Silence of The Lamb

Shy? Timid? It's not that I didn't have a voice. I just couldn't use it. 

Of course I could chime in at Grandma's, at home, with a few friends. But certainly not at school. So I pretty much limped my way through grade school without ever raising my hand. Oral book reports were sheer agony. I wouldn't even play my flute-a-phone along with the other kids in fourth grade during our class music lessons. What if someone heard me hit a wrong note? Oh, the horror!

 

And then came Abbott Junior High! Maybe bullying was a big problem back then too. Maybe not. But I never bullied anyone, and I never was bullied by anyone. Well, except Harvey. Harvey Eisner. My 7th grade English and Social Studies teacher. Mr. Eisner was young, short, cocky.... What he lacked in height, he made up for in volume. Arrogance personified. There was nothing much humble about him. Maybe he had something to prove?

So one day he decided to prove how absolutely worthless a shy, timid girl could be. He was inspired to call on me to answer a question. Trembling, I barely whispered. And apparently he took that as a personal insult. He immediately instructed the class to move their desks into a circle, surrounding me in the middle.

"Now," he boomed, "pretend you're in the middle of the ocean, and you're drowning. You need to call for help. "YELL FOR HELP!"  

"Help," I sputtered, in a totally inaudible murmur.

"YOU'RE DROWNING!" he bellered, "YELL FOR HELP! NOW! YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT! DO IT!"

"Help," I repeated, moving my lips, and finding my breath heavy, but soundless. I was petrified. Further, I withered.

From there, it only escalated, with him becoming more and more agitated and belligerent, and me more and more terrified, more and more humiliated, silent and shivering, fully willing myself to drown and disappear forever.

Does fear make you scream out in terror? Or does the scream die in your throat?

Finally, Mr. Eisner sneered in utter contempt and with total disgust. 

"YOU DESERVE TO DIE! GO ON AND DROWN YOURSELF!"  

His words seemed to hang there, resonating within that room. I was completely paralyzed. The kids who encircled me were in absolute shock. The deafening silence filled the time and space. What had just happened? Ironically, those words seemed to be echoing as the classroom slowly, robotically returned to normal as the kids moved their desks back into the customary rows. My group therapy session was over.

All I remember after that is leaving the classroom and running home. When I got there I told my mom I was sick. And everyday after that when I got a block away from the school, I would get sick to my stomach and turn to walk back home. For three weeks I was absent. I never told anyone what happened and how scared and humiliated I was. I can no longer remember how I got the nerve to return to school one day, with shame as my constant shadow. 

I never liked or respected him after that. I just wanted to keep as far away from him as possible. We had to face each other every day for the rest of the year. But I don't think I sought revenge and ever wished he would die. Just that he would leave me alone. And he did.

As an adult, I now think maybe he was trying to do me a favor even, to help me get bolder, to grow. But I didn't see that then. And later on I did find my voice. Although I hope that he didn't repeat that performance for the good of any other students after that, I am grateful for the experience that year of feeling such disdain, such painful ridicule, so that I could feel empathy for all those who have been, and are being, bullied to one degree or another. I know my experience is a mere fraction of what others go through, and my heart is broken for them. 

Ironically, many, many years later I read that he had a grown daughter that was assaulted and murdered in her apartment. I expect her father raised her to be bold, to not go quietly into the night. I wonder if she yelled for help, or was too paralyzed with fear? And my heart is broken for Mr. Eisner.

Getting High (Jr. edition)

Ever gone out of your comfort zone and deliberately entered into enemy territory? As a mild mannered 11 year old entering the adult world of Junior High School?

7th grade held no auspicious beginnings for me. Unceremoniously dumped by my lifelong (so far) best friend. All because my Mom wouldn’t agree to letting me host a “surprise” birthday party for Pam that she was determined to have, I headed out solo on the first day of school. Later, Mom confessed she watched me amble down the street all alone in my new fiaco black and white striped pencil skirt Grandma had sewn for me, and with my trendy ducktail haircut, courtesy of the local Barber. A lonely vision of sophistication ready to burst onto the scene. She wept.

Apparently I would be in need of a new best friend right off the bat as Pam continued to ignore me even after summer vacation ended and school began. Indeed, for the rest of my life. Hell hath no fury like a former friend who can't manipulate you. So I figured I needed a fresh start and a good way to make new friends with so many unfamiliar faces would be to join after school clubs and get involved in shared activities. What choice did I have?

Plan A- Try out for the popular super duper Choral Club. Of course! But only logical if you can at least carry a tune, and I was under no illusion that I could. However, knowing my limitations and being extremely shy, (I actually had invented lip syncing long before it was discovered in the real world* - you're welcome), I fearfully mustered up the courage to go wait outside the room on the appointed afternoon for auditions. When my turn came, I hesitated; then in an out-of-body moment, gingerly stepped in front of the music teacher and the student officers of The Club.  

What was I thinking? It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to have a difficult time lip syncing when I was told to sing a certain number acapella, as it were. Glancing quickly at the floor, I saw no gaping hole to fall into. I paused, waiting for a miracle. Where was God when you truly needed him? I had no choice but to open my mouth and see what could possibly emerge from it. 

Yep, you can only imagine. It wasn’t pretty. Understatement. Even though I dared not look at them, somehow I saw their astonished faces. I think they were too stunned to laugh. Or cry. Yeah, no call back, go figure. No becoming one of the elite. Unbelievably, I was allowed to remain in school and no one harassed me. At least, not to my face. Maybe they couldn’t believe their ears? Fortunately most of the student body had missed the audition, and the entire incident failed being mentioned in the school paper, so I wasn’t treated like the pariah I knew myself to be.

Plan B- Give it a rest. Wait. Till next year. Try again. Of course nothing musical. Actually the Speech Club (Drama Club) was THE most prestigious, most vaunted club to be a part of at Abbott Jr. High, they put on all the plays, so why not? Some people never learn. Last year had to sing. This year had to speak. And I was no better at that than singing. 

Club Advisor Marge Zarndt had been a teacher even way back in ancient times. When my parents were in High School. A relic. A  4’10” veritable relic. With badly dyed blond hair, strident voice, obnoxious personality, miles on her wheels. What she lacked in height, she made up for in charm. Ha! She was a pistol. What did I expect? A resounding no? Good, then at least I wasn’t disappointed.

So it was with the greatest unexpected pleasure several weeks later that I was able to grant her fondest request when she came to me on bended knee (well not literally or I wouldn’t have been able to see her) and begged me to join her Speech Club. Yes, it’s true!  

Want to hear the rest of the story? For an assignment in Mrs. Zarndt’s Speech class a few weeks following my greatly failed attempt, we each were assigned to come up with a monologue to perform. Are you kidding? Me? (My folks nixed the sudden trip to Alaska.)

Against all odds, I came up with a monologue. I transformed myself into another girl, another time. Props to my props. A gypsy costume with full skirts and scarves and a fake finger I’d sewn out of flesh colored panty hose that was the climax of “my” story as I suddenly tossed it into the middle of the room. The art of disguise can release a magic all its own. The class was mesmerized, the teacher, spellbound. I had no idea what had happened, or how. All I knew was that later that day Mrs. Zarndt trekked through the school to find me, and in her best rendition of a humble human, begged me to join THE CLUB. What else could I do? I gave in.  

*Truth-

Yes, I absolutely did invent lip syncing back in the day! In order to coax me out of my shell in 5th grade, my parents signed me up for both private singing lessons and private elocution lessons. Guess they were desperate. Violet Brady Stewart, a powerhouse of a woman at Grace Methodist (my church at the time) was my singing teacher, a VERY big, older woman with an even bigger, overwhelmingly powerful voice. She would play the piano and sing along with me whatever musical piece she chose for me to sing.

At the end of the year just before the recital, my Dad came to my lesson with me to see how it was all shaping up. He was totally deaf in one ear, and even with his hearing aid for the other, not the best at hearing, so he was a bit apologetic when remarking to her after my private performance that he couldn't hear me at all. "Well, yes," Mrs. Brady Stewart responded,  "I've never actually heard her voice either."  

I was excused from the recital.

Magic Sheets?

The Rolling Stones got all the credit. All the money. But they owe me. Long before “Paint It Black”
rocked the music world, a strange little girl in Miss Matson’s kindergarten class at Gifford Elementary
would only color in black. No bold magenta, no chartreuse, no cerulean, not so much as a bland umber. 
Black crayon every single time. Only.

Evidently this must have been cause for alarm and I was hustled at some point in 1951 to an office to
meet with what must have been one of the world’s earliest school psychologists. At least in Elgin. I
was made to play with little dolls in front of her. I can only imagine the dolls must have lost their voices,
much as I had at school, being shy in the extreme.

And so, to the horror of my mother, this hussy of a woman came unbidden to our home for an
assessment. Nobody ever came to our home. We could play outside all we wanted with the
neighborhood kids, but no one came in. Ever. Mom was fastidious, and I just think she wanted to
keep her world in order, up to her standards. So I never learned what take away the school had from
that. But I expect I was marked. Were I to be able to see those long ago records, I might hesitate.
Dum, dum, dum da dum dum!       

But if that’s ominous, there’s more to the dark side lurking in my distant past. Maybe, just maybe,
I could have been oversensitive a bit to my Mother’s rebukes for whatever havoc I must have caused
here and there. I would be guilted and terrified by “The Look” as her stormy face and flashing eyes
signaled the fast approaching end of days.

And yet I must have felt all the dreaded spankings at the end of those “Wait till your Father gets home”
sort of days didn’t quite atone for my egregious transgressions. I became convinced that I needed to
fully bury myself under the sheets at night, so that the hit men my parents had hired and had hidden in
the bedroom walls to kill me in retribution would have a hard time hitting their target in the dark. After all,
we lived only an hour or so from Chicago, it was inevitable. But those jokers must have been a particular
kind of inept to have to show up night after night only to be foiled yet again by my magic sheets. So it
worked out for me, and I survived and learned in my ever so early years how to cope with the mob and
claustrophobia… and triumph. Take that, all you Al Capone wannabes!

And then there was the FACT that I was literally the daughter of the Devil himself. (Longggg before I
had any idea what that literally meant.) Certain that the entire world was aware of this inconvenient truth
as well, I led a semi-solitary existence, escaping only to watch Saturday morning cartoons or play all
day with half a dozen neighbor kids. These “normals” never let on that they were aware of my vile
identity, playing their roles seamlessly, no doubt secretly frightened/repulsed- have to give them credit. 

The only person I figured who was able to lovingly deal with me despite my being this appalling entity was
my Grandma Lucy. She was also the only religious person I knew, so that she could be gracious to the
spawn of Satan was quite remarkable. And don't think I didn't appreciate it! I don’t remember at what
point my pedigree changed and I was no longer the sole progeny of Evil, Inc., but it did, eventually.  I
guess that’s what Genealogy is for. 

So yes, in all modesty, I invented Paranoia. But the important take is, do you think there’s a market for
magic sheets?

Evolution

                                              (Adam Voorhes)

First day of kindergarten. My Mom drops me off at Gifford Elementary and leaves. I cry. A river. And slither out the door. Escape artist fail. Mortifying call for Mom, but fortunately she was born with the amazing sense to call Dad to come home from work to handle this emergency. Well she had no car, and toddlers at home, so guess he had the default position?

For two weeks, on and off, we do this dance. Either he has to stay with me for a while at school after getting me there, or come home and take me back to school.  And stay with me awhile anyway. I get good at tears. I get good at school. Well not so much, but good enough to not run home anymore. 

For the next seven years, I walk/run to school and back home for lunch. Campbell's Tomato Soup often, and grilled cheese! Then walk back to school for the afternoon session and back home afterwards. Raw potato slices usually, and salt. Eventually I learned to steal candy out of the drawer when no one is around to look. Becomes one of my hidden talents, and sugar addiction serves/curses me most of my lifetime. 

Even though Jr. High is a couple blocks closer, they don’t make any allowances for going home for lunch. I hate cereal, any breakfast food, so I always refuse to eat in the mornings, a rebel without a full tummy. I'm teeny tiny, but Mom packs lunches with the mindset that I might be joining the football team as quarterback or tight end. Always one and a half sandwiches. Roast beef (leftovers from Sunday) on Mondays, then rotating bologna, tunafish, pbj, idk. But who does a sandwich and a half? And I don’t dare not partake, because I'm convinced that woman has eyes in the back of her head, and probably spies at school. She tells me she has to ask others what’s going on all the time, because I never tell her anything. Heck, I never tell anyone anything. 

High School is much farther away, hence a little more privacy one would dare to think. But I know my Mom and her superpowers. So I still eat the blasted sandwiches and twinkies and fruit/veggies every single day. And become the star quarterback! With a tight end! 

It wasn’t till I escape to college 1500 miles away that I'm independent enough, at 17, to drop the routine. I'm also too broke to eat lunch so my boyfriend generously shared his cafeteria options with me. I always choose cucumbers and tomatoes.  Still my favorite.  

Luck is on my side and I grow up anyway, and along the way, say 50 years in, I decide to become vegetarian. This ironically after being virtually a carnivore since my first teeth came in. My sister used to sit next to me at the kitchen table, and seeing as Mom was often distracted taking care of the food and cleaning up while we ate, Jan would covertly slip whatever meat was on her plate under the table to me. And I would reciprocate and stealth bomb her my potatoes or whatever starchy offering I could clear from mine.  

And so it went. Nevertheless in 1996, I'm given a book, Diet for a New America by John Robbins, that changes my thinking, my life. Thank you, Linda Vazquez! Having been oblivious to the horrendous ways that animals were raised and abused in order to fill our voracious appetites for dead flesh, my eyes open, my heart shatters.  

Robbins deserves a lot of credit for not just exposing these practices, but for not doing so in a sensational manner to get the point across. It was how he presented what he saw and found, and lets the reader make up his own mind. And this reader does. I live on sauteed mushrooms and frozen strawberries for a year. And rice, lots of rice. Not concerned about my health, I change it up for the sake of the animals. 

Five years later when my husband's diagnosed with stage IV cancer, veganism for his health becomes urgent, paramount, and I embrace it on both levels. I have no doubt that such radical change gave him 12 extra months on earth with some especially priceless highlights for him to enjoy.  

Twenty five years later, I am so grateful for the epiphany I had to be able to make this change. But regrets? I've had a few I'd like to mention. Fifty years of eating animal cadavers is a ton of regret! Beyond sad. If only we could go back in time for some hefty do overs. However, better late than never. For the sake of the animals, and for the sake of my own health, this indelible choice has been the most tender of mercies.