Da Lady Down Da Bayou, From the Swamp Witch Series, Sonia Taylor Brock

5/13/2012

Servitude

“I went back to Texas and got a job in a diner washing dishes for a couple of years.  Then I met Carl.  He was fresh out of the Army and throwing money around like it was water.  He was short, fat and German.  He told me that he had been married before and while he was in the Army his wife wrote him a Dear John letter and divorced him”.

“We were married in just a few months.  I had another daughter and named her Maggie.  After Carl’s Army money ran out, he got a job working on an oil rig in Beaumont.  He worked seven days on seven days off.  When he came home, he wanted everything to be run as if he were still in the Army.  He didn’t like the way I cooked, he didn’t like the way I cleaned, he didn’t like the way I talked or walked.  Then he started hitting me.  I was bigger than he was, but he was stronger.”

“After a little while of this, I decided to leave him and we separated.  About a month after he was gone, I discovered that I was pregnant again.  I had taken a job washing and ironing clothes.  I was very sick and I didn’t know what I was going to do.  I went to Carl and told him I was pregnant.  He told me that I shouldn’t have been spreading my legs and it was no concern of his.  After a while, I guess he got lonely or something, because he came back to me and said that he would take me and my kids back in and raise them.  However, I would have to do as he said from now on.  I agreed, but told him that if he ever hit me again, I would kill him.  Ironically this is the same thing John had asked when he agreed to take me in as well.  At least this time, I thought to protect myself a little.  I remembered thinking that Marriage should not be a sentence of servitude.  But hey, it was 1940 and you did what you had to do to survive.”

“We got remarried.  He made me continue to work for a while until I got pregnant again.  Sex with him was now my job.  I had never enjoyed the act.  Not even once.  He wanted a boy and two girls didn’t make him happy.  I was very sick this time and nearly lost the baby.  I made it through and I had another girl.  He was mad and told me it was my fault but now he was determined to keep trying until I had a boy.  After four girls, I finally gave birth to a boy and he was happy.  When the child was born, I told him that from now on he wouldn’t touch me again until I said so.”

“His schedule with the Oil Company kept him out of my hair most of the time.  Things settled down and we came to a truce of sorts.  Then the second daughter began having seizures.  He flipped out.  He blamed me, saying that it was just like me to do something to spite him.  I chose a retard to spread my legs for and now he had this freak to deal with.  Times were hard back then.  If a baby was born with a deformity, they were disposed of or hidden in a basement or attic.  Rarely ever were they dealt with.”

“She was only 9 years old.  I was not going to threw her away like Joanne, like myself.  I took her to doctors, they ran tests, gave her drugs.  She was epileptic.  By this time, my Father was dead and I called my Mother for advice.  My Mother was glad to hear from me.  She acted like nothing bad had ever happened to me and was glad to hear that I had a nice big family.  She told me that the seizures would go away in time.  After all, they always did.  I asked what she meant about that and she said that there was a history of the fits.  As long as the child was kept calm, got plenty of sleep and didn’t strain themselves too much they would eventually grow out of it.  She told me that she had fits as a child and so did I.  My seizures started early but after I got Scarlet Fever, though my seizures stopped.  Feeling much relieved, I told Carl what she had said.”

“At least he stopped blaming me for being a whore.  I took it easy on the child.  No strenuous chores, plenty of sleep, etc.  I babied her.  My other girls became resentful and envious of Amalie.  Amalie learned how to play sick and used it to her advantage.  I had my hands full and I started taking my anger and frustrations out on my children.  I beat them the way I was beaten.  I became my parents.”

“I was working and trying to take care of five kids.  Maggie was growing into a teenager and was a pretty little thing… and we had another tragedy.   Maggie was raped and she got pregnant.  Carl was furious.  She tried to tell him it wasn’t her fault, but he wouldn’t listen.  Just like my Father, He sent her away too.  I was numb with shock.  I never dreamed it would happen to one of my girls.  He told me that after the baby was born she would come back to us.  He couldn’t get over being disgraced by a thing such as this.  Something in me shut down.  When she came back, she was changed and so was I.  She got a job and began working.  She got married and left home not long after.  She married a weak looking little man, but he was intelligent and promised her the world.  I was happy for her and ashamed at myself.”

“I stopped working.  I started sleeping and shopping.  I spent money.  Bill Money, Food Money.  I couldn’t control myself.  Buying made me feel better.  Carl and I fought constantly.  Number three daughter had grown close to Carl.  She began to hide his paychecks when they would come in the mail.  She was seventeen when I caught her.  In a rage, I threw her out of the house and she went to live with her boyfriend who she ended up marrying.”

“Her leaving affected me more than she knew.  I stopped spending his money because he had started getting it sent to the bank instead.  He left me with no way of getting to anything other than the allowance he gave me.  I didn’t care.  I quit caring about myself.  The kids were older and I started spending more time and more time away from them every chance I got.”

“My daughters were all marrying men they didn’t love or whoever they could get to take them away from home…away from an overbearing and sometimes perverted Peeping Tom of a Father and away from me.  I have let my children be driven from me and somehow I was glad.  I thought that they would have a better life than I did.  Little did I know at the time…”

The woman sighed and was quiet for a time.  Her tears had renewed themselves during her story.  She finally turned to Stella and said, “You’re almost right.  It did help saying it out loud.  Now I can hear how useless my life has been.”  Stella tssked at her and said “Chere, whatcha mean.  You is a good Momma, Yeah.  Times is tough and dey been dat way a long tahm.  You done de best ya could.  Dem girls will understand when dey have dey own kids.  Dat’s always de way it goes.”

“You deserve ta find some happiness in your life now, Chere.  Dem kids will be all gone soon and you can find yer own way.  You have to have hope, yeah.  When tings git too hard for ya ta bear.  Laugh, cause it don’ really mattuh anyway.  God put ya here wit nuttin and he don’ care what you got when he takes ya back.  Jest do de bes you can.  You will redeem ya self when dem girls has dey babies yeah.  Dat’s when ya will see it ain’t so bad after all.  In dem all will be clear.”

Then Stella patted her on the back and stood up.  The woman stood with her and remarked that the sun had set and she had better get home before the gators came to get her.  They walked back to the roadside and the woman stuck out her hand and said, “Thank you.  I feel much better.  I hope you are right.  I would like the chance to help my children again and be a part of their lives again.”  Stella laughed and told her the only one who felt that way was her.  The girls would need their mother and soon.  She told the woman that if she ever needed her all she had to do was to ask around for Miz Stella and she would help her in any way she could.”  The woman stuck out her hand and said, “My name is Diedre.  If you ever need anything, do the same and I will help you too.”  Stella’s eyes twinkled and she cackled.  “Mais Yeah, Chere good friends is hard to come by.”   Diedre watched the woman walk down the road for a while before she packed up her things and went home.

 

Da Lady Down Da Bayou

From the Swamp Witch Series

Sonia Taylor Brock

5/13/2012

 

Ms. Dee’s Story – The Crime

It was a warm day; the sun was setting on Bayou Teche.  The colors on the water sparkling like diamonds, mesmerizing and quiet.  The woman was sitting very still on a little stool with a large floppy hat perched on her head deep in thought.  She had a fishing pole in her hand and a cigarette in her mouth.  Another woman approached her from behind and called out softly so as not to startle the woman in her thick Cajun accent, “Nice evenin, ya have a good day taday?”  The woman simply shook her head no.  “Yeah, de fish is jest thinkin today too.  De water is all warm and peaceful taday.  Mebbe dey contemplating where dey gonna be tamorra too.”  The older woman rolled a log a little with her foot to lay next to the woman with the floppy hat and the fishing pole.  “Mah name is Stella, Stella Eschte.  I been walking down de road a piece waiting on my grandson to come and git me.  Been visitin some ole friends round here and Ah’m tired of walkin.  You mind if Ah sit a spell wit you?”  Again, the woman just shook her head.

Stella looked a little closer at the fisher woman and noticed that she had dried tears streaks down her face.  She waited a few moments and watched the water sparkling in the sunset.  A gator could be heard grunting in the distance, fiddler crabs were beginning their daily ritual of coming up on land to dig their holes, mosquitoes had begun their assault looking for their evening meal.  She put her hand on the woman’s shoulder and said, “What’s troublin’ ya, Chere?  You can tell me, cuz Ah’m gonna be leavin soon, so it don’ mattuh ta me, Ah don know ya and can listen real well.  Me, Ah’m jest an ole lady, don nobody listen what I say no how.  Sometahms it’s better to hear da tings dat botherin ya out loud, dey make more sense dat way, yeah.”

The woman sat for a few more minutes after Stella finished talking and said, “Maybe you’re right.”  She took a deep breath and said, “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.  I have 5 children.  Six if you count the one I had to give up.  I hate my husband, my kids hate me and I have more troubles that I know how to handle.  Sometimes I think that it would be better if I was never born.”

Stella just nodded and said “Yeah, I got a bunch ’a kids too.  Dey can make ya crazy when dey growin up, yeah.”  The woman chuckled a little at her comment and continued.  “I was born in Texas in a big family too.  My older sisters were very pretty with lots of pretty curly hair.  I was not.  I was always skinny and plain.  My mother used to keep my hair cut real short because she said that it was too thin and straggly to be anything else.  I was a tomboy as a girl and was always dirty and never had shoes.  We had to work in the fields picking vegetables so we would have food to eat.  My father, he wasn’t around much, but when he was we steered clear of him.”

“I have lived my entire life trying not to get in some man’s way.  When I was 14, this man came to our house and offered to do some chores in exchange for something to eat.  Said he was on his way to North to go work for his brother who got him a job at a manufacturing plant there.  His car broke down a couple of miles back and now he was on foot. John was his name.  My Father agreed and took him in.  He worked all day long and that night sat down with us for dinner.  When we were all done, my mother told me to get a blanket clear out a space for him to sleep in the shed out back.  I got the blanket and went with him to the shed.  I gathered the tools and put them to one side to clear out a space big enough so he could lie down.  He just stood there watching me.  I spread the blanket on the ground and put an old pillow I had found where I thought his head should be.  He told me that would be wrong and I had to change it.  I looked at the man and asked him why?  He said that if he went to sleep in that position, the sun would come up and shine right in his eyes.  I considered his claim for a minute and disagreed and told him that he was facing west and not east and he should be fine.  He said that I was wrong.  If I lay down I could tell from the stars that this would be the wrong position.  I started to tell him to fix it himself and then he gave me a little shove and told me to lie down and see for myself.  I thought it was strange, but I lay down.  You couldn’t even see the stars through the holes in the roof.  Before I could get up he quickly lay down beside me and said look through the cracks there, you can see the stars.  He was right, sort of.  You could see the stars through the holes in the top of the roof, but you had to look hard because they were small.  As I lay there, trying to figure out what stars he was talking about, he began rubbing my arm.  I started to get up and then he rolled on top of me.  I struggled a little and he shushed me and told me that I looked like a little Indian Princess”.

“Confused because I always thought I was ugly, he stroked my hair and told me how beautiful and deep my brown eyes were.  Then he kissed me on the forehead and then the eyes, then my mouth and my throat.  He kept kissing me all over.  He kissed my breasts through my cotton shirt and he kept kissing until my shirt started to get wet.  I thought about the giggling and whispered secrets my sisters would tell each other when they were with their boyfriends and wondered if this must be what they were talking about.  I didn’t like it at all.”

“I was really scared now because he had me pinned and I couldn’t move.  He kept my mouth covered with his and began pushing his tongue into my mouth while he was rubbing me through my shirt and started pushing his hands away.  Then he moved his hand to my pants, pushing them down and reaching inside my panties.  This galvanized me, giggles from my sisters or not, I was scared.  I started to struggle really hard and I tried to push him off of me.  He jerked my pants down, trapping my knees.”

“When he was finally done, he rolled off of me.  Blood was everywhere.  My lips were bloody where he had put his hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming.  I was laying there crying when my father opened the door of the shed and found us laying there.  His pants were still down and his pecker was still hanging out.  He was covered in my blood.  I tried to get up and go to my Father, but he just shoved me away.  He wouldn’t even look at me.  He looked at him and said “Mister; you just bought yourself a wife.”

“I couldn’t believe what he was saying.  I yelled at him and said told him that the man forced himself on me.  He finally looked at me and said,” You are useless to me now girl, so now you are gonna go and make babies with this man.  He is gonna send me money to make up for the extra work your brothers will have to do because you aren’t here.”  He looked back at John and said “Because if he doesn’t, I will have to go to the Sherriff and let him know what he stole from us.”

“John shook his head and said, “Ok, but she will have to do what I says or I will send her back and you won’t get another cent from me.  I won’t be saddled with a mouthy or lazy little bitch just cuz I got caught relievin’ myself with a half-breed Injun digger girl in the tool shed.”  My Father looked at me and said, “do you hear that girl?”  Are we clear?  I didn’t know what to think, but I knew better than to disobey my Father.  He was deadly with a switch or a belt.  He told us both to get cleaned up; we were going over to the Justice of the Peace right now and seal the deal.”

“It seemed like we walked all night.  I don’t remember much other than I could still feel blood trickling down my leg and the old man in his long johns telling me to pay attention and say I do.  By the time we were finished, my Father took John to the Post Office and had him get his brother to wire him $200.00.  With the cash in hand, my Father left me with him and I never saw my Father again after that day.  I didn’t even get to pack a change of clothes.  Nine months later I had Joanne.”

“I tried to love her.  I really did.  When I left John, I told myself it was ok, because John’s sister would take care of Joanne.  She already did.  I couldn’t be a Mother to the child, I didn’t know how.”

—————————————————————————–

Da Lady Down Da Bayou – The first of a collection of short stories based on the Character, Stella Eschte of the Swamp Witch Series by Sonia Taylor Brock

Copyright ©2012 by Sonia Taylor Brock.  All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction.  Names descriptions, entities, incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, events entities is entirely coincidental.

Published by Sonia Taylor Brock

5247 Old Norcross Road

Norcross, GA  30071

Book and Cover design by Sonia Taylor Brock Copyright © 2012.  All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States of America

 

 

In March, my boyfriend “Michael” and I went to Rome, Italy for three days, where he popped the question, and I popped an answer. It’s a great story which just goes to show you that even the best laid plans can go awry.
We had originally planned a trip to Cairo, Egypt, a place very high on our bucket list. Michael and I both want to see the Seven Wonders of the World, and why not start with the oldest? One night, we were searching through five-star hotels in Egypt that go for less than $200 a night.

“How many of your girlfriends can say they got engaged in front of the Pyramids at Giza ?” he asked. (By the way, Michael has an inability to keep anything secret when it comes to surprises. So, yes, I kinda knew this was coming.)

But, alas, after decades of oppression, the country decides to erupt into a fire of political rebellion weeks before our slated vacation. (Last summer we were planning to go to Greece, so this has become a trend with us. Plan a trip, and the country of destination will explode.) So much for the JW Marriott in Cairo.

No biggie. Rome it was. After all, Michael is Italian, with one of those long last names that ends in an “o,” so it’s fitting we would do this in his homeland. Now, I may have known it was coming, but I didn’t have any idea when or where he would do this thing, so I put it out of my mind and tried to forget the whole reason for the trip so I could kind of be surprised, a little. Well, I guess I did too good a job at this.

Day One, we arrived in the morning after an overnight flight. Serious travelers that we are, we hit the ground running. After a couple pizzas and Coke Lights, we saw the Vatican and climbed St. Peter’s dome. I didn’t figure he would do it on this day, since we were both jet-lagged, dirty, and unkempt (not to mention out of breath after the bajillion steps up and down the basilica). I was correct.

The next day, we had slated Trevi Fountain, Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (affectionately referred to as “monk bones,” but more on that later), the Colosseum and Palatine Hill, The Roman Forum, and San Clemente Basilica (with an altar to Mithra). Like I said, we’re serious. First stop was Trevi Fountain. We arrived pretty early in the day, as the sun was obliquely shining on half the statues, the rest in shadows. On this cool spring morning, we had the place virtually to ourselves, except for a small cluster of Korean nuns who took turns snapping each other’s pictures in front of the fountain. As is customary, we each tossed a coin over our shoulder into the fountain, so we would return one day, and then we departed.

Okay, back to the “monk bones.” At Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini, the remains of over 4000 Capuchin monks have been made into an homage to mortality. It’s Thich Nhat Hahn meets Thomas Merton. Google it and see what images come up, because there is no way to describe it with any justice here. Suffice it to say, among the exhibit is a plaque with the following sentiment in five languages: “What you are now, we used to be; what we are now, you will be.”

Chills.

Of course, when we arrived for this much-anticipated creep-fest, it was closed, for of all things, “our dear friend Enrico’s funeral.” But it politely requested, “Please return later today after 2:00.” So, next stop, Colosseum. We would come back to see the monk bones later. We’re serious, but flexible.

When we got to the Colosseum, Michael paid for a tour guide, which in addition to giving us all sorts of cool info about the building, would let us bypass the lines and get in quickly. Unfortunately, our tour guide droned on and on about boring stuff and led us into dull interior nooks. By the time she was done, we had only twenty minutes left to see the upper levels and get good pictures of the sunny, sweeping vistas of the ruinous structure, and the stairs were on the opposite side of the Colosseum. We were rushed, and Michael was not too happy.

On Palatine Hill, we had a better tour guide and got lots of good pictures. On our way down onto the Forum, we passed a hill covered in little, white, daisy-like flowers. Seated in the grass, a young girl posed while another girl took photos of her.

“Baby, do you wanna get your picture made in the flowers?” Michael asked, mocking me. After living in Alabama for seventeen years, I unfortunately picked up this colloquial way of referring to photography. “Get your pitchur made.”

“No, honey. I’m good, thanks.”

We then made our way through the Forum, seeing Caesar’s grave, stopping to take pics, and reading our guide book along the way. Later, when we arrived at San Clemente, we discovered that we had one hour to kill before the basilica reopened at 2:00, what appeared to be the magical hour for churches in Rome. I guess everyone really does go home and take a nap in the middle of the day. Sitting on a curb in front of the building, Michael confessed to me.

“Baby, today has not gone as planned.”

He went on to tell me that it was supposed to happen at the Colosseum, because I had said I was most looking forward to seeing that. There, he had planned to take me aside, kneel, and propose, extending the ring to me under the sparkling sunlight, where it would shine most glorious. I would say yes, and then we would kiss, and get our pitchur made.

Not so. After calling the tour guide a few choice words, he explained that he decided to find a spot on Palatine Hill, but every time he thought, “This is a nice place…” some family of six would come around the corner. So then he thought the Forum. Ancient, cool, lots of little green hills with flowers on them. But I had rebuffed his attempt to get me into the grass. So, as we sat on a stoop, scraping the last remnants of pistachio gelato from the bottoms of our cups, he threw out an idea. More like a threat.

“Baby,” he started, setting aside his empty cup, “I think it’s gonna be monk bones.”

“What? No! You can’t do it there.”

“Yep. Monk bones.”

“I’ll say no,” I warned.

“Think about it. You know me. How would you describe me to your friends? Am I Sparkling Sunlight at the Colosseum? Or am I Monk Bones? Be honest. Your boyfriend is Monk Bones, and you know it.”

Michael does wear a lot of shirts with skulls on them, Halloween is his favorite holiday, and he does have a tattoo of Michael the Archangel stamping out a demon on his left arm… He had a point. Still, I balked at the notion of getting engaged in a crypt. It seemed a bit too Dylan Thomas to me.

“There are lots of beautiful places in this city,” I told him. “I’m sure you will find the right opportunity. And not at monk bones.”

After San Clemente (one of my favorites, by the way–all three layers of Rome in one building!), we went to see the much anticipated monk remains. All I can say is…wow. Never seen anything like it. Thankfully, Michael refrained from dropping to one knee amongst a bunch of robed skeletons with scythes. Although I suppose that might have its own romantic charm, if your names are Gomez and Morticia.

So then we meandered back through the city toward our hotel, stopping along the way at Trevi Fountain again. This time, it was teeming with tourists, tour groups, and peddlers, who forcefully shoved flowers in your hands unless you kept them buried in your pockets. Makeshift kiosks had been set up in front, where earlier that morning there had been only smiling nuns in white habits.

“Wow. Look at this place now,” Michael said. “We had it to ourselves this morning.”

“Yeah, what a difference,” I noted, shaking my head and turning away from the obnoxious vendor trying to sell me a fake flower.

“Baby…I messed up, didn’t I?” (Only he didn’t say “messed.” He’s a New York Italian.)

“Nah, it was cold, remember?” I said, trying to soothe him.

Truthfully, I really thought it was going to be at Trevi, as cliché as that might be. I felt badly for him now. What he planned had not worked out, and I could tell he felt pressured to come up with something on the fly, which is really not our style. See, Michael and I are both planners. We like to have things all mapped out ahead of time. He even drew out this whole scheme for us on a paper towel one night (after a couple martinis), back when the plan was still at Giza, with a pyramid, an airplane, a ring (which I had thought was a star), and an officiant holding a book. Its rendering may have been elementary, but the sentiment was genuine. I scribbled an “OK” on the paper towel, and I have it saved in our travel journal.

Now, in addition to the missing pyramids, yet another element of his plan had gone awry. Poor guy.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so we decided to wander toward Piazza Navona for some dinner. While Michael snapped some pictures of the three fountains in the setting sun, I ducked into a restaurant for a potty stop. When I came out, I saw him closing up his “man purse” we had purchased at TJ Maxx right before this trip. (Go ahead and laugh, but it is way better than a backpack, trust me.)

He saw me and smiled, then took my hand as we walked into the center of the Piazza toward the big fountain in the middle. He halted in front of a bench, then sat us down next to each other, facing the fountain.

”Well, baby,” he started. “I’ve been trying to do this all day…”

I smiled. He was laughing now.

“And this is as good a place as any.”

He slid off the bench onto his knee, extending his pinkie finger. Perched halfway on it was the ring he had insisted on showing me in the sunlight of his bedroom window the day before we left Atlanta.

“Will ya marry me, baby? Because, I love you.”

It may not have been exactly as he had pictured, but he couldn’t have planned it any better than this. Sunset at a beautiful fountain in a Roman piazza. After I accepted, we kissed, got our pitchur made, and had a lovely dinner on a patio overlooking the fountains.

Michael may not have realized it when he made the decision to whip that ring out of his man purse, but the one he chose to make our “special engagement fountain” just happens to be Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers, and in the center of it is an Egyptian obelisk, topped with a dove holding an olive branch.

The Four Rivers represented are the Ganges (symbolizing Asia), the Nile (Africa), the Danube (Europe), and the Plate (the Americas). With our wanderlust (and Michael’s flight benefits), I’m pretty sure we will see them all. Both of us long to see the ruins at Macchu Picchu, ancient Buddhist temples in bamboo forests, castles in Europe, and the night sky over an African savannah. So how perfect is it that we sealed this life-partner deal in front of a fountain in his home country that just happens to symbolize the four corners of the world, with an Egyptian sculpture in its center and the universal symbol of peace on top? It may not have been a pyramid, but well done, Michael…Well done.

See? He wasn’t Monk Bones after all.

My daughter has an affinity for Asian culture. I’m not exactly sure when this started, but I believe it might have been that summer art camp I sent her to for Manga Comic Drawing. She learned how to render these cute little superheroes with huge shiny eyes and spiky black hair, which now adorn everything from her walls, to her school notebooks, to her forearms (more later on her self-tattooing with Sharpies).  She monopolizes our Netflix account, so now whenever I sit down to choose a movie, the screen tells me it has “Picks for Krista.” Funny. Not sure when I gave them the impression I like Japanese Anime. I suspect these are really “Susannah’s Picks.” In fact, her brother, Max, has ratted her out, telling me that some of them are “inappropriate,” a word he has known since he was three, back when he pronounced it without any r’s. Despite my curiosity, I will admit I have not checked into these flicks before simply banning them from my television. First, I don’t think I want to know what Japanese cartoon characters could possibly do to earn the “I-rating” from my eleven year old son. And second, I hear those shows give people seizures.

Since the ban, she no longer likes anime anyway. These days she wants to actually go to Japan. Conveniently, I’m engaged to a man who works for an airline, so he gets flight benefits. Once Susannah heard that she, Max, and I will have access to these benefits after the wedding, she put on the full court press.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just get married now. I mean, you know you’re going to anyway. And if you do it now, we can go places.”

Places = Japan. In case you were wondering.

I told her that while I was touched by her romantic ideals, Japan boasts the most expensive city in the world, Tokyo. And flight benefits don’t pay for hotels and food. She better start saving up. Of course, she still plans to live there one day, after meeting and marrying a British-speaking Asian in Liverpool (where she wants to live and be an artist until she meets this Japanese Beatle of her dreams).

Whatever happened to simple crushes on pop-stars? Where’s the poster of Justin Bieber? I have to give her points for originality; she’s not your typical teenage girl.

This brings me to her latest campaign, where to attend high school. See, Susannah has options because her parents are divorced, and although we live only three miles apart, her father and I are in different school districts. Since my kids are in that 14% of children in joint physical custody arrangements after a divorce, they actually have two homes, two addresses, and therefore, two options for schools. Susannah has checked out her options, let me tell you. A shrewd little lady for her mere fourteen years, she did some sleuthing online and then presented me with a research paper. I’m not kidding. It begins thusly:

As you know, next year I will be going to high school. Every high school has its ups and downs, but the question is, which one is more beneficial for your child? Perhaps your answer lies in this paper.

(Note to self: brief her on the finer points of MLA format.)

In this document, she has outlined her very slanted argument towards the school in her father’s district, “Snozzberry High,” and against the one in my district, “Hornswoggle High.” (Yes, they’re fictitious names, and yes…big fan of the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Gene Wilder rocked it.)

According to Susannah, not only does Snozzberry have more and better extracurricular clubs, which she listed for me, but it earned a 9 out of 10 rating for academics, whereas Hornswoggle got a measly 7. (Whose rating system this was, I have no idea, but it looks legit.)  Among the many promising extracurricular opportunities offered at Snozzberry that she would miss out on in my district are The Multicultural Club (of course), The Helen Ruffin Reading Bowl, The Homeless Pets Club, and The Ping Pong Club. At the bottom of this list, she clarifies the importance of this last one: “And let’s face it…ALL THE ASIANS ARE IN PING PONG CLUB, AND I HAVE TO BE IN THERE OR I’LL DIE.”

The research paper goes on to argue several cogent claims, such as, “All of my friends

with their heads screwed on straight will be going to Snozzberry.” She wraps up that section with “Attached, I have some web reviews. Please look over them.” There, she has pasted in some negative reviews of Hornswoggle and several glowing endorsements for Snozzberry. Finally, the paper includes a demographics chart entitled, “Students by Ethnicity.”  In each school’s breakdown, she has highlighted the Asian population.

Snozzberry: 7%

Hornswoggle: 3%

Below the chart, she adds one final plea, again in all caps (sorry for all the yelling): “MOM I CAN’T GO THERE IF THERE IS ONLY THREE PERCENT ASIAN.”

After some concluding remarks, she signs off in letter format. “Sincerely, Susannah (your daughter who wants the best education available.) [(Snozzberry)]”

So, it looks like my daughter will be in the Ping Pong Club next year. And she proudly announced to me this morning as I was writing this that “the last white person quit the club, so it’s all 100% Asians now.”  I’m sure her ping pong skills will be immensely helpful in getting her into the college of her choice, which will probably be the school with the highest British/Asian male population.

Next column: “Sharpie Tattoos: Harmless short-term skin commitment, or possible ink poisoning and gateway to a career in the carnival arts?”

 

 

Krista Wilson is a freelance writer in the Atlanta area. She has a B.A. in English from Auburn University, and an M.Ed. in English Education from Auburn University at Montgomery. She has written two award-winning novel manuscripts, and she co-wrote and hosted a pilot for television entitled Unraveled. She currently teaches Composition at Kennesaw State University

Apparently, Nerf guns are just not good enough these days. Check out Youtube and you will see “How To” videos demonstrating ways you can “modify” your Nerf gun so that it shoots harder, faster, and farther. Just in case you need to take out an eye or pierce a tree trunk with a foam bullet. I know this because my son came to me, exasperated and agitated, sweat dripping from his downy-blond temples. When I write about my family, I call him Max, after the tyke in Where the Wild Things Are, because he too has his King of the Wild Things moments. Bless him.
“Can you unscrew this?” he asked, handing me a neon yellow Nerf gun and a tiny screwdriver. He pointed at the minuscule screws that held the gun together. “I need to modify it.”

“Wait, wait, wait…what?”

After he briefed me on the procedure and showed me the video, I wanted to see for myself what this modification would do to an ordinary Nerf gun. Plus, I love a challenge, as you will see. We eventually got the screws off, after soaking a few of them in spray-on canola oil, which is a single mom’s version of WD-40. Now, to open the chamber. In the video, it slides apart with ease, then onto the next step. But wait…this thing wasn’t budging. Sucker was GLUED.

So, I guess the Good People at Nerf have caught wind of these “modifications” and either don’t want the liability, or just don’t want kids (or me) to have any fun at all. Max started whining and I could see a Kingly moment coming on.

“Chill out,” I said. “Hold on just one second here…” I started googling How do I modify my glued Nerf gun? “They aren’t winning that easily.” He watched over my shoulder as I started sifting through the results on how to get around this obstacle. See, I will do anything to avoid grading research papers.

It was around this time that I started asking myself, What exactly am I teaching my son right now? Is this a lesson in never giving up? In how to find the answers to problems? In staying committed to a project regardless of unanticipated difficulty? Or was I showing him how to buck the system? How to break the rules? How to mess with things that aren’t even broken? How not to be content with things as they really are?

I decided this was too many questions to deal with while trying to buck the system and modify a perfectly good Nerf gun, so I soldiered on through the links. Finally, I found a posting by someone who said nail polish remover “did the trick.” Now, I may be an English teacher, but I was an excellent science student as well. I recall that the stuff in nail polish remover that is so handy-dandy is acetone, and my polish remover was the pink “acetone-free” stuff. So, after a quick trip to Publix (we take our gun modifications seriously in this family), we were soaking that chamber in a ziploc full of acetone.

Sure, it made the plastic kinda rubbery (temporarily), but a few minutes later, I was able to pry that sucker apart! Take THAT, Good People at Nerf.

So, it’s all modified, put back together, and screwed shut. It’s still a little greasy still from the canola, but I told Max that you clean real guns with oil, so it’s more authentic this way. He nodded and shrugged. I think he bought it. Anyway, how does it shoot?

Like a dream! Much stronger and more accurate, just like the kid on the video claimed it would be. Thanks, JordanSkate23!

Now the bigger question: what did I teach Max through this modification ordeal? Well, the look on his face after that first shot made it all worthwhile. Maybe we do need to break the rules sometimes, as long as we don’t hurt anyone, or shoot an eye out. Maybe even when things might be okay as they are, we could all stand some improvement. Bettering ourselves, and our lives, and our foam weaponry is ultimately a worthy endeavor. And lastly, I think I showed him that only those who don’t give up end up hitting their mark. You can’t hit a target if you aren’t aiming at it. So take aim, son.

And when life gives you glue…go to Publix and get acetone.