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 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 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 I was 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.

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. 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, shook his head and pronounced, "YOU DESERVE TO DIE! JUST DIE."  

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.  

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 far away from him. 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.

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.

The Irony

Does it make any sense to you at all that on many days, tiny me was "in charge" of our tiny ER? Me neither. But there I was in the diminutive (2 exam tables!) room across from the hospital kitchen and next door to the Morgue. Dr. Andy Nowakowski was the official Elgin Police Department Physician, so accidents, crimes, DOA's, etc. were supposedly sent to (125 bed) St. Jo's instead of to the newer, bigger Sherman Hospital a few blocks away.  Hmmm.  

At any rate, when I was there, always by myself, if someone came in (no advance notice back then- no cell phones, etc.---  ambulance or walk in, there would just suddenly be people showing up at the door), well there I was! Just me. Can you imagine how reassuring it would be to rush into a hospital ER in sheer desperation, only to be met by a 13 year old volunteer who would get you on an examining table? So I would immediately call up to the 4th floor Surgery Department, and a Resident Dr. accompanied by a Surgical Nurse would jump on the somewhat rickety service elevator and appear a few minutes later to save the day. Or at least try to. 

To pass the time in between these pressing emergencies to deal with, I would assemble surgical trays for the sterilizer. Some days were slow. Some days anything but.

Somehow I never reacted emotionally. I got used to different situations and was always able to be calm regardless of the degree of injury. Until that one day. They brought a baby in from an auto accident. This was an age of no seat belts, no car seats, not much in the way of accident prevention; but according to my perception there was a heck of a lot less traffic, less idiots on the road, at least that's how I remember it.  Your mileage may vary. 

So I had them put the baby on the exam table while we waited for the Dr. and Nurse to appear. And as soon as they did, I bolted from the room. The one and only time I ever did. That tiny little nose had been severed and was only attached by a tiny flap, and it seemed unbearable to me that this vulnerable itty bitty human had to suffer like that. I couldn't take it. I had to leave.

I'm sure there were many people that came to that room in greater agony than that little soul, but for some reason, it just hit me harder than anything else had. Perhaps because most patients were adults. Ironically, 10 years later I would find myself, arms loaded with a laundry basket full of wet clothes to hang in the sunshine, swinging open the back door of my house, and knocking my own 18 month old baby boy off the porch, thus severing his nose. The Dr. who was stitching him up told my husband that he was way more concerned with me than the baby because I was so unhinged. Life is weird, no? So sorry, Adam.

After Life

The tiny ER, where I was sent to spend most of my time that year, was next to the tiny Morgue, which had a door with a window of frosted glass, so you couldn't see in clearly, no doubt a good idea. But you could see motion. Very quickly that summer I had become convinced that I was destined to be a Doctor who would save the world. So suddenly the ER and neighborly Morgue had great significance for me. 

One day I came in from outside through the Ambulance Entrance, and stopped in front of the Morgue door because I could tell there was activity within, and I was intrigued and fascinated. Until. The loud buzz of a saw and cracking sounds shot out from that now gruesome-to-me-room, and I bolted, crying out the Ambulance Entrance to escape the grim reality. Obviously they were doing a cranial autopsy at that point. And I was certain that even though I had been able to handle blood and guts and tears and screams, this was a bridge too far, never going to be something I could deal with. We all have our limits, right?

Ironically enough, I did end up going back into the Morgue itself several times that summer. Turned out that Felix, the Pathology Tech from Puerto Rico, took an interest in my MD aspirations, and encouraged me, or so I thought. He would take me upstairs into the Pathology Lab at times, and then downstairs into the Morgue, when no one else was around, to show me the ropes. I still vividly remember the first dead body I saw laying on the metal slab in the middle of the room, a young woman of 28, with very black hair and very yellow jaundiced skin. Just seeing her so young body, forever stilled, and thinking of what her family must be going through was a shock. There were other cadavers, of course, but isn't there always something about the first that you can't forget? I am so grateful to have never witnessed a young child there.

I don't know if those kind of places should be some kind of hallowed or not, but I do think the dead deserve respect. Apparently Felix felt otherwise, as I soon enough discovered. Come to find out, he was not actually interested in medical goals, or dead bodies, but in young girls and their live bodies. His wife was an aide I knew from the OB floor. I wonder if she knew what he was up to? I had no problem in bolting from that situation after what he tried with me, but soon enough I noticed the Morgue being used as a rendezvous spot for him and an older teenage girl who worked in the kitchen. Awkward! But my chilling time with the corpses was over.