I began this project over a year ago.... In December 2012, a dear friend would encourage me to begin to write down a story of my life... She suggested that if I stepped into Fiction it would be easier to do so...
In February 2013 I spent a month writing and writing and writing... In a month I had 435 pages... But I needed space from it and many months would pass before I would even touch it or look at it again... Slowly I would feel the prompting of the Lord to come back and touch it up and add this or take away that....
I decided I didn't want just a pure Fictional story based on real events but that I wanted a voice in it as well....
Still in raw and unedited form.. This morning I felt the Lord ask me to start posting portions of that which I had written....
This is that..... I entitled it The Girl Next Door... Because I was that girl next door for almost two decades... Keeping silent, playing a part... and this morning I felt the urging of the Spirit to begin to share again... To share from whence I came and to where He has taken me... This is just a portion of the first part and like I said there has been no fine tooth comb taken through this... But I trust His heart... and I desire to share my life where it can be a blessing to others... Light always emerges from the darkness.. I know of what I speak
Houses and streets and doors
and windows and mirrors.
Days past and present and
those yet to come.
I have thought about where it
has been that my feet have walked and where they are walking now.
The words Awoken and Seen
haunt me whether I am awake or sleeping.
This journey upon life, to open
my mouth, say the things that would rather remain silent and yet... It is the yet that gets me every time.
The days I did remain silent, harm and darkness had
their victories ... There are days when
I wonder about remaining silent now.
Except when I meet you, or men and women like you, like me.. I think
about how I must awaken every day and stay awake, I think about how I must see
and be seen moment by moment.
I have traveled many streets.
And I have lived in many houses.
It is the first six of them that begin this story. Six streets.
Six homes. The first one I have no memories of and yet it still is there, on some road off near
Boston. The next one would be in Connecticut. Memories exist in that location.
Then it would be off to New Jersey back to Massachusetts and back to New
Jersey. No, not military. The world of business and climbing corporate
ladders was my father's world.
Upon each street there is a
house that was called our home. Upon
each street we had neighbors; other families, other people...
It was suburbia after all and
the picture perfect grand neighborhoods of people escaping city living for the
American dream.
Neighborhoods.. neighbors;
I think upon those houses at
times.
I think about the rooms.
I think about the walls.
I think upon the hallways and
the staircases.
Do they remember?
Do the people who live in
those places ever think they hear lingering whispers, shouts or cries? Do you ever think about the doors you open
and close? Do you look into the mirrors
and wonder what faces they have beheld?
What tears they saw.. what
other things did they contain? Did they
see happiness? Did they know joy? Did they see horror? Did they tremble as
did their inhabitants? Were doors slammed?
I think about those things
from time to time. As I remember, as I
think back.
I think about conversations.
The ones that were had. The ones that were never had. The ones that I wish were never had. The times that the words just sort of hung
there in the air.
Some of my favorite
conversations happen after I have told the stories of this life that I have
lived. I've heard a variation of them
throughout time. Many times. Most times
I think that they are right, it is pretty amazing that I am alive.
Sometimes I find it laughable
how the listener tries to take back that which they have spoken. As if they said something insulting, true...
BUT insulting. I don't think I have ever
been insulted per se. Left feeling
vulnerable but not insulted.
It is after all my life. More accurately it was after all my
life. So when the words in some form or
another come out that the listener is amazed that I am coherent; alive and coherent,
alive and coherent and not sitting somewhere heavily medicated off in a corner
somewhere drooling, I guess I just sit with them in amazement rather than be
insulted or offended.
I think it is pretty amazing.
I think it is pretty amazing
that for so many years so much went left so unseen. I lived out in the open, but might have as
well dwelt in the shadows.
I walked to bus stops,
ventured down hallways, spoke to people for years but no eyes ever saw, no ears
ever heard, no one ever stopped to try to really make a difference. But then I
never looked up, I never spoke up, I kept drifting further and further through
life. I got lost further and further
into myself until I had more in common with a vapor of smoke than any other
human.
Life, ballet dancers, the
Amish and a psych hospital would change all that... deans of colleges, a
husband, 6 children would eventually change all that... but before it was
changed it was... before I was anything else all I was was the girl next door.
In ways of an
Introduction..
The words sat there upon the page.
You are my hiding place;
You preserve me from trouble;
You surround me with songs of deliverance. Psalm 32:7
You surround me with songs of deliverance. Psalm 32:7
I traced the words on the page and stared at them long and hard.
Hiding places and preservation from trouble, songs of deliverance... what can
that all mean? What does that all mean?
Images from days in the past ran through my heart and again I
looked at the words and traced them with my fingers. Thoughts and emotions eclipsed and transversed across the decades in a split
second and then I was back, in the present.
What did that look like back then?
What I want to unfold here, more than anything, is the passing on
of hope. I wish I could invite you to
come have coffee, come and let's spend time together. Come and let's share the story and the hope
that has been granted together.
The hope that can be granted.
I ask myself time and time again the question why am I writing,
what is the contribution that I am hoping to make. Why is this story worth telling?
Safe places.
Songs of deliverance.
Hhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I've written much of this with my laptop on my lap, sitting on my
bed, surrounded by my favorite blue and green comforters. I have sat surrounded
by color and softness and life.
Within these pages, within this journey, I was grateful to have
color and warmth surrounding me. It has
been a process of walking away from lonely and scary and cold places. Step by step I have found my confidence, I
have found my voice, and I have awoken more and more into life and living.
In a day and age where there is such a need for a safe hiding
place, a refuge from times of trouble and sweet songs of deliverance, I didn't
want to create something that is trite.
In the decades that I have tried to write my story I hit road block
after road block. I would be able to
write one part well and then stumble and stagnate over significant portions I
wanted to tell, and then shelf the whole thing out of frustration.
But safe places and songs of deliverance are so very much needed
and so in this season I pulled my laptop back onto my lap, grabbed my lime
green comforter and curled up upon my bed.
To be surrounded by songs of deliverance. What does that sound
like? What does that feel like? What are
they? How does one learn to dance upon
the notes of hope and joy when all that has been heard are the dark chords of
abuse and neglect? What could it mean
for a mind that has only known fear to be saturated by a sweet sweet melody
that brings its refrain forward into reality?
And what does it mean for a life when the clash between the sounds makes
it war against each other within the same heart?
I think of many different types of scenarios, where the reality of
songs of deliverance is what is needed.
I found within the expression of words
the desire for the melody of love and peace, sanctuary and
security.
That is what I want to pass on.
I believe my story and the reality of where my life has landed now
breaks forth with the reality that one can find sanctuary and peace amidst whatever
troubled waters are experienced and walked upon.
When what you have needed was a hiding place, a refuge,
preservation from trouble or songs of deliverance, when what your heart
hungered to know was security and safety away from fear, and none of that was
around … What did you fall back upon?
What are you to believe when hiding places and preservation from trouble
seemed far far away from the realities you have known? What then?
I think it has been thoughts like those that have caused me to
come back time after time to try and figure out how to write my story down. How to write a story that includes the fact
that the majority of individuals who crossed paths with me believed that there
were no songs of deliverance for me to
be had... that there was no hope. That maybe I should just be written off as
lost or gone. A song silenced before it
could ever really be sung.
Discordance permeated all facets of the surrounding atmosphere of my days.. of my
life...
But you see, even if very faint at first, songs of deliverance play across the
landscapes of humanity with a fierce tenacity that cannot be matched. EVER!
The reality of the fragility of one's mental state and the fear
that at any moment the horrors of the past and realities of the present are
going to steal away from you all that is hoped for in regards to the future can
haunt. They can tear at one’s soul and
leave one wanting. Except they can also
be overcome.
A most famous book begins, “It was the best of times. It was the
worst of times.”
What if life was only the worst of times, for the longest of
times, without hope that anything would ever change. What if the reality of the state of mind you
found yourself in was full of hopelessness and horror? What if you watched others pass you by and
wondered what does being human really feel like? What does “normal” feel like?
What if the agony of living with the reality that filled out the days of ones
life altered the capacity to think or feel?
What if all one became capable of was living in alternate realities?
False hiding places forged within ones own self? Does one lose oneself? What are songs of deliverance for someone in
that place? What does that melody sound
like?
Songs of deliverance... Those three words aren't glib nor are they
trite. They have been life to me... Beyond this page you find a story... A friend
had come to me back in December 2012 and had shared her thoughts, that if I
stepped into fiction I would be able to write the story of my life. She was right. Some of it I had to step into
fiction in order to write. In acquiring some space for my heart, my fingers
flew upon the keyboard.
I would hit some places
where the reality of the events and what it felt like to live them needed that
personal touch. When I began to
understand that truly I wanted to give hope both to the person who suffered and
those that loved them.
In a culture where the “in” words of the day are; transparency,
vulnerability, and authenticity, I found within myself the need to go beyond
their cultural relevance. I journeyed
deep into a place that could offer real hope and strength and
courage.
I didn't want my story to just be about disassociation, abuse and neglect. I wanted to write something that showed the
power of what can happen when someone awakens and speaks and sees. How many of us, in some form or facet, are
“The Girl(boy) Next Door?”
I didn't want to just write a story where physiological,
emotional, physical or sexual abuse was the predominant theme. I didn't want to
share a story of a girl who learned very early to keep quiet, a girl who kept
her mouth closed and her eyes staring off into the distance. A story of a girl, who might as well have
been a shadow upon the wall. A girl who
lived a life imprisoned by fear. I
wanted to share a story of how we all can awaken, see and be seen, hear and be
heard. I wanted to share a story that
would open up those prison gates. I
wanted to share a story that would create an atmosphere and an environment
where eyes would open and awaken and mouths would open and be heard.
These pages are full of a life that could actually be being lived by a person who lives right
next door to you.
Seriously, as far reaching as some of the stories within are, I
was a person... living right next door to other people. There are those people
you pass in the highways and byways of life...
what is it that has filled out their life, what really happens to the
person who lives next door? As I say at
one point.. this is their story, this is our story.. How we learn to see each
other contributes into the songs of deliverance that we will personally sing
over our lives and over the lives of those that surround us...
Consider this story part of that overarching song of
deliverance. My portion in the cantata
of freedom for others. What can happen
within one generation within a family, what can happen within one lifetime of a
person.. well, if one believes and listens .. that which can happen is the
beauty of deliverance, restoration and hope and peace.
Songs of Deliverance.
A song... a melody full of
sweet and sorrow.. full of fear and full of overcoming... the notes at one
point melodious and at other times so very difficult to listen to...
Sitting in the present
before looking back
…..................................................................................
I sit upon my bed. The bright blue and green bedspread laying
underneath my body. I kept the lights
dim. My eyes and heart felt far off,
gazing into the distance of a past lived long ago.
Next door to my bedroom the most precious sound of a little one,
humming away as she plays with and
handles her toys. I listen intently to
the stories she is playing out. Her Dora
the Explorer Playhouse being infiltrated by all sorts of characters, from
littlest pet shop to the players that
came with the home.
It has been a while since I
have come to the computer to touch this piece and I allow all of my
surroundings to play their part. Having
just moved into a new home there are boxes and stacks of mislaid stuff all over
the place.
A picture perfect reality for
the interior terrains of my life....
“boxes and stacks of mislaid stuff all over the place.”
A sword rests against my
husband's dresser. Oddly enough it is
something that catches my attention. I
remember the night of our oldest son's 16th birthday when father
gave son something he had wanted for a very long time. I remember
seeing the picture that my husband would end up taking that evening. Our oldest fell asleep holding the
sword. Where once he had fallen asleep
cuddling a stuff animal now it was a five plus foot sword that he had truly
desired.
It was an amazing
moment. A rite of passage. Even the grandfather who had arrived, at one
point in the evening, contributed to the
awesomeness of the event.
Three generations of men from
this family stood side by side as a picture was taken with a boy and his
sword. Yes, we are in the twenty-first
century. But in writing that last sentence
it made me smile to myself and I let out a small laugh.
I sit propped up upon my
pillows and just allow my head and eyes to fall where they may. I touch the top of card board boxes, see a
misplaced heating pad, my husband's tool box, a jacket we had been looking for
for months and then my eyes fall upon the box that I have yet to touch.
I have yet to touch it
because I know all to well what is inside.
I know that this evening will not be the moment that the tape gets
peeled off and the box flaps get opened.
Not tonight, not yet...
My eyes move away from the
box and my heart commands a pause. So I
look towards the bathroom and spot the little girl's “make up” bag, and at the
exact same moment her voice emerges into the air again. She has gone from humming to singing and
making up a little ditty as she plays.
Her joy fills the air out
completely and a smile crosses my face.
I remember fear. I remember not wanting to become a
mother. I remember not wanting to ever
bring a child into this world. I
remember thinking how there was nothing I could ever do for a child that would
be beneficial. More than anything I just
remember being afraid.
Then the voice... A sweet,
strong, firm and loving voice spoke forth a promise, a promise that would find
it's fulfillment eighteen years afterwards but that which had probably found
it's fulfillment many times before and would find it many times again.
A promise upon a new
generation. A promise from heaven of what could be done within one
generation. A promise for a bloodline. A promise to be granted if trust would be
given.
It wasn't courage that caused
me to relent... It was him. I trusted
him. We had been through much already
and I had no idea of all that we would be through together. But he was the one speaking those words. How could I not but believe? How could I not answer?
Trust and faith had been
easier to come by those days. The last
twenty hadn't been lived quite yet. In
seeing the sword, in hearing my daughter's sweet voice.. In laying upon my bed
allowing my heart to move back and forth from present to past and back again,
all I could really do was remember the promise.
In one generation, he had
spoken, in one generation the destiny of
a family could come to pass.. Things could be different... If I hadn't seen it
so thoroughly with my own eyes I probably wouldn't believe it. If I hadn't lived the first nineteen years..
If I hadn't lived the last twenty-two maybe I wouldn't believe it.
But standing at 41.. I
believe!
My heart and my eyes darted
back and forth throughout my new bedroom.
But then the remembrance of another time and another bedroom, another
place played “tag” with my heart.. And the old saying, “you're it!” Filled the
air. A time I laid upon another
bed. A time when the blankets didn't
bring back beautiful images of faithful friends who had given a going away
present, but a time when blankets and sheets brought back anything but
beautiful images.
Stepping Back
….........................................................................
Mims
To look back upon days that
had been lived took discipline. It took
time. It took a belief that telling a
story would be better than not telling a story.
There truly isn't much about these days that I remember. If you would picture a 1000 piece puzzle,
picture it with more than half the
pieces missing.
Glimpses here and then
glimpses there but nothing completed and the pieces to complete the picture
were often hiding underneath the sofa or the bed.
So here we go... stepping in
together...
I introduce you to Jennifer
Galliant.
….........................................................
Exhaustion saturated every
fabric of her being she couldn't grasp a hold
of anything, not one thing. She had gotten into the crisp, cool, orange,
paisley sheets and slid down into them feeling herself slip away.
These feelings were all too
common, not that she understood them, but they lent themselves to her, filling
her as if they were concrete, leaving her suffocated.
The window reverberated with
the sounds of the falling rain splashing back up against the glass, it echoed back with the wind blaring its path
through the branches of the tree planted right alongside the outside frame.
The darkness of the evening's storm was swirling
around the household. All, that gives
off light during the passage of the night hours, was covered by black ominous
clouds.
The small bedroom with wooden
floors, and her white furniture... It was her world. Her things filled drawers, closets, as well
as a built in shelving unit that ran along side the wall opposite from the
doorway. Her clothes neatly folded and
perfectly put away, every sock having a pair, every thing having a place where
it belonged.
The dolls from every nation
her aunt and uncle had traveled to lined her shelves. The mime dolls her father had brought her
home from Paris and the other places he
had been, joined them.
The posters of mime's along
with Escher prints covered her walls.
Only the ones that couldn't
be seen from the hallway though.
Nothing was on the walls that
could be seen from the hallways.
The walls that could be seen
from outside her room were perfect.
Perfectly painted.
Perfectly displayed.
Perfect.
Perfect like the tightest
hospital corners that always were fitted at the end of her bed, where the
sheets and the mattress met.
She would allow her eyes to
linger upon Escher's staircases.
They were the closest
visualization of her life.
Stairs that led to nowhere.
Staircases up.
Staircases ending midair with
no clear path.
There wasn't any other
picture in the whole world more perfect than that.
She felt her breathing raise
her chest and lower it, raise her chest and lower it, raise her chest and lower
it...
As the pattern of breathing
continued a trance like state enveloped her, she felt herself lost in some sort
of far away dazed condition.
Wondering beyond anything
what would happen if she just gave into this sensation. Would she drift further and further away
until she was gone. Where would she be
then? Where would she go? What would happen to her?
Where would she be if she
drifted further and further away until she was gone?
Until she was untouchable.
(She was sadly never untouchable.)
Until she was maybe so
comatose that there would be nothing really left to her.
It was beautiful in the most
absurd way.
It was as if she was floating
yet as leadened down as deep wet concrete.
It was like her head was
empty yet full of concentrated thoughtlessness.
No movement.
No full breath.
Everything shallow.
Hallow.
Jennifer wondered if she laid
there long enough would she disappear.
Even if her body remained
physically could she disappear so that she could never get back. The heaviness upon her chest remained; in
school or out of school. She walked hallways and corridors blank, vacant, as a
vapor... nothingness filled her.
She listened to the rain
hitting the glass with such force, she listened to the howling of the
winds, she listened and she drifted into the veiled darkness of the
night.
Unyielding pain filled every pore unless she lingered
into that nothingness. So to the nothingness she gravitated towards
all the time.
She was letting go...
She could feel darkness
surrounding her,
enveloping her..
welcoming her.
As if the darkest of wardens
stood beckoning for her to grab a hold
of his boney skeleton like hand, to
travel with him far far away from the realities of life, her life, all life. He stood commanding the storm that raged
outside her window, he stood commanding
the storm that raged within her, he
stood beckoning, commanding, imprisoning.
She was letting go of the
fight to stay present, to stay conscious; except time and time again right as
she began to feel the empowering place of mummification something wooed her
away from departing fully.
Nothing tangible. Nothing that felt as present as the dark
warden but something, something real even if she couldn't put her finger on it.
No one actually ever walked
in and sat upon her bed and gently touched her flesh, no one ever called her
name with joyous affection in their tones, as they called out to her, no one
was ever present, no one was ever near, no one was ever around and yet...
And yet, something wooed her
back.
Something stood in the way of
her leaving.
It was like a huge flat sheet
of steel interrupted her spiral towards oblivion, her journey towards grasping the hand of the warden of darkness and death-shade. Something broke off the pull. Something broke off the pull and she bounded
back towards the current moment.
Shaken and exhausted.
Jennifer just laid in between
the sheets.
They were cool.
They were inviting.
They were clean.
They were always clean.
While she was now back to
being aware of her surroundings she wasn't fully back.
Desperate.
Alone and desperate.
Jennifer turned her head into
the pillow and just wept and wept and sobbed.
So utterly alone.
Sure there was a mother,
father, cousin and grandmother... but she might as well have lived on the
streets.
Maybe she would even have
been better off.
She thought of how five
people could live in a house for so long and yet basically just orbit around
one another never fully connecting. She thought about the perfect white walls
and the unspotted white carpet that laid throughout most of the house, this
house, that to call home would give it too much of a name.
It had exacted more from her than she could truly
give, certainly more than she was ever able to say..... ever willing to say.
Jennifer just laid upon her
bed breathing ever so shallow.
Haunted by the moments of
terror and not even knowing what they all were.
She got up and headed to the
bathroom to splash some cold water upon her face trying to shake away from the
pits of despair. Weights and chains
bound her legs and feet and each step felt heavy and painful to take.
Jennifer's feet hit the small
lime green carpet that laid right by her bedside, her hands pushed her up off of the
mattress, her legs walked her out of her
room and into the bathroom.
The darkness was cleared away
by the turning on of the switch. If only that exchange could happen as easily
in real life. Turning on the faucet,
Jennifer placed her hands under the cold water that started pouring forth.
Jennifer's eyes lifted to the
mirror, to her reflection. What was she
looking for? What was she looking
at? The light on, the water running, her
hands feeling the sensations of the cold liquid passing through her fingers,
her eyes beholding herself, her eyes going void as all the sensations filled
her senses to overload.
Instead of going back to her
bedroom she wandered into her grandmother's where there was an extra television.
Jennifer sat on her
grandmother's bed. The bed spread was
thin, she hated the way the back side of it felt against the flesh of her foot,
or her body. She abhorred it. Something about the material just thoroughly
kept her bothered. The afghan that Faye
had knitted was laying perfectly folded at the end of the bed. Jennifer had never not known the realities of
this room.
The old wood furniture, the
bed frames, the pictures of a wedding that hung over the bed, the mirrors...
the two mirrors. Jennifer must have spent hours looking into those
mirrors. Jennifer spent hours looking at
all the pictures. There were pictures of relatives she had never met, most were
dead but some had just been lucky enough
to put space between themselves and Faye.
Her
grandmother's television was on and the show, Our House, was running in the
background as Jennifer watched herself again within a mirror.
“What
is so wrong with me?”
That
question lingered in the air, in Jennifer's heart, in Jennifer's mind, within
Jennifer's whole person all the time.
All
the time.
Jennifer
looked at her face, her hair, her eyes, her mouth.... Her dark, pitch, black hair, her plain brown
eyes, her pale complexion, her freckles; what attribute pushed her over the line
that made her so completely unacceptable?
She
wasn't beautiful but was she really that ugly?
Her
heart began to fail her as she pushed her body off of the bed, heading towards
the television to shut it off, the thoughts that wouldn't release Jennifer's
head and heart filled them again and
again, over and over with the question of what was so wrong with her.
She
couldn't keep things together.
She
couldn't function fully.
She
just went back and sat again in her
bedroom, on her bed and cried and cried and cried.
….................................................
The bus jolted Jennifer
back to reality. The noise of chitter
chatter filled the air, the noise of the vehicle itself filled her ears, the cushioned gray back of the seat in front
of her caught her body as the jolt threw
her up against it.
She had gotten lost in
thought as they passed the section of road that had the woods off to the
right. Jennifer leaned her head onto the
cold glass pane, her head bumping along with the rhythmic shaking of the
vehicle that was bringing her to school.
Her eyes looked at the
woods off to the right.
Her thoughts drifted to
Grizzly Adam's simplistic rural living.
Her mind's natural process kicking into playacting scenarios in her
head. This story line or that story line
all infringing their weight and better reality upon her person.
Anything... anything would
have to be better than the continual droning on of her life.
Head lost in the clouds or
somewhere without earthly destinations or geography, Jennifer rode in silence,
lost in her thoughts.. hidden from the world and realities all seemed to know
but her. The bus finally pulled into the
school's driveway and around the loop with the flag pole that blazed forth the
American way. Red, White and Blue... all
shining forth the dreams of better lives.
As if mechanically flowing
with the day after day routine all got up, gathered their stuff, exited the
yellow transport and headed in all various directions.
Jennifer lost in her head
knew where her feet would take her, not really even dreading each step that
would bring her further into her day, just not connecting with them
either.
More of a puppet or life by
proxy.
Step here.
Breathe.
Linger there.
Entering into the
school. Jennifer looked up at the tiled
mosaic that covered the ceiling and ran down both sides of the entrance
way. A mural of happy children amidst a
bright blue cloudless sky entering a place of learning just like what she was
currently doing.
All their faces looked so
happy, all their clothes so perfect, all wearing back packs and carrying lunch
sacks, some of the boys had baseball caps on their heads, some of the girls had
their hair pulled back in a pony tail or pig tails, but all of them... all of
them looked happy.
Jennifer noticed the one
tile off to the middle of the right side wall that had cracked. She noticed how the girl who had been painted
at that spot had half of her face missing so that you couldn't see her, not
fully.
Jennifer's eyes would
always find that one spot.
That one tile amidst
thousands of tiles that had a crack in it, that lacked paint and wasn't a full
picture in one corner amidst an other wise perfect mural. That spot, Jennifer thought, that spot was her,
a crack in an otherwise perfect picture.
Jennifer stood there just
staring at the tile.
She started walking
again.
Being passed by and passing
by bodies pressing in here and there as all were making their way through doors
towards hallways towards classrooms towards chairs and desks, towards the day.
This day would be broken up
by an assembly.
Again the routine.
So well trained.
Pavlov's dogs in mass
quantities.
Line up at the door.
Stand in line.
Be quiet.
Hands to sides.
Mouths were quiet and
shut.
Hands were glued flat.
Legs walked bodies down the
hallway into the gymnasium.
Class after class filtered
in.
Child after child was told
to sit down.
Legs crossed.
Mouths shut.
Hands to oneself.
Eyes forward.
Jennifer sat alongside
classmates.
Names, faces.. nothing
more... spending most of her day with these people year after year never making
any real or true connection.
It felt so surreal to
Jennifer as she played the role of obedient complacent child.
Somewhere deep within she
mocked this charade. These people. She mocked yet hungered to enter into their
reality all the same. Jennifer's mind
drifted back to when attendance was
being taken, names were being called out, voices declaring that they indeed
were present, Jennifer wondered what
would happen if she actually spoke up and said, “Heck no. Not present.”
Parents would be called,
possibly. But would saying anything different change
anything even if her parents were called?
Realizing the answer was
most definitely not, Jennifer answered, “present,” in response to her name
being called. Maybe she was indeed
invisible and if she didn't say she was present her teacher wouldn't see her,
again would it matter. Would it matter
at all?
Something nagged at her as
outcast.
Something tore at her
insides screaming she didn't belong.
She knew that all too
well.
Even so her eyes searched
the place for somewhere to land.
Something to attach to that would make sense. Coming up to the surface of life instead of
just peering through eye sockets, Jennifer was hungry for connection to
whatever degree could touch that which was resident within her.
There were the typical
announcements as always again being told what to do, how to be the good boys
and girls and represent the school, their teachers, themselves well.
The principal went on about
the production they were about to watch, as the lights darkened Jennifer
crunched her little body over her crissed crossed applesauce legs watching as
ballet dancers took the stage.
Some might have noticed the
lighting. Some might have noticed the
most graceful of movements as women jumped and were lifted up into the
air. Some might have noticed the beauty
of costumes and faces made up ever so perfectly.
Jennifer noticed the lead
dancer's penis.
In the tightest of pants,
Jennifer's eyes had landed on the bulging part between the legs of the man now
leaping and twirling around and around the stage. Jennifer's mouth would form the words to her
peer sitting next to her making mention of the unmentionable parts.
Her little friend,
Kimberly, was wearing this new princess line dress which was blue and green and drew in very narrow to
her waist. Jennifer's eyes had looked upon
the beautiful wider skirt at the bottom and the ruffles that dressed up the
neckline, the laces that tied around her throat that were a bright yellow as
standing in contrast to the rest of the dress.
Jennifer looked at her
friend upon whose ears had heard what she said but her eyes didn't register the
same picture. Kimberly had been
enraptured by princesses being thrown into the air and caught and the amazing
flashing rainbow colored lights.
Kimberly had gotten lost
into little girl dreams of princesses and princes and all that happily ever
after endings proclaim. Kimberly hadn't
even noticed that which had caught Jennifer's attention, nor did Kimberly fully
understand.
But the teacher behind them
understood and understood perfectly, she too had heard Jennifer's
proclamation. Horrified her whole face
contorted, as she bore her hand down into Jennifer's shoulder.
Jennifer wished she could
vanish into the varnish of the shiny gymnasium flooring which she was sitting
criss crossed upon.
Chastisement and shame
barreled down upon the child who had dared point out that the male dancer had
bulging parts between his legs. Jennifer
hadn't followed the mandated set of approved of behavior. Threats were made and horrified astonishment
was shown that such language would come out of the mouth of a 4th
grader.
Jennifer didn't think it
back then, but as she would grow older and remember back; upon the ludicrous
scene, she would think to herself, that she sadly knew more about those bulging
parts, between men's legs, then that fourth grade teacher whose ignorance and
horror had kept her blind to a child in need.
All that scenario taught
Jennifer was that her lips sealed was the best possible posture. That liken unto crazy glue, an adhesive was being placed upon
Jennifer's mouth that would ride out into the next decade, silence would
dictate to her heart to lay low.. lay very very low. Much to the credit of the adversaries of
Jennifer's small existence the child was learning silence in the most horrific and
horrifying of ways.
That was what school really
taught and reinforced into Jennifer's world.
Day after day being swallowed by the abyss at home, by the abyss at
school.. out in the hallways, the highways, the byways...
Jennifer was learning all
too well the land of self preservation.
It was forming her insides,
it was laying construction to mighty and strong foundations within a life,
whose cracks and lack of substance would be made evident to all at the
embarrassment of its prey, the life that would try to rest upon it.
Memories haunted Jennifer following her as if a cruel
prank being played out year after year. There was the teacher in 5th grade who had
come up with a nickname for everyone, everyone in the class had a cool private
nickname between them and the teacher.
Everyone except Jennifer.
He would just look at her
and draw a blank.
Each time.
Each and every time.
There were names for
everyone but her.
There was Amar the
star. That one lingered and
haunted. That one exalted another
continually over her, the depth that Jennifer would plummet to over the
exclusion from these ceremonious absurdities would rack her very being to the
core.
There was the time she had
cussed. She was just pissed. Something had transpired in the neighborhood
and she had told the person to fuck off.
Well on the bus the following morning threats were being made that
parents would be told and that Jennifer was going to be exposed for having used
such fowl language. She wanted to tell the girl she could fuck off again, but
now she was afraid.
Jennifer had run into the
tiled entrance, she had run through hallways, down a few stairs to the corridor
where the payphone was, she put a few coins in the slot but still had to place the collect call to home. Her mother had answered the phone and lie
upon lie poured out of a panic stricken heart.
“Mom, Elise is mad at me and wants to get me into
trouble. She is going to tell you I said
bad words. But I didn't mom. I really
didn't.”
Panic and dread and horror
filled Jennifer's heart as she stammered on and on, trying to catch her breath
as well as answer questions her mother
was fielding back towards her, such as why would Elise do that, and what had
really happened.
Jennifer's mind racing a
million miles a minute struggling to come up with anything that sounded
reasonable but nothing really did and she would probably be shown up for
lying.
But what did she care.
What did she really care?
Jennifer's head felt so
heavy. Jennifer felt exhausted as she
raced to her third grade classroom before the bell rang.
Bells ringing.
Schedules dictating.
Year after year spent being herded like cattle into and out
of classrooms, hallways, stair wells...
faces changing or not changing but nothing really changing. The droning on and on and on through mandated
corridors of human existence never once stopping to access whether the next
foot step should even be taken.
Eyes ceased to plead for
help as Jennifer's heart learned very quickly that it didn't know how to
function like the other children's, eyes
ceased to plead to be really seen but a will to survive was being forged.
….................................................
Feet carried the child
forward. She had emerged from her front
door and was eying the climbing tree that was right in front of her, the day was utterly perfect and Jennifer was
looking forward to being outside all afternoon.
The activity and drama of
the weekend had left Jennifer tired in regards to all the adults that were in
her life, she just wanted a break.
Jennifer jumped down the
five concrete steps that went from her stoop to the slate walkway, she climbed
them again and jumped them again and repeated that activity in a brainless
fashion at least half a dozen times.
Feeling triumphant over the
fear of the what ifs.
The what ifs she missed and
fell.
When she had been younger
she would stand on the second to bottom step and jump and feel brave, then she
would add a step and do the same thing over and over again until all five steps
had been conquered. Oh they had been
conquered, all right, and Jennifer was jumping and jumping away.
Then from out of
nowhere she heard.
“Hey can you come over?”
Looking up and seeing from
where the words were spoken Jennifer replied, “I don't know I can ask.” Jennifer screamed back over the rode to her
across the street neighbor, Elise.
“We can just stay outside.”
“OK.” Jennifer
walked across her own yard heading towards the street.
Jennifer felt bad for
Elise.
Everyone knew there were
problems in the Tullote family household.
Jennifer's mom and nana had
been talking about everything for days and even if Jennifer didn't want to
overhear it it was all they talked about, it was if they were the
neighborhood piranha devouring that poor
family.
Jennifer would watch Patricia
and Faye's faces echoing in a horrific delight at the plight of Elise's older
brother. As if glued to the chair but
lost somewhere in outer space Jennifer would hear the words as if through a
dazed fog. Every now and then Jennifer's
nana, Faye, would drop a word or a whole phrase in Yiddish knowing that
Jennifer didn't know one iota of the language that mixed cultures.
Faye liked isolating anyone
as long as it wasn't herself, whether she liked being mean or not she was mean
to the core of her being. A proper slim
older woman Faye brought propriety and cruelty to new heights. Tearing into someone was her specialty,
belittling them and pulling them apart her expertise.
“Poor Mandy. Can you imagine?”
“No. They were just lucky we
didn't call the police.” Patricia
responded off of Faye concerning the other night when the door bell had been
rung so very late in the evening.
Mitchell had actually been
home and yet even with the hour had
supposed that maybe it was someone from work.
At least that was Patricia's
assumption due to the fact that the chime of the door bell at Eleven O'clock at
night caused him to have a far different reaction than what Patricia thought
was warranted.
But what did she know.
Instead of a co-worker
Mitchell would open the door to find a brown paper bag on fire. Mitchell had run back into the house to grab
a tong from the fireplace. As he
positioned the tongs upon the bag to remove it from his stoop, some mud looking
like substance fell out of the bag.
Except it wasn't mud at all
it was a huge amount of dog shit that someone had collected and put into the
bag hoping that the one who found it would try and stomp out the fire only to
get dog crap all over their house shoes, foot, or whatever the poor victim
would have had on.
Everyone in the neighborhood
knew exactly who it was that had done this to the Galliants.
Mitchell had gone over to
talk to Elise's dad the following morning.
All Jennifer knew was that
not too much later a horrible commotion was being played out on the Tullote's
driveway. Mr. Tullote had taken Elise's
brother's Nintendo along with his ax out to their driveway and the two were
meeting over and over again as Elise's brother let off every swear word
Jennifer had ever heard.
Then the neighborhood on Hill
Crest Drive fell silent to an eerie horrible silence.
Mitchell had spent the Sunday
morning using the boiling water Faye had given him to clean off the stoop.
All was perfect and clean and
quiet again. The neighborhood could all
now go about the rest of their Sunday activities as if nothing had even
happened.
Jennifer had seen Elise
playing alone outside in her front yard.
Jennifer had given a slight and
awkward wave that Elise had immediately picked up upon. And the offer to play had come forth. Elise had been nervous for Jennifer to go ask
her parents if they could play, assured that the answer would have been a
resounding no.
Elise was relieved that Jennifer had probably
ascertained that as well. So now all
were coming up with the compromise that since it was just across the
street and they were going to stay outside it would be definitely alright to
not ask.
It was kind of that way
anyway.
Between the four houses there
were the Galliants, Elise's family, Dedra's family, and Meghan's and all the
kids played somewhat interchangeably despite ages and girl slash boyhood.
Whether it was a neighborhood
game of freeze tag, or ball... the street and lawns would erupt with kids
running and chasing and playing with each other. The air would fill with the sounds of moms
calling kids for dinner and the promises of being right back in ten minutes.
Kids would rush in, devour
food, and run back out waiting for all the rest to join them and the games
would ensue. Especially in the Summer
time when the play and running around could take these neighborhood children
into the late late hours of the evening.
Jennifer always hated the
fact that she and Sebastian were always the first to be called in. The others, all the others, would still be
outside playing while Jennifer watched from her bedroom window dressed in
pajamas.
She would watch hour after
hour as the fun continued. She would sit
there in her nightgown, feeling the fresh cool breezes of the evening floating
into her room, landing upon her flesh.
Smelling the scents of Summer upon herself and the outside air, Jennifer
would wish that she was still outside playing with her friends.
She would watch through the
glass.
She would sit there hour
after hour watching.
She would sometimes wake up
having fallen asleep at her desk which was by the window panes, then it was
really dark and the street had fallen completely silent.
She would move from the desk
to her bed and the perfectly tucked in hospital corners that made the sheets so
delicious to crawl into.
Most of the time she would
fall immediately back off to sleep.
Other times she would just
lay there in a daze looking up or off to the side.
Her father had put a full
length mirror on the outside of her closet door and so at night if Jennifer
couldn't sleep she would raise her arm out of the covers and watch it's
reflection in the mirror, she would do the same with her leg, or her other arm.
Just checking that they were
real.
Just making sure that they
worked.
Just playing around.
Her mind would wander
sometimes and scenarios of which Jennifer was the real one and which was the
one trapped in the world of the mirror would ensue. Then at some point through
the night, through the scenarios Jennifer would fall back off asleep.
“Come on already.”
Elise was calling Jennifer to
hurry up and get over.
Anxious to play.
Anxious to have time where
her life wasn't about her brother or her father or the anger that saturated her
household these days.
Having arrived from across
the street Jennifer and Elise ran around the yard chasing each other and
playing catch. Each felt alive and
wonderful as they ran and ran and ran.
Their feet sprinting across
luscious green grass, dodging the trees that were sprinkled out here or there
across the yard, sending mulch flying in
every direction as they played and ran after one another.
Everything raced by them into
a blurry frenzy of laughter and activity and color.
They would eventually
collapse.
Exhausted.
They would lay with their
backs against the grass and with their little girl eyes gazing up at the sky,
begin declaring and pointing out what the different clouds looked like. The two girls just relaxing with each other
as if the rest of both of their worlds had completely disappeared.
“Wanna play boxing?”
“What?” Jennifer asked. Elise wanted to pretend fight as if Jennifer
and her were in a boxing ring.
“No.”
“Come on. It will be fun. It
won't be like we are really fighting.”
“I really don't want to.”
“Let's just do it.”
Elise got up and offering a
hand to Jennifer got her friend up on her feet.
“So we just kind of do
this...” Elise was showing Jennifer how
to hold up her hands in fists by her face and keep her legs a tad bit
apart. Then Elise started to kind of
dance back and forth and move her hands up and down. “So this is what we do. Come on.”
Jennifer followed Elise's
lead.
Putting up her hands.
Keeping her legs apart,
bending at the knees, dancing back and forth.
Elise punched Jennifer's arm.
“Hey, that hurt. I thought we
were just pretending.”
“Well we aren't hitting that
hard.” Elise said landing another fist to Jennifer's arm.
Jennifer tilted her head and looked up at her friend. “I really don't
like this.”
“Come on.”
“Ok.” Jennifer conceded. And attempted a similar
punch which landed upon her friend. The
actuality of the contact seemed to
unleash something in Jennifer and before she knew it she had Elise down on the
ground, landing punch after punch on Elise's face.
Elise screamed.
Patricia had seen the girls
from the window and was now standing at the stoop screaming over to the girls
to stop. Running across the lawn and
street Patricia grabbed up her daughter.
Looking at both
of the girls in disgust Patricia let out a litany of commands. “Stop this immediately.” Pushing her daughter
back across the yard and the street and the other yard and into the house,
Patricia looked behind her to see who had been watching.
That was all she
needed was to be the next bit of food for the gossip mill of the street.
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