even got into a fraternity, composed of others like him.

            I found them endearing.

            The guys accepted me as a little sister. Every Friday night I gathered around a tiny TV and watched Star Trek with them. We drank, ate and talked about the plausibility of such things happening. It was great fun.

            One of the “brothers” took an interest in me. George was a sweet guy. He took me out to eat, to movies, and to many of the fraternity’s parties. I felt a bond with him that no teen had ever given me before.

            After a night of heavy petting, I told George that perhaps we should hold off on going any further until we were married.

            He hadn’t proposed, mind you. I just assumed he would and I was prepared to accept.

            He broke my heart that night. George was non-practicing Jewish while I was a devout Catholic. In my mind, it wouldn’t matter and my faith would be our family’s faith. George didn’t agree.

            Our relationship ended amicably.

            My brother knew I was good at languages. One of his brothers needed help with Spanish and my brother offered my services without consulting me first.

The guy was a creep. There was something about “Jim” that made me extremely uncomfortable. He’d never touched me or said much of anything to me, but I didn’t like being in the same room with him.

I agreed to tutor him.

The first time we met, I assumed we’d work in the dining room. Nope. He insisted in studying in his room, which he shared with another guy, claiming that he wanted privacy.

Nothing happened that night except for him scooting closer and closer to me as we sat on the edge of the bed.

I didn’t want to go back, but my brother insisted.

Reluctantly I agreed on a second meeting, on the condition that we’d be in the dining room.

Jim refused, taking my hand and dragging me into the bedroom. I should have left right then, but that would have caused a scene.

Throughout our session, more than once, Jim leaned so close to me that his warm breath tickled my neck. I’d moved away, but then he’d sidle over. When he grew tired of Spanish, he pulled me down on his bed.

Thankfully nothing happened. That night.

I refused to return.

What I didn’t know was that now I had a reputation of “putting out”.

I learned this from another fraternity brother, Paul. He was socially awkward like me. He was overweight like me. He was extremely smart, taking challenging classes, like me.

Paul took me to the opera and theater, my first time to ever experience a performance on a big stage.

We’d spend hours talking, sometimes until the early morning. At no time did Paul kiss me or attempt to kiss me.

I liked him, but more of as a friend. I assumed it was the same for him. Paul was the one who told me about the rumors. He said he enjoyed being with me despite what was being said.

After that I stayed away from the fraternity.

One summer I applied for an on-campus job that paid pretty well. I’d be able to stay in the Soroptimist House where I’d been living.

One afternoon I was outside on the balcony sunbathing, when a familiar voice called me. I looked over the railing, and there was Jim. He informed me that my brother had asked him to keep an eye out for me, to make sure I was safe.

I told Jim that I was fine, turned away, gathered my stuff and went inside.

Jim returned the next day and the next. I insisted I didn’t want or need his help. I told him to leave and not come back.

After that I didn’t see Jim for a long time.

One afternoon as I walked back from the Law Library,  a building that I found peaceful and still, I was smiling and enjoying the weather.

A red convertible pulled up next to me. It belonged to Jim, who was now married. I continued walking and he continued following.

He insisted he and his wife wanted to share their wedding photos. That seemed fairly safe since she would be there, so I got in the car. Big mistake.

As soon as we were in the apartment, Jim locked and bolted the door.

The sofa-bed was open with clean sheets on it, as if he’d been expecting company.

I knew something was wrong and that I should leave, but the door was locked.

As an abused child, I knew about being trapped and that there was no way out except to just go along with the scenario.

Jim sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. The album was on the bed. He showed a few pictures, and then he made his move.

At first it was just kissing, but then his hands went under my t shirt and then into my shorts. He pushed me backwards and fell on top of me.

I knew nothing about sex, had never seen a penis, and had little about rape, yet instinctively knew that something awful was about to happen.

Jim undressed me, then removed his shirt. He wore the most gruesome smile as he pulled down his pants. He bragged about his size and how good it would make me feel.

His fingers entered me.

Jim shot up, a look of shock on his face.

He said he didn’t know I was a virgin because of my reputation.

Things happened very quickly after that.

He got dressed, told me to get dressed.

While I was quickly putting my clothes on, he stripped the bed and then folded it back up. He then unlocked and unbolted the door and told me to leave.

His parting shot, however, was that if I ever told anyone, he would deny having stolen my virginity.

I ran to the next building and ducked into the lavatory. I slid to the floor and huddled there until someone wanted in.

For quite a while I wondered if that constituted rape. If I had seduced him, as he claimed. I understood that he had taken something precious away from me, but that if I told anyone, no one would believe me due to the reputation I had at the fraternity.

For my remainder years at USC, I kept a lookout for Jim.

I sometimes saw that red convertible, then would run down a closed-off section of campus.

One time, when back at home, my family took a trip to Napa County to visit wineries.

On the way there, my brother announced he had invited Jim and wife.

I panicked. My chest tightened and my eyes pooled with tears.

I announced that I would stay in the car. My dad, wisely said, it was too hot. True, but it meant that I had to see Jim.

Finally I told the truth, that he had raped me.

I got the response that many women, even today, get: that I must have done something to deserve it.

My mother said I was lying as no friend of my brother’s would do that.

So, as a supposed liar, I had to walk into the winery with Jim.

He gave me what I now know was a leer, a look that acknowledged what he had done and that reaffirmed that I could tell no one.

Back then I felt like a fool.

Now I know I was abused, this time not by my parents, but by Jim.

Creatures of the Night

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            When we’re little we’re intrigued and terrified of the evil that lurks in the dark. Monsters are in our closets, under our beds, outside the window and creeping in our yards. We might not know what harm they can cause, but the very thought of them keeps us awake and haunts our dreams.

            The blood thirsty, as portrayed in movies and books, are pretty scary. They creep up on unsuspecting people who are going about their normal business. These monsters pop up behind innocent people, sink their fangs in and drain them of their blood. In some stories the victims turn into vampires and in others they die.

            Stories of vampire attacks are reinforced by strange markings on necks and missing sufficient quantities of blood to cause death. Looking back, though, could the victims have died from a form of plague? Is it possible that the blood oozed from eyes, ears and mouth as a result of being ill?

            Medical science wasn’t too well advanced back in the early plague days and so the causes were blames on nightly beings. Rumors spread that garlic, crosses and driving stakes through the heart could either kill or scare the blood thirsty away. Exorcisms became popular as a way to extricate evil sources who had taken possession of an individual.

            Interestingly enough, an entire “look” identified vampires: fangs, dark tuxedos and billowing capes. Movies helped solidify how vampires behave, including sleeping in caskets and doming out only at night. Vampires had pale skin, huge incisors and red–rimmed eyes.  They hailed from Transylvania and so spoke with an Hungarian accent.

            Some of the most well-known vampires are Dracula, Buffy, Edward in the Twilight series and an entire community of vampires living peacefully among us in the Ture Blood series. Some of the vampires are terrifying because they meet the iconic image: lurking around in a cape in the dark of night. Others were portrayed with a sense of humor, such as the Count on Sesame Street and the bunny in Bunnicula.

            Then there are the zombies, the walking dead who arise out of graves wearing the remnants of their clothes and stalk the living. They march as a horde through the streets killing those that get in their way. Perhaps modern versions of zombies are based on ancient beliefs, particularly that sorcerers could reanimate the dead to do their will.

Zombies are frightening because they seem to operate without purpose. They move without eyes in a slow motion progression across fields and into towns. They are supposed to stink of death, a putrid smell of rot.

Ghosts scare us because they are thought to haunt the living. Some mystics believe that ghosts remain on earth because of unfinished business. Something or someone is holding them static. Until the issue is resolved, the ghost cannot move on.

Some buildings have a reputation of being haunted. Perhaps an individual died in the master bedroom and the crime was never solved. The “dead” hovers around, drifting in and out of rooms, searching for someone to set them free. Tours exist in these buildings, often taking place at night, hoping to capture a billowing curtain or wisp of a breeze that can be blamed on the ghost.

There are friendly cartoon ghosts who hang around with humans, playing games and causing great fun. Most ghosts are seen as poltergeists, mischievous beings that cause great racket, who knock things over and move things about. They have been blamed for deaths occurring under suspicious circumstances that make little sense and therefor remain unsolved. Believers try to track ghosts with thermometers looking for drops in temperature, by locking themselves inside haunted buildings at night, and using cameras to try to capture their images.

Some of the scariest nighttime creatures are werewolves. During the day they appear to be normal people who look no different than you or I. They have jobs, friends, family and homes. They eat the same food, drink the same drinks and play the same games. Until there is a full moon.

As the moon rises in the night sky, inflicted people morph into werewolves or, in some cases, werebeasts. They prowl about searching for flesh and blood. They are thought to be impervious to ordinary bullets and can be killed by silver bullets, stakes and fire. Like with vampires, it is thought that werewolves can create more by a simple bite.

Parents often scare children into good behavior by the threat of bogeymen coming to get them. They are evil spirits who lucre in kids’ bedrooms, hiding under beds and in closets. If the child misbehaves or doesn’t go to sleep at the proper time, the bogeyman is supposed to leap up and carry they child out of the house, never to set them free.

Goblins often appear in fantasy films and novels. They are portrayed as ugly, slight and often an ugly green. Goblins can be helpful, as in the old tale about the shoemaker or they can be mischievous sprites who like to enter a house just to torment the residents.

Halloween is the night for children to dress up and haunt their neighborhoods. They knock on the doors of strangers and demand treats. Costumes range from the cute to the frightening. Imagine princesses walking down the street next to the grim reaper. All is fair on Halloween: if no treats are given, costumed kids feel it is perfectly okay to trick the homeowners. Trees are covered in toilet paper, windows are soaped, eggs are thrown and graffiti is sprayed on houses and cars. Mischief and mayhem are part of Halloween.

All Hollow’s Eve,  as it’s also called, is the time for goblins and ghosts, witches and wizards, werewolves and vampires to prowl the earth without fear of death. All manner of evil is set loose in the spirit of fun.

While science has been unable to prove the existence of the nighttime haunts, many continue to believe in their existence. Children still fear the bogeyman, but enjoy a good cartoon with ghosts and other spirits. There’s nothing like a scary movie to block out thoughts of work, home and relationships gone bad.

It’s interesting that the same old creatures continue to spook and scare. We fear those creatures of the night because they remind us that there are noises and occurrences that confound even the most learned scientists. Plus we still enjoy a good scare now and then.