30 Days of Blogging, Day 14: You Could Lose Your Mind

The summer before fifth grade. I was very proud of this shirt. Rad dude. Rad.

I think I can attribute the majority of trouble I got myself into as a child to the bad influence of Nick at Nite. Shows like Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, and The Little Rascals--riddled with rascally characters getting into all kinds of shenanigans. If you were going to take life advice from any Nick at Nite show, The Patty Duke Show was not one of them.

I changed schools twice in the fifth grade--the first time was at the start of the year when my mother decided the bullying situation at my current school was untenable, and the second was when we moved towns.

Second grade through fourth grade at Centennial Elementary in Littleton was at best a waking nightmare. My walks to and from school was like playing Super Mario Brothers--you never knew was was lurking around the corner wanting to throw things at your face. Things weren't any better in the school either. The kids were pretty bold when it came to their bullying, even going so far as attacking me in class--in front of the teacher. With little change and repercussion from the principal my mother pulled me out of Centennial at the end of fourth grade.

Peabody Elementary was full of promise. The staff and my teacher knew the situation I was coming from, and they were warm and welcoming. The kids didn't really pick on me so much as they ignored me.

One day a pair of girls in my class took me aside and said they wanted to talk to me. The reason that nobody really wanted to talk to me was because my clothes weren't really cool. Up until that point it never really occurred to me that clothes were supposed to be cool--I just wore what my mother bought me: jeans, corduroys, my Simpsons t-shirt, overalls--stuff kids wear. One of the girls offered to bring in clothes for me the next day, just so I could experience what wearing cool clothes would be like.

The next day she brought me a pair of black stirrup stretch pants, push-down tube socks, a cream colored turtle neck and a beautiful green long baggy sweater. They were the nicest clothes I'd ever put on. I went to the bathroom before our first recess to change. I stepped on to the playground and was met with all-around approval from the girls who dressed me up.

"See! This is how you should dress!" She was so proud of herself.

They invited me to participate in a swing race with them. We played together again after lunch.

For a day I felt like I belonged. Why only a day? Well, I brought myself down this time, with my big imagination and my big mouth.

As we sat together on the jungle gym I had an idea. How can I make my stock go up? Make up a fantastic, improbable lie, obviously!

I told the kids I wasn't going to be in class the next day because I had a doctor appointment, but my cousin is visiting and she was going to be allowed to sit in class for me. Oh and by the way, my cousin is from England! Oh, and she's British! Also,she's--wait for it--my twin!

Any of this sound familiar? That's because it's the plot to The Patty Duke Show. 

In summary, my genius plan was to show up at school the next day posing as my own English twin cousin. Sounds pretty cool, right? The kids clearly didn't watch nearly as much Nick at Nite as I did because they seemed to believe me, they even started telling other kids in the class. It occurred to me at the end of the day as I packed up my bag that my plot had many holes in it. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to have to tell my teacher.

I was the last to leave class and she was already at her desk grading papers.

Mrs. Fleming, was sweet but no-nonsense, with a darling pixie cut and she always wore red lipstick--I even still think of her when I wear red lipstick. I approached her at her desk and she looked up at me over her reading glasses.

I stumbled through my story--her stare was killing my confidence--but I walked away assuring myself that she believed me.

As I climbed into the car with my mom I became overcome with guilt. I told a pretty big lie. The absurdity of the lie didn't occur to me, just the fact that I lied. I was still doing time in my evening prayers asking for forgiveness for stealing a lip-gloss, I should be adding lying to my list of sins.

As I buckled myself in I told my mother, "I think I did something bad."

"What did you do?" She asked. Her voice sound strained--like I was about to drop a pretty big bomb.

I felt that I needed to diffuse what could potentially be a huge problem for me. If I acted like it's not that big a deal, then she would definitely find her chill.

"Well, it's not that big a deal. I told the kids in my class that I have an English twin cousin and that she's coming to school for me tomorrow. I told Mrs. Fleming too...but it's not that big of a deal! It's silly!"

The look on her face was not at all filled with amusement the way I hoped it would be. Her mouth was just stuck in a pursed "O" shape.

"Summer Jean, this is a very big deal. That's a huge lie, and it's not funny."

Yes it is, I thought to myself.

"Yes it is!", I said--out loud. Stupid.

"You are going to turn around and go back in there and tell your teacher the truth."

It wasn't rational, but I couldn't believe she wasn't on my side. I couldn't believe she was going to make me actually face my lie so boldly. I could feel my cheeks get hot and I began to cry.

"You can't make me go back in there!" If I cried maybe she'll take pity.

"We're not leaving until you go back in there and tell your teacher the truth." She put the van in park and turned off the engine.

I sat, slack-jawed, for what felt like minutes. I felt numb. I felt stupid. The absurdity of the lie was starting to wash over me. What a genuinely stupid lie.

I climbed out of the mini-van and started what felt like a death march towards the school. I could have done the honorable thing and just fess up. I could have done that. I didn't do that.

As I slowly paced down the polished school linoleum I kicked my brain into gear. Fessing up to lies is the worst. Why should I fess up to a lie when I could just come up with another lie? I can get through this relatively unscathed if I can come up with a really good cover for myself.

Mrs. Fleming was still sitting at her desk grading papers. I approached her desk and she peered up at me over her reading glasses once more.

"Yes, Summer?" Clearly I was encroaching on her time.

"Um, Mrs. Fleming? I just wanted to let you know--" Light-bulb."--that my cousin won't be able to make it tomorrow. She never made it out here. She's sick. She has pneumonia. She actually got sick on the plane. They had to turn it around and take her back to England. I don't know if she's going to make it. A-a-a-a-ny-way...she won't be here tomorrow. I'll be here though! My doctor appointment was canceled. See you tomorrow?"

I don't know what I expected. "Oh sure, no problem! Hope your cousin makes it! See you tomorrow!" Her face registered as utterly un-amused.

She just sighed. "Fine Summer. Good night."

I said good night and left her with her papers. Half of me thought she bought it. The other half knew she didn't, but it didn't matter. I had made myself look like an idiot at my new school--it was over before it could even begin.

The fun wasn't over. My mother demanded to know if I told her the truth, and in the spirit of maintaining an honest relationship with her, I told her that I lied again. She was aghast. She couldn't believe that I had lied again. We went home and I spent the rest of the night alone in my room.

The next day at school I spouted the same lie to the kids. Whether or not they bought it didn't matter. I was relegated to the same obscurity from which I came--not because I couldn't come up with an English twin cousin, but because my clothes looked poor.

Six months later we moved to Castle Rock. My parents were tired of renting in a bad neighborhood, and Castle Rock had better schools.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson. A couple days before I started school at Rock Ridge Elementary I sneak-watched Dirty Dancing. I was obsessed with the dancing in it and practiced in my bedroom wearing my mother's leotard.

On my second day of class I found out the two most popular girls took dance lessons. I boasted to them that I taught lessons, specializing in the dancing from Dirty Dancing. 

Lindsey, the most popular of the two, sneered through her braced teeth. "Our parents would never let us watch that, and I don't need lessons from you." I noted her response and quietly went about my business, once again relegating myself to friendless obscurity.

As I walked home from school that day I noticed another girl from my class walking the same path home as me. I asked if I could walk with her. She said yes, but this doesn't mean we're friends. She also pointed out that my cowboy boots looked ridiculous. They were my dad's boots and I loved them, even if they were too big for me.

That night my mother came into my room to say good night to me. I'll never forget that night, because the room was dark but still bright from the light of a full moon.

She asked me if I wanted to pray. I began to cry.

She wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Why are you crying baby?"

I felt bereft. "I just feel like I'm never going to have a friend. I'm never going to fit in. I don't know how to make friends."

She took my hands and told me to pray about it. I looked at the full moon and squeezed my eyes tight.

"Dear God, I don't have any friends. Please let me make a friend tomorrow."

My mother kissed me good night. I fell asleep crying that night, faithless in my prayer.

The next day as I sat alone on the playground a girl came up and started talking to me. Her name was Shiloy. I told her where I was from, where I lived in the neighborhood. She actually seemed interested in me. After school she walked me to the rain run-off tunnel that I walked through to get to my house. She said we should sit together at lunch the next day.

As I walked through the tunnel I heard the sparrows flapping around, building their spring nests. I smiled as I saw my house walking out of the dark tunnel. I ran the rest of the way home and breathlessly hugged my mother.

To be honest, 25 years later I still struggle with making friends and I still struggle with relating to people. I've stopped telling lies, and I always try to be myself. There's a gap that I struggle crossing--that gap that prevents me from connecting. Maybe it's fear, Maybe I'm a little bit broken.

That day though, I didn't feel broken. I didn't need a fantastic lie. I didn't need Patty Duke or Dirty Dancing.

As I hugged my mother, I looked up at her through tears in my eyes and said, "Jesus answered my prayer. I made a friend today."

30 Days of Blogging, Day 8: Life of Crime

Look at this thug.

Drema and I were inseparable. The moment we were free from school we would race from our homes and find each other. We would dress up, play house in the bushes and practice kissing, and when we could scrounge up change, we would wander down to the Albertson's down the street to buy Tootsie Pops. We even shared chicken pox, we were so close.

Drema was also the first girl I ever loved.

We were also children of mothers who were very devout Christians.

We were Catholic until I was about 8. One Sunday morning my mother said we're going to be Baptist now and when we go to church I needed to stop crossing myself. I would sneak in the occasional cross while everyone's eyes were closed during prayer, thought--the early days of my rebellion. "Tell me I can't cross myself? Well screw you! Cross! May God be with you, and also with you motherfucker!"

I didn't say motherfucker when I was 8.

Religion and church was important to my mother. Everything we did went through God, and everything we had came through God. He was the Brita filter of our lives. All decisions went through God as well, but bad decisions...those came from the big D himself: El Diablo, Lucifer, The Devil...SATAN.

In the mornings and afternoons, when my mother drove me to and from school, we listened to the Focus on the Family radio program. Dr. James Dobson often used the phrase, Satan getting a foothold. "Don't let Satan get a foothold!"--as if some imaginary little red-bodied monster with a bifurcated tail was obnoxiously clinging to our ankles trying to drag us into hell.

Drema was a little more dangerous than me. She was usually the instigator in our adventures. Like the time we wanted to turn her apartment building's laundry room into a haunted house; it was her idea to dribble red nail polish all over as a great substitute for blood. She of course handed it off to me to do the dribbling, and when we got in trouble she pointed at me and said I did it. I was rarely angry when she did this--Drema was a little scared of her mother, because as devout as my mother was, her mother made my mother look like a lightweight Christmas/Easter Christian.

Neleen was a devoutly, deeply, crazy Christian. When I would go over to Drema's apartment she was always kneeling in prayer. She had a thick Texas accent, and when Drema would leave to play with me, she would place her hand on both of our heads and pray for us. When we got back she would pray over us again and interrogate us to find out if we made good decisions that was reflective of God's glory. All that being said, if the heat was ever coming down on Drema, I didn't mind taking it in her place, because the consequences were always so much worse for her than they would be for me.

One Cinco de Mayo afternoon, Drema and I were dressed up in giant ruffly dresses that belonged to her Mother--we loved strolling the neighborhood in our dress-up outfits. We wandered down the block to the Albertson's for our usual Tootsie Pop, but that day we took a diversion down the makeup aisle.

We didn't ever buy anything--we were 9 and we didn't have money. We would just faun over the products and say what we would buy that day if we did have money. This day, however, Drema picked up a tube of bubble gum flavored roller-ball lip gloss. We both wanted it so bad. We kept passing it back and forth, admiring the clear tube of gloss and the little pink bubbles on the bottle. Drema then took it back from me, pulled open the front of my dress and stuffed the lip gloss inside of it.

I immediately knew what we were doing was wrong; my older brother got in trouble for it constantly, having recently stolen Garbage Pail Kids cards from the 7-Eleven down the street. Stealing was bad. "Thou shalt not steal." We heard it in Sunday school. It was in a cross-stitch on our walls.

I heard myself ask, "Isn't this stealing?"--like I didn't know. Drema looked at me incredulously, as if I was some kind of idiot who didn't realize this was the plan all along, and said "Yes." The excitement of what was happening replaced my Christian guilt and she instructed me to walk out like nothing was wrong. As we rounded the corner we looked at each other and squealed, delighted that we got away with our first act of larceny.

Our celebration was cut short when I saw Drema's face fill with fear as our mothers drove up to us in my Mother's minivan. My mom had been looking for me; we were going to drive out to the reservoir and go for a walk with the family. I jumped into the front seat and looked at Drema as we drove away knowing I had incriminating evidence stuffed down my dress.

When we got to the reservoir I knew I had to ditch the lip gloss, but I had nowhere to throw it, so I tossed it under the passenger's seat when my mom wasn't looking--I then immediately forgot about it.

Two weeks later my mother called me into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table looking deadly serious. I sat down and she gently placed the lip gloss, still in it's package, on the table between us.

"Where did this come from?" She was so cool, like the good cop detective.

It took me literally seconds to fess up. I didn't so much fess up as I just exploded with truth.

"I STOLE IT!" I sobbed and threw my face into my arms on the table.

My mom very calmly put her hand on my hand and said, "This is a sin Summer. This is a sin that God never forgives."

So that was it for me. Nine years old and my afterlife had already been decided.

My mother told me that I would be grounded for two weeks, the first week of which I would be spending in my room by myself. She grilled me if I acted alone, and in the spirit of honesty I told her that Drema and I took it together. We marched directly over to Drema's house and sat down with Nelleen for my confession.

I will never forget to the look on Drema's face. Betrayed fury. Nelleen and Mom prayed over us; they prayed we would learn from our sin and that we would not continue to stray down Satan's path. When we left Drema hugged me and said she would never forgive me.

I spent that first week of solitude mourning the loss of my friend. Not only was I grounded for two weeks, we were grounded from each other for a month.

Every single night as I would lay myself down to sleep I would pray that God would forgive me for stealing and that Drema would be my friend again. I prayed and prayed, every time shedding tears of contrition for my God and my friend.

Exactly one month later Drema showed up on my doorstep and asked me to go roller skating. Years after that I would still pray that God would forgive me for stealing that tube of lipgloss. I'm not sure if God has yet forgiven me. Time will tell.

I started writing this story focused on God, religion and how religion fucks us up in our most vulnerable years. While I was writing I of course reminisced about Drema.

We hadn't spoken since just before I married my ex-wife, and before then we hadn't seen or spoken to each other since we were 10. We caught up while I listened to her 5 children in the background scream and I told her I was getting married. When I told her that I was marrying a woman her disappointment was clear--I didn't turn out the way she expected and, in fairness, she didn't turn out the way I expected. We never spoke again after that.

8 years later I decided to Google her name, and the first item that returned was her obituary.

Drema died 2 years ago. Cancer. I don't know how long she was sick, and I don't know a lot of the details of her life.

 I just know the following: that she had five children, she was 33, she died in the town she was born in, and I'm so glad we stole that stupid lipgloss.