Problems with Authority

By Molly

I have a problem with authority. I will admit it. It is why I have been suspended from school, kicked out of roller derby, fired from two jobs and it is the reason I try to fight men in bars who are much stronger than me. I think I may have an idea where it all stems from.

My mom used to make my teachers cry when I would misbehave and get in trouble. I would tell my mom "what happened," and she would cook up some way to make my teachers cry. The first time we took on a teacher I was in second grade. I laughed and giggled with my friends during church service which we went to every day at school. My teacher called my mom and said I was very unladylike. My mom took offense to this statement. That night she helped me pick out my outfit for school the next day. She found a long black dress for me to wear. She paired that with some white old-fashioned gloves. On my head I had a retro small white hat that had a small black bow on the side. My mom taught me how to curtsy that night. She also taught me how to talk softly and other "ladylike" qualities.

I showed up at school the next day and curtsied to everyone. I wore my gloves and hat all day. I talked softly all day. The teacher caught on. She told me to remove my gloves. "Ladies never remove their gloves in the presence of men," I replied. Eventually she called my mom. My mom told her that I was just being ladylike. I believe there were a few other words exchanged too, the end result was my second grade teacher crying.

This was followed by the time I had to stay after school and copy from the bible. I sat for an hour and wrote lyrics to the songs I liked. When my mom was called in and was showed what I had written, she told the teacher I skipped around the Bible. The teacher had never said I had to copy the bible in order. My mom knew how to get around every rule they threw at her.

Eventually I had enough of the small catholic school. I begged my mom for a year to switch me to the public school. She was against it until I got in trouble for teaching a boy how to belly dance.

After my little brother Timmy was born my mom joined a belly dance troupe. I learned a few moves. I tried to teach a boy at school those moves. The teacher sent a note home that said I was enticing the boys. Finally, I got to switch schools. The day of the big switch my mom took me to school to say goodbye. The teacher hid. We didn't see her the whole time. My mom took every piece of paper out of that school that said my name on it. There were a lot of pictures on the wall of me and my classmates. She scratched my face out of all the pictures.

Every time I am at a bar and some stupid guy pisses me off so much that I want to beat him up I will call him out. Why? Because I know eventually my mom will show up and make him cry.

Fairies

By Bridget

While writing my first story, I noticed I was the only one writing a story about myself. I think that's ok, because no one else wrote a story about me, Molly wrote about Mary, Mary wrote about Theresa, and Theresa wrote about Molly. I was forced to write about myself. Also, I barely remember anything that happened to me when I was young, much less anything that happened to anyone else. I even wonder about my own memories as I've been proven wrong before. There was a clown doll that had zippers, buttons, snaps and ties to teach children. I always thought it was Molly's, but Molly always said it was Theresa's and that is my first memory of having a poor memory. Although now I feel I have this memory wrong also and maybe it was Molly's, but I said it was Theresa's. Ask Molly, she'll know.

The other story that stands out in my mind is about fairies. Our mom told us many fairy stories. She said when she was living in Ireland after Danny was born, one windy, stormy night she was all alone and got scared, so she dressed Danny in girl's clothing so the fairies wouldn't steal Danny. Everyone knows fairies have no use for girl babies, so she managed to keep Danny. In our pasture there were shallow indentions in the earth. Our mom called them fairy beds and said that was where the fairies slept; acorn tops were fairy hats and the marshy rings we had around the farm were fairy rings, where fairies lured people to their death or something. Perhaps that's just from a story I read about leprechauns playing music and people dance and dance until they die and they do it in marshy areas, unless you walk home backwards. But our mom always said the rings had a lot of energy and so did the big white rock and the big tree that you could see from the freeway and they made some sort of magical energy ring around our farm.

I always wanted to see the fairies. I'd hang out by all the gnarly oak trees imagining the fairies living in the whorls and crevices. One day after coming back from Cash Wise, the best grocery store ever, I had a ring from those bubblegum dispenser-things that instead dispensed rings. I decided to give it to the fairies, because after an offering like that they had to show themselves to me.

So we got home, unpacked all the groceries and I took a strawberry-banana yogurt, a spoon and my ring in its little plastic container and walked across the road, to the top of the hill to sacrifice it to the fairies. And this is what Molly says is her story. She says she was the one who took a vending machine ring to the fairy ring in the pasture across the road and that I only remember it because she told me about it. But no, I took it over there, eating my yogurt, climbing over the fences, because it was way too hard to open the gate and then pull all that barbed wire on a stick back into the piece of wire that held the gate shut. I walked past the small grove of oaks and up the hill to the fairy ring. I told the fairies I was giving them the ring so that I could see them, then I dug a hole, right at the northwestern edge, where it was soft and moist, but not yet where the water was, then I buried the ring in the container. I hung out for awhile, hoping they'd come then, but decided they wanted to see and examine the ring first, so I left.

I came back a few days later and the ring and the container were gone. I knew right where I'd buried it, but could never find it again. Damn fairies, they took my ring and never showed themselves to me. I doubt Molly saw them either, if she ever did give a ring offering to the fairies.

The fairy ring was in the cow pasture at the top of this hill.

Fire

By Bridget

In our yard we had a fire pit that was often used for late night gatherings. Eventually it was ringed with rocks, but at first it was just a cleared area in the grass. Our home was heated with wood stoves, one in the kitchen and one in the living room. We had all learned how to start them and how to keep them going. We burned any garbage that wasn't compostable or recyclable. I liked to test myself at starting the garbage fire by only taking one or two strike-anywhere matches with me to start it, the punishment being having to get more matches. Also every summer our dad would burn the ditches and the slough out back. We would help him by tamping out the fire with shovels if it started going where it didn't belong. I remember burning the slough the night before a test. The fire seemed so intensely powerful, I prayed to it to help me on my test.

One week when I was about 17, Theresa was starting a fire. She decided she needed help so she grabbed the can of gasoline. She was pouring it on the paper and wood when a hidden ember ignited the gasoline and followed the gasoline trail up to the can. Luckily Theresa dropped the can before she got hurt.

A few days later, I was trying to start a fire in the fire clearing, to heat rocks for a sweat lodge. I was having trouble starting it so I went to get gasoline. I had learned from Theresa's fire that I didn't want to use the gasoline can, so I looked for something else to put it in. I found a small plastic honey bear. I poured the gasoline in there and took it back to the my pile of wood. I started squirting the gasoline and of course the honey bear caught on fire. My hand and clothes that I had spilled gasoline on also started on fire. Timmy and my boyfriend were in the yard near me and started yelling, "Drop and roll! Drop and roll!" I chose not to do that, but instead to tear all my clothes off. I never wore bras, so I was left, not in flames, but only in my underwear. I knew I had to get my hand into cold water so I ran toward the house. My parents were in the kitchen, where I'd have to pass them to get to a sink. I opened the door and yelled, "Don't look at me!" This drew their attention to me as I raced past them to the bathroom. My hand ended up being horribly burnt and I had lesser burns on my face from tearing off my burning clothes. My mom made a poultice for my hand. I don't know what she put on it, but it was black and crusty. This was then covered in gauze for a few days. Finally she took me to a doctor, who gasped at how bad the burn was once the gauze was removed. But after removing the poultice the doctor said it was actually healing very nicely.

In the Sand Pit

By Theresa

I usually distrust my perspective; I don’t trust that what I remember is an accurate account of what happened. And usually it does turn out that I did have some detail confused. That’s why I really like questioning, this way I can just question my way through a story to “remember” what happened. But this story I will narrate on my own and from my perspective, whether it may be the correct story or not, it’s my memory. The thing about this story, is that it is one of my earliest memories, thus it is probably littered with inaccuracies and misunderstanding, but I can learn these later.

Mary was having a party; the reason for the party escapes me. It was either for her birthday or for an end of the school year celebration, the latter seems like the right one because I think it was end of May/early June. Anyway she was still going to Catholic school and had invited what seemed to me, the entire 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th grade classes. I don’t know what grade she was in, but I remember I felt very intimidated and a little annoyed by the big people she had brought home. Home was supposed to be the place where we could be ourselves but when all these strangers came I didn’t feel like I was home anymore.

The party had moved out to the sand pit that was right next to a beautiful pine forest. Many of the kids were climbing up the sand “mountains” and taking giant leaps down them. I had warmed up to a couple girls from Mary’s class and was sitting next to them. It was close to sunset on a very nice summery evening. I remember being very quiet and trying to be polite, I wanted to be around them, but not intrude or strive for attention. I listened to their conversation; it was about my sister Molly. I don’t remember what they were saying, but I remember they were comparing the two of us, something about us seeming to be so unalike. I had probably said about 2 sentences the whole time all the kids were there because I was so shy; Molly on the other hand was right in their faces disagreeing and ordering around these kids who had intruded upon our space. It was something I probably secretly wanted to do as well; they were in our home so we shouldn’t be the ones to change our behaviors. But that is not how I reacted; I got scared and acted like a stranger in my home. I recall an earlier time when Mary had a friend over one evening and she and her friend were talking in the bedroom I shared with Mary. I had just finished taking a bath and was planning to change into my pajamas, but was facing a huge dilemma when I found the privacy of my room jeopardized. They weren’t paying attention to me, but it didn’t matter, I could not take my towel off with this girl in the room. I tried in vain to put my shirt on over my towel, but couldn’t figure it out. I was so perplexed about how I would change without exposing my body and too scared to say anything, I just began crying. They noticed me then. Mary asked me what was wrong and when I meekly told her, she told me to change in the closet with the door closed. I was still scared that the girl could see me through the small slit between the door and the jamb.

Anyway, so at this party Molly was being sassy and forward with these classmates of Mary, particularly getting on the nerves of the boys. I was amazed at how she could be so brave and forward with these big farm boys, the girls I sat next to seemed put-off by her lack of fear. I sat with this group of girls on top of the sand mountain feeling confined to the stereotype I had been cast into. I sat watching Molly and seeing her on top of that sand mountain surrounded by boys twice her size and age, yet unabashedly harassing them, she looked on top of the world to me. I don’t know how everything escalated, but suddenly a couple of the boys grabbed Molly by her hands and feet. They hung her midair and began swinging her on the edge of the peak of the sand mound. I remember watching in horror as they swung her writhing body over the peak of the sand mound and released her into the summer evening. It all happened so quickly, but she seemed to be flying off the edge in slow motion. Just like that Molly went from on top of the world to crashing and tumbling quickly down the side of the tall sand mound. I can’t remember anyone running over to stop the boys or scream out in protest. I’m not saying that this didn’t happen, I just can’t remember. This is probably because any other reaction that may or may not have occurred was overshadowed by my mother’s reaction. She was not on top of the hill, and I don’t know if she witnessed what had happened or if someone had told her, but I can remember her running and screaming and swearing and making all sorts of loud and threatening noises as she raced to the scene where her small daughter lay curled in pain and defeat.

The party ended early and I believe I was happy to see them go especially the boys. I remember feeling very disgusted by people and by myself because I had enjoyed being liked by the girls. The thing about this memory is that when I do remember it, it seems like such a horrible, irrational event. It’s a hard story to tell because I don’t understand why these boys threw Molly so violently off the sand mound and I don’t remember the consequences of their actions. But I do have the vision of Molly hitting the ground hard clearly etched in my memory and a strong feeling that I should just remain quiet.

Theresa (on the right) giving Molly looks before she could voice her opinion.

Periods

By Mary

Outside, in the yard, you could hear the moaning coming from the house. “My life is over. I am ruined. I am now I a woman. Nothing is going to be the same for the next 50 years. How could this happen to me? I can’t believe I got my period. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m going to be in pain for years. I can have babies now. I don’t want this.” Everyone that walked into the house was greeted by the same scene at the kitchen table. Theresa crying and wailing that her life was over now that she got her period. It didn’t matter who walked through the door the neighbor guy, my boyfriend.

I thought it was funny, hilarious that she was telling everyone but at the same time I was mortified that she would share this with anyone.

I got my period when I was 14. I was so embarrassed. I didn’t tell anyone. I cut up rags and used them as pads. I didn’t tell my mom till 3 days in. I made her promise not to tell dad. I couldn’t imagine if he were to find out. I hide in my room after I told her I was so embarrassed. She didn’t ask if I needed pads, and I didn’t ask her for any.

The wails continued, “Shoes? I don’t care if I get shoes. I don’t want my period.” Shoes, what were these shoes? Bridget informed me yes, shoes. Everyone gets shoes when they get their period. Who was this everyone? Everyone? Everywhere? Everyone in this family? Where were my shoes? My mom said, “Oh, you didn’t get shoes?” Nooo… was that my penance for not lamenting at the kitchen table about my period?

“The worse is when you see a guy, especially the guy you like, then your period comes gushing out,” Molly informed her. Fine I thought, believe Molly, you get shoes.

Rebirthing Timmy

By Molly

I always love telling people that I was born at home. I think it makes me unique and special. My sister Mary has a baby; he is a year and a half. His name is North. Mary planned a beautiful home birth. She rented a birthing tub; she had towels and blankets from mothers who had previously given birth at home. She even had two midwifes. Mary ended up having a hard labor that lasted 3 days and ended in the hospital with a c-section. North has a scar on his head from being pressed into her pelvic bone for 3 days. Whenever I hold him, I always wonder if his birth will affect him in other ways than just the scar. Then, I think of my brother Timmy and all the births he had to go through, and I stop worrying about north.

Timmy was a home birth too. I was ten at the time and not allowed to be present for the birth. I had to stay at my grandma’s house that night and I remember arguing with her trying to get her to take me home. I remember telling her that I needed to be there to help. She just kept telling me to go to bed.

Timmy was born at 8:14 pm. The midwife caught him and placed him on my mom’s chest. My mom passed Timmy to my sister Mary. Timmy, only moments old, stopped breathing. The midwife took the baby from my sister and cleaned out his throat and mouth. After squeezing him and yelling “breathe, baby. Breathe”, Timmy started to breathe again.

I believe my mom was really shaken up by the whole event. For the next year of Timmy’s life my mom tried to do everything she could to make him forget that night. Her way of doing this was rebirth. Rebirthing was my aunt’s idea. The first time my mom rebirthed Timmy was when my aunt, who at the time taught new mother classes, came to meet the new baby. My mom lied down on the couch and put two week old Timmy up her dress. My aunt crouched down to ‘catch’ him. My mom in her most sweet singsong voice said, “He is coming, the baby is coming.” She then pulled Timmy out from under her dress and handed him to my aunt. My aunt looked at him and said, “Look, baby, you are okay, you can breathe.” My mom latched on to this idea of rebirth and took it to another level.

She proceeded to rebirth Timmy every morning after she finished her Body Electric. After the first rebirth, she decided to make it more realistic. My little sister Theresa, who was 8 at the time, and I would play the midwives. My mom moved from just up the dress to under really dark blankets, and then to being pressed between two pillows. Every time, us ‘midwives’ would have to take the baby and say,“Look, baby, you are okay. You can breathe.” At first, I was really excited about the rebirths because I had missed the real one. I even started to forgive my grandma. It was probably after the 30th or so rebirth that I got a little sick of the whole thing. I kept trying to figure out if Timmy really needed all this. He seemed perfectly fine to me.

My mom kept trying to remove the traumatic memory of not being able to breathe from his mind. The key part was to get him to breath again, and after he was squished between two the pillows, and pulled out, he coud breathe just fine. The traumatic part of North’s birth was not being able to come out. To rebirth him I suppose we could push him down a playground slide and say, “Look, baby, your head didn’t get stuck!” I will mention it the next time I go to a playground with Mary and North.