You were so angry that day. You had to rearrange everything, tape things to the wall, pick things off the floor. Everyone else was somewhere else with someone else and you were tired, tired of being angry, but everything was so wrong and so stupid.
You remember staring out the window in that class, thinking about having to write a story, staring through that warped glass at the fuzzy tree outside, thinking that you can't write anything. You're not a writer -- Jesus, you don't even have one of those Yankee-ethnic-sounding writer names. The only thing you want to write about, could write about, is so damned cliche it embarrasses you, even though it is true and it did happen to you. Only you could never write it the way it was in your head, anyway. You'd rather write about something important if you could -- love or redemption or tragedy. But you don't know anything about those things. You doodle a little heart on your notebook and frown at it.
Later, you lie on your bed and stare at your white cinder block walls and try to drown out the train outside. You think about how everything would sound if it were in a story, if some nameless character could take everything out of you and profess it as her own. It would start with those damned pink lines and the way her stomach sank when she saw them, the way her friends turned to her with their mouths open, and she knew she was supposed to say something, but her mind was empty. And then she would cry, just like in some After-School Special, and she would hold her head and wonder what to do, and all her friends would look around and not know what to say.
Maybe later she would lie on her bed, just like you're lying on your bed now, and maybe she would be thinking about how it happened. Maybe she would have walls made of cinder blocks, too, and she'd look at how white they are and she'd think of how she felt that night. She was out of it . . . too much to drink again, stranded at a bar in another city. Of course, she had friends in this city she could call. There was even a guy she used to sleep with who would probably come and get her. Yeah, she'd just call him, crash at his place, and get him to take her home in the morning. So she made the phone call, got results. And she was glad to see him, really, with his black hair all shiny around his face -- the closest she guessed she'd ever get to a real Prince Valiant. So they go back to his apartment and they're alone and it's dark and they're close together and she's drunk and, well, old habits die hard. Maybe when she thinks about it later she feels like some prostitute, like the whole thing was really cheap, because she couldn't even kiss him. He'd just had his stupid tongue pierced.
But you know that's not all true. You know she wasn't really drunk anymore. She'd had a few drinks, sure, but she'd had plenty of time to sober up. You know she's just trying to justify what happened, her irresponsibility. And all that Prince Valiant crap. Please. You happen to know that he didn't even come get her -- -it was some friend of his who felt sorry for her when she called. He wasn't even home yet when his friend took her to his apartment. So there's really no sense in her making him out to be some damn hero, rescuing her in her time of need. You wonder where she gets her delusions sometimes.
But still, you really feel sorry for this girl, she's so young and so dumb, and you might even wonder what she's thinking . . . but you know she's not thinking anything. Even when she makes appointments and goes to them and she's tired of lying on cold tables and feeling the cold hands, she's not thinking. She's trying hard not to think.
She isn't even thinking in that last stuffy little waiting room. All those women waiting silently, clutching their purses on their laps, watching The Video. They all know why they're here, and no one wants to talk about it. One woman is crying softly, bent over in her pink chair until her head is almost in her lap. Everyone tries not to look at her. An older woman with braces on her teeth and five little birthstone charms on her necklace finally hands the crying woman a box of tissues, then returns to her romance novel.
You wonder what the girl in your story is doing all this time. Would she cry? Or read a book? Or just stare at the wall like everyone else? But you already know her, inside and out. You know she's carefully studying her fingernails, attempting to look unaffected, to pretend she isn't even there, while resisting the urge to submit to queasiness. She sneaks glances out the open door into the hallway and looks at the folders in their various stations -- Sonogram, Counseling, Lab. She wants to go home. She wants her dose of Valium, and she wants to move on through that heavy door down the hall and go home. Of course, she knows there's another, important step involved, but she just wants it all to be finished.
A nurse comes to the door and calls a name from the tab on a folder. The crying woman is soon gone, leaving only an old issue of People on her pink chair. Everyone pretends not to listen as the nurse in the hall explains about urine cups. The girl in your story shifts in her uncomfortable chair and feels the insistent pressing of her own bladder, as the blond woman next to her breaks the silence and says in a timid voice, "I swear, she was about to make me cry, going on like that." Your heroine nods, relieved to have someone speak, but not quite trusting her own voice. A woman in a bright pink sweatsuit has obvious faith in her vocal chords, though, and she declares, "I know what you mean. I was about to get upset myself."
Just then, The Video comes to a halt, and the woman with the braces turns it off. "Thank God," sighs a girl with a red ponytail and lots of black mascara. "That's about the fourth time that damned thing has run. I was getting pretty sick of hearing it." Pink Sweatsuit Lady starts to agree, but belches instead. "Sorry. My stomach's been so upset lately. Everything just tastes bad. I even cooked for my boyfriend and I couldn't stand to eat a bite."
The woman with the braces looks up from her book and, with a sort of smirk, says, "That's always the way it is. I've done this five times already, so I knew what was up when I felt like puking all day. Morning sickness, my ass. It's all the time." Everyone laughs at this, a little nervous, but comforted by the fact that they all feel like sprinting for the nearest toilet. The redhead shakes her ponytail sympathetically. "Five kids? God, I don't envy you. My two are about more than I can handle. But at least I can tell everybody I been sick because of that stomach flu the kids had."
The timid blond lady smiles wanly and begins, "Well, at least you knew what to expect. This is my first time and I'm just sick." The woman with braces grunts a little. "What did your husband say?" Blond Lady twists a tissue in her hands and answers, "Well, he's my boyfriend -- me and my husband split up years ago -- but we'd been planning it so he was happy and all. But, lately, he's been acting all strange, slapping me around and stuff . . . it's like he just lost his mind." Braces Woman finally shuts her book and snaps, "You better leave him. Don't put up with that shit. Get out while you can." Blond Lady sighs a little, "I know. That's why I'm here -- I figured it was probably the best thing to do. But, I swear, if he ever was to find out, he'd kill me . . . ."
The nurse comes back to the door and silence falls over the room again. Maybe she calls your girl's name, maybe not. It doesn't really matter -- your story can do without the gory details. And she does make a good story; it's easy to think about her a lot, so removed from you and your world. You wonder if she thinks about that day, that waiting room, the way it smelled, the way the air felt around her. You wonder if she thinks about the pain, that awful few minutes, that sucking sound, how badly everything hurt . . . but you, of all people, know how your body won't let you remember that kind of pain. You shut your eyes involuntarily when you think about it. You wonder if the girl in the story does, too. You wonder if she feels guilty . . . . Maybe she just remembers those women in the waiting room, all of them with upset stomachs, just like her, and some of them with stories worse than hers. Maybe she'll be OK. But maybe sometimes her room just suddenly seems messy and wrong and she has to move everything around and pick things off the floor to feel better. Maybe she still feels angry sometimes, just like you.
December didn't go too well. There's something about the grays and browns of winter that make cold loneliness come out in full color. Christmas was bought with illegal means and the gifts had no more value than the torn paper that had covered them. I never liked Christmas holidays anyway. It was just a time to drink and dream about how good thing would be next spring.
Mid January found me looking through the newspaper for a job. The listing asked for eight men and eight women willing to travel, in an exciting and dynamic career opportunity. I filled out my application at the Holiday Inn. The interview took place in room 116, around the corner on the back side. A beautiful young woman in her early twenties greeted me at the door. She asked me to have a seat. She told me her name, but it didn't stick. She asked questions that were easily answered with a yes or no. The smell of the room caught my attention. It had a warm inviting aroma, sort of like sitting in a peach orchard on a summer afternoon. Then there was this fairy tale princess sitting across from me. The black heels on her feet were made of smooth, supple leather, simple but elegant. The silk stockings that covered her legs were like transparent curtains, draping perfection. She asked, "Are you free to travel?"
We drove into Longview, Texas a couple of hours before sunset. The motel we stayed at was right off the freeway, in an industrial section. From the second floor, overlooking the parking lot, you could see the Lonestar Brewery. I shared a room with Gerard Lopez, Skip and a guy everyone referred to as Buster. The last week had been spent training with Gerard. Gerard was a top notch salesman. While out canvassing prospects, Gerard would wear his arm in a sling and walk with a limp. Gerard would explain that he had been hurt in a football accident and had to take a break from college. He was working to pay his next year's tuition since he wouldn't be on scholarship. He had never really attended any college unless you count reform school. The scheme worked. Gerard could sell E-Z Clean concentrated non-ionic biodegradable cleaner to people that didn't even have anything to clean, much less the $20 it cost.
I didn't have an affliction worked out, but I was starting to get hungry. We received $7.00 a day plus a commission on our sales. It cost $1.50 to do your laundry, $2.00 for a pack of smokes, and that left $3.50 for breakfast. To survive, you had to sell, steal or starve. My first day out solo, I sold one bottle of E-Z Clean. I made a $3.00 commission, but that went against the previous weeks draw. That night I took a pledge that would sell $200 dollars worth of product the next day.
The day had potential from the start. It was unusually warm with a light misting rain. Gerard had taught me that the odds were 1 in 6 that every house that let you in, would buy. Most people have a hard time turning away someone out in the rain. All that I had to do was visit 60 homes and I could make my pledge.
I was let out in a Texas trickle-down, oil supported, cul-de-sac neighborhood. I had borrowed a business tie from Buster, and a Members Only jacket from Skip. Gerard loaned me a Mississippi State ball cap with instructions that Ole Miss had beaten us the week before, but that we'd get them back next year.
The first house didn't let me in. The second house asked who I was and promptly slammed the door in my face. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth houses wouldn't even open the door. I headed up the other side of the street and was immediately surrounded by 2 cop cars and 4 Longview policemen. I was asked for identification, my sales permit, and my business license. I had my Mississippi driver's license, that was all. They read me my Miranda rights and handcuffed me at the same time.
In the Longview city jail, I was told that I was being charged with Soliciting Without a Permit. They took my jacket, cap tie, belt, boots, personal belongings, and gave me a pair of cloth flip flops. The man at the counter handed me a telephone receiver, and said that I could have one phone call.
The girl that answered was the same girl that had hired me in the first place. She told me not to say a word about the company or where we were staying and she would come and bail me out. Twelve hours later, the bars closed behind me and I was on the free side. I told her that I was ready to quit, and she told me that she would get me a bus ticket.
At the motel, I was greeted with cheers and pats on the back. Gerard congratulated me on becoming a real salesman. I gave back the things I had borrowed, and packed my suitcase. I told them that I had quit. They began to verbally stone me. I grabbed my suitcase and ran from the room. The bus left for Memphis at 10:00 p.m. and I was on it.
We arrived in Little Rock at 2:00 am. As we were getting off the bus, we were instructed that there would be a 2 hour layover. The bus stop was cold and loud with people moving back and forth. I bought a cup of coffee and found a seat on a bench.
A little old man walked into the bus station carrying a guitar. He drifted over to my bench and sat down a few feet away from me. I was cold, tired, and hungry, but I looked good compared to him. He had on an old pair of cowboy boots held together on the toes by some duct tape. He was wearing a pair dirty Levi's, bell bottom and about 3 sizes too big. His jacket was a wool sport coat with holes and a torn pocket. His face was hard and traveled with eyes as black as coal. He smelt like he had probably taken a bath within the last week but his hair was ready for an oil change. He turned and looked at me and I turned away.
I heard him start to hum a note, and he tuned his guitar up to it. He was tuning up an old Harmony arch top with "F" holes. It rang out like a bell in the bus station. He warmed up with a couple of riffs then stood up and began to sing. He was singing an old Jimmy Rodgers tune, something about a train and a water tank. As he sang, people walking by tossed money into his guitar case. After that song, he sang "I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry." A crowd began to gather around and more money was tossed into the guitar case. It looked to be about $7.00 as best I could see. The old man began to play a shuffle and tap dance around his stage. He stopped, looked directly at me and said, "My name is Leonel Holland, the Lonesome Buffalo and don't you ever forget it." He started playing and dancing again as the crowd moved away. He finished his show and sat back down beside me. He turned towards me and said, "Nothing in life is worth doing if your heart ain't in it kid." He gathered up his money and with a smile he said, "It'll be springtime soon."
The bus left Little Rock and I took a window seat. I stared out into the early morning sky and thought back on the events that had just taken place in my life. A beautiful woman had drawn me into a situation that had landed me in jail. I had turned away from a graced old man will to share his wisdom. I knew then that it was time to make some changes in my life. After all, it would soon be springtime.
My mother grew up in a small town in Tennessee as the youngest of nine children belonging to a family of cotton farmers. This large family had no place for extravagance, only necessity. My mother made her way through childhood and adolescence with five outfits for winter and five for summer and bed only imagination and intelligence as accessories. She married early in escape a dysfunctional family and poverty, moving with my father to a new state with new beginnings. She, the eternal optimist, went into a world of plenty and safety and to obtain her true identity as a mother and an independent woman.
Although my mother was the youngest of her siblings, she was far from spoiled or pampered. When she was too young to work, she would sit on top of the cotton sack as her older brothers and sisters harvested the cotton. However, she quickly matured into the tedious task of farming as her older siblings left her father's house one by one. She picked cotton every day after school until the day she graduated. This was the beginning of the strong work ethic that compelled my mother to work and put my father through college. Her constant struggle to balance work, farming, school, and a little time for fun, while growing up, enabled her years later to obtain a degree while working full time and raising two children.
I was only seven or eight when my mother started college, and yet I cannot remember a single event in my childhood that she did not attend. I never knew she was in school. She made my lunch every day, studied at night and made sure that I had twenty outfits to choose from in all four seasons. She kept the house clean, the clothes washed, and dinner on the table. She was Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the tooth Fairy, and the birthday party organizer. She not only made sure my sister and I had a fairy tale childhood, but she was simultaneously a supportive wife and a diligent student. My mother is the genuine definition of feminism.
My parents married at ages eighteen and twenty. Both were from dysfunctional homes and rural upbringings. My mother went to work immediately to finish financing my father's education and to help him overcome the problems of his childhood. She was his wife and his confidant, and she held the marriage together when there was only reason to leave. Even today, as the strain of empty nest syndrome threatens of engulf a twenty-five year marriage, my mother works to improve the situation and sees only a positive outcome.
Although my mother married young into a relationship similar to her own parents', she kept divorce and neglect from destroying her happiness. She broke the cycle of years of dysfunction from both sides of the family. Today, she has a successful job and a degree and is currently in nursing school. She is involved in two social clubs and plays card games with her friends on the weekends. She still sees to my needs while I am in college, and meanwhile, she is planning my sister's wedding on a limited budget.
I have only recently begun to see the obstacles my mother has conquered. I never realized what true feminism was until I looked into my mother's life. Any female can use oppression as an excuse or male dominance as a crutch for not becoming a whole and happy woman, but few can take those hindrances and use them as fuel to find their place in society and their individuality. My mother has achieved her goals and has set new ones. My mother is a feminist.