August 3, 2011
Walls
When I was little, two years old, and I got angry I would say, 'I don't want to talk to you right now. I am going up to my room.' I would stomp upstairs, slamming the bedroom door loudly behind me. My parents thought that it was great. Their daughter had found a way to cool down from an argument by herself. And I did learn to deal with things by myself. I would work arguments out by myself with the logical reasoning that my Mom provided explanations that began before I could speak.
“You do not scream in stores. Stores are people who act polite and respectful. Are you ready to behave respectful and not scream?”
“We do not hit other kids and steal their Barney toys. Hitting hurts and it is not your toy.”
At first, my independence and ability to process situations were a good thing. When I got angry I just needed some quiet time to think over the argument and then I would be able to use logic to analyze the rights and wrongs. If I was wrong I apologized and if I had been wronged, I could stand up for myself.
With two bad teasing incidents, this independence turned into solitude.
The first one took place when I was eight and a half. Having moved three thousand miles across country I found myself the new kid in Turtleback elementary. I don't remember if I was welcomed at first or not. I do remember for the first time in my life feeling uncomfortable. My teacher, Mrs. Myers, was rigid and unyielding, upset at having to adjust her class for a new student mid school year, especially, a new student with an IEP. She would only wear my FM system, (a microphone that assisted me in hearing her talk in class), if it made her feel like a Hollywood actress.
Back in southern Virginia, I was “Jo”, not “Johanna”. Being referred to as “Johanna” in my house usually means that I am in trouble. My nickname, “Jo” was given to me by my parents at a young age for my tomboy personality. Before the move I was always known as “Jo”, a tom boy who biked with friends, chased them in tag, and wore my hair in a ponytail. Except for the two identical hearing aids in my ears I was just like everyone else. My mom had always said that people were simply afraid of what they didn’t understand and it was our job, more specifically my job, to educate them. And so I did. None of my friends seemed to mind that I needed a little extra help to hear what they had to say. I was one of the group: fearless and trustful, accepted. If someone didn’t understand my hearing impairment, then I had friends who did.
San Diego was different.
I had decided early on when we moved that I wouldn’t make be making any friends. I thought that I held some sway in persuading my family to return to Virginia away from this idealized plastic world. I did not. Then when I found myself wanting company, I expected to be easily welcomed into one of their groups. I was rejected.
The day that I allowed a simple sentence to change my life was a normal sunshine day in San Diego. We were on the monkey bars, playing a twisted game of Marco Polo where one person would count, eyes closed, and remain blind until they managed to tag someone else climbing above them. When I say ‘we’ I really mean them, (a collective group of girls), and me. We climbed high, not wanting to be the monkey in the middle on the ground.
On the ground, the red head counted higher and higher. Her feet tilted back and forth on the wood chips in this oversized sandbox. She finished counting and jumped high, tilted forward and-BANG!-smacked the bar squarely in the middle of her forehead.
She cringed as she cupped her forehead. Silence lingered from us as we waited for her reaction. I expected her to look up and laugh it off. Back in Virginia, my friends and I would have laughed over a bump on the head. I let loose a giggle, hoping to move along with the game. Instead, she whimpered, tears squeezing out. The girls around me leapt down. Huddling around the injured girl, they glared up at me as they all departed to the nurse’s station. I waited there, alone for the yard monitors too busy gossiping with each other to blow their whistles and reclaim their rights to end my time in this torturous recess.
As I tried to become fascinated with climbing in solidarity, I paused, feeling someone’s eyes on me. Still climbing among the web of monkey bars, I turned. There she was. Another student from the playground, she didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there staring up at me. Her eyes never wavered from my ears.
I jumped down. As I landed, I felt the world sway beneath my feet. Gathering my footing, I demanded what she wanted.
“Why don’t you wear your hair down?” she asked.
“I like it better up. It stays out of my face,” I explained, puzzled.
“You should wear your hair down,” she said. “That way, they won’t know that you are hearing impaired.”
I stood, mouth open, staring back at her. Furious when words refused to work in my throat, I turned on my heel and stomped away from her, away from the suggestion that there was something about me that wasn’t acceptable to this shiny plastic group, away from them.
Months later at the beauty parlor, I shocked my parents and family by cutting my hair. Long, blonde locks that could tickle my ribcage now lay scattered across the dirty floor of the salon. In the place of the golden locks was a short cap that reminded me of Joan of Arc as she prepared to do battle in France. The hair would grow out, but the feeling of inadequacy, such an alien thing to me, would never leave me. No one would be able to tell me to hide that part of me, ever again. There was never a reason for any walls or extra defenses to be built against other people.
That day, as I stomped off the playground I left “Jo” on left the playground, never to return. That day I became “Johanna” at school. That day, walking off the playground, the first brick of a wall was laid. For the first time in my life, I learned to ignore people.
I survived the remaining years of elementary school by counting the months and days until middle school would begin, my new saving grace. I hid at hand ball courts during recess. Everyone was a loner on the courts, half of a paired game waiting in long lines. You stayed in the game as long as you could and then you went back to waiting patiently in line, heaving in breaths and rubbing your hands on your jeans, now stained with grime and sweat.
Fifth grade commencement day finally arrived. I walked down the rows, following my classmates as I had practiced the day before. I barely paid attention to the speech that we had all voted for in class, weeks before. I didn’t care how the audience liked it. I didn’t care how the speaker articulated her sentences or where she emphasized ideas with pauses. They were simply beautiful tonal melodies to me. Only one thing mattered.
I was free.
Next year was going to be different. I was sure of it. It had to be better, it just had to be. My wishes weren’t outlandish and didn’t require a magical genie in a bottle to fulfill. They were simple. All I wanted was friends. I’m not a greedy person. I didn’t want to be the most popular person in school. I just wanted a couple friends. One or two would do.
My world should have come crashing down the second I met her on the first day of sixth grade. There should have blinking red lights and a siren screaming, “Warning, Warning” but there weren't, just my nervous first day jitters. Her black curly hair swam around her head, frizz sticking up around her crown. As she pushed big bottle wide glasses up her nose, it made me think of a nice nerd instead of the nasty girl hiding underneath the surface. Her name was Melinda.
So I thought that I had become friends with her and a red haired girl, Rebecca.
The first event that I remember has to do with two best friend necklaces. When put together the two halves of a metal heart spelled out “Best Friends.” I remember not being able to find either one of them at lunch so I headed to library, not to do homework, but to be in a place I loved.
My mom worked at the library at the time and the hum of the air conditioner in the background was beauty to my ears. I could get lost in the shelves for hours reading books or just trailing the aisles with my fingers brushing the beautiful titles and wondering what stories lay behind their covers.
Before I could enter the library, I saw them walking out, laughing together. As I walked over to join them, Melinda handed Rebecca a necklace. I noticed it and asked what it was.
“It’s a friendship necklace,” Melinda said. “They didn’t have a three way one.” Her chin jutted up, defensive. It shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just a stupid necklace. I was hurt, though, because underneath those two simple sentences lay something else. A lie. They do make three way friendship necklaces. What she meant was that she could have chosen a three way necklace and included me, but didn’t want to.
She continued to manipulate me into believing that she was my friend and then continually betrayed me. At the weeklong for sixth graders, my mom had to ask special permission that I not be in any groups or cabins with Melinda. After that year, we didn’t see each other, getting lost in the mingle of middle school, thankfully.
Selective memory has saved me from most of this horrible year, leaving me with a distaste of anyone who manipulated or lied to me. For years after that I had very few long time friends. I learned to trust no one. I learned the simple task of ignoring people.
You'd be amazed at how quickly people will leave you alone when you ignore them. It's in our human nature to want to be noticed. Ignoring people became my new weapon. Conversation was no longer simple conversing. It was a means of fighting and protecting. It was best to avoid it altogether or at least to eliminate it as soon as possible. By then, in my mind, when people talked to me, they could never be just want to get to know me. No, there had to be some arterial motive. I couldn’t even trust my own instincts.
I remember one incident in the seventh grade. Everyone was returning from break time between classes and falling back into academic mode, my least favorite times of the day. Lunch and break times. I sped walked to class and found my seat, front and center. A boy a row beside me noticed that I was reading.
“What book are you reading?” he asked, indicating the crinkled book in my hands. A boyish grin spread across his face, though I barely noticed it through the Times New Roman text before me.
“White fang.”
“I've read that,” he said.
“Oh, really,” I said, closing the book, and crossing my arms. “What is it about?” The guy’s eyes widened and he tried to cover his nervousness with a fake laugh.
“It's a book...about a guy and his dog called the white fang?” he said.
“No, it's not. You didn't read the book,” I said bluntly, picking up my book. I found my place again and continued reading.
Hypocrite that I am, I can’t even recall how the book ended, writing this now. He probably thought I was a “know it all” snob, but I didn’t care. I had gotten what I wanted. I had gotten him to leave me alone. That's what I wanted, to be alone. Sure the laughter around me was tempting and I wished that I had paid attention to the beginning of the joke that had bent an entire row of students over in bundles of sweet chuckles, but I didn’t need it. Did I?
What people don't realize about walls, real or imaginary, is that they are hard to break through once they are built. Especially the imaginary ones. Real walls can be busted with hammers and strength. Just give me a sledgehammer and a good hour or two and all you’ll see are the supporting beams. But imaginary walls aren’t just walls, they are habits. Unseen, they become unconscious acts. Often times, I would not realize that I was ignoring someone until they had walked away or if I was lucky they repeated the question to me.
If I could talk to my one year old self I would tell her that while it's good to be able to deal with problems by yourself, it’s not a weakness to talk to people and let them in.
Words are just as important spoken out loud as they are written down. / or roaming in your head
She would probably look at me quizzically. Being too innocent, she can't foresee the future where a simple sentence will cause so much damage, a world that won’t include a neighborhood full of easy friends.
Maybe if I spoke to my eight and a half year old self, caught her before the catastrophic event hits. Maybe if I could change the series of events afterward, I could stop the struggle of digging myself out of my lonely state of being. But then I wouldn't be writing this today. I might not be so attached to the written language as I am. I wouldn’t be me. For that I am grateful.
Each time I write, each time I can’t complete a draft a huge anvil presses down on my chest. It makes me want to throw the papers into a wicked fire to watch the useless words burn and the jumbled sentences curl back from the tongues of flame. As I strip down and build up my sentences I feel that I am creating beauty. I am finding bits and pieces of myself.
Walking off of that playground thirteen years ago may have laid the first brick, wet with a layer of mortar. But with these words, my chisel will pry a brick loose. Dust flying as it crashes to the ground, crumbling into the clay ash from whence it came.
Until all I’m left with is me.
August 3, 2011
Leaving the Playground
Another move, the second one in my young lifetime. Another school, the third one, (fourth, if you counted a month at Shoal Creek Elementary). Another place, San Diego, was across the country, three thousand miles. At the time of the move, I was in the middle of the third grade. I knew, no matter what, that it would be starting all over again.
Back in southern Virginia, I was “Jo”, not “Johanna”. Being referred to as “Johanna” in my house usually means that I am in trouble. My nickname, “Jo” was given to me by my parents at a young age for my tomboy personality. Before the move I was always known as “Jo”, a tom boy who biked with friends, chased them in tag, and wore my hair in a ponytail/a ponytail was always perched high on my head. Except for the two identical hearing aids in my ears I was just like everyone else. My mom had always said that people were simply afraid of what they didn’t understand and it was our job, more specifically my job, to educate them. And so I did. Not that many kids cared in southern Virginia. None of my friends seemed to mind that I needed a little extra help to hear what they had to say. I was one of the group: fearless and trustful, accepted. If someone didn’t understand my hearing impairment, then I had friends who did.
San Diego was different.
To begin with, too much sun seemed to have burnt out people’s willingness to be open to anything different than their monochromatic idea of a person. Starting with my teacher, Ms. Myers, who seemed to set the tone of what was acceptable and what wasn’t. She only wore my FM system, (a microphone that assisted me in hearing her talk in class), if it made her feel like a Hollywood actress. She praised only her favorite students as they sat in the front row of the class
doing grade “A” work. The students themselves were no better. It probably didn't help that I had decided early on that I wouldn’t make be making any friends. Not remembering the first move at a young age of four, I did not remember the adapting period of getting accustomed to a new environment and making new friends. Instead, I thought that I held some sway in persuading my family to return to Virginia away from this idealized plastic world. With no need to be making friends here, since in my mind, we would be returning to Virginia in a couple months, I kept my distance from the other kids on the playground. I resorted to entertaining myself. When I wanted company, I would join a group of girls, expecting them to welcome me. This solution did not work for me in a positive. I would soon learn that as a child I was not in charge of big decisions like moving the family back across the country for my own selfish reasons. I had to deal with the reality in front of me.
doing grade “A” work. The students themselves were no better. It probably didn't help that I had decided early on that I wouldn’t make be making any friends. Not remembering the first move at a young age of four, I did not remember the adapting period of getting accustomed to a new environment and making new friends. Instead, I thought that I held some sway in persuading my family to return to Virginia away from this idealized plastic world. With no need to be making friends here, since in my mind, we would be returning to Virginia in a couple months, I kept my distance from the other kids on the playground. I resorted to entertaining myself. When I wanted company, I would join a group of girls, expecting them to welcome me. This solution did not work for me in a positive. I would soon learn that as a child I was not in charge of big decisions like moving the family back across the country for my own selfish reasons. I had to deal with the reality in front of me.
That day, the Southern California sun beat down upon the playground. My hands were callused from wringing them up, down, and around the monkey bar set. Around me excitement rose in laughter melodies. Cackles and hoots chased each other across the field beside the playground as the kicked ball rose in the air like a free bird climbing the skies until suddenly the ground yanked it back and sent it collapsing towards the cheering hands ready to catch.
On the monkey bars, fashioned like a spider’s web, I hung on the edge of a five girls, peeping a word in whenever I had a chance. We , when I say ‘we’ I really mean them, (a collective group of girls), and me, played a twisted version of Marco Polo where one person would count, eyes closed, and remain blind until they managed to tag someone else. Using the cage of bars clamped on the ground as a fenced in border to the game, we climbed high, not wanting to be the monkey in the middle on the ground. Though we were joined together in this desire to not be caught, the other four girls clumped together, away from me.
“Ready?” the red head asked from the ground before closing her eyes and beginning to count. As she counted up, she hung down from a low bar. Her feet tipping back and forth on the wood chips in this oversized sandbox. She finished counting and jumped high, tilted forward and-BANG!-smacked the bar squarely in the middle of her forehead.
She cringed as she cupped her forehead. Silence lingered from us as we waited for her reaction. From where I clung, it didn’t look that bad. I was used to getting scrapes from my tom boy ways. Back in Virginia, my friends and I would have laughed over a bump on the head. One girl called down to the redhead. I didn’t know her meek personality well enough and let a giggle escape, hoping that this would move us all past the uncomfortable moment. She whimpered, tears squeezing out. Her pale face, scattered with freckles, broke into tears. The girls around me leapt down. Huddling around the injured girl, they glared up at me as they all departed to the nurse’s station. They left me alone to climb the bars, where I waited, alone again, for the yard monitors gathered in the middle of the field to stop gossiping and blow their whistles. Reclaiming their rights to end my time in this torturous recess time.
I tried to become fascinated with climbing in solidarity, but the metallic smell was little comfort to me. I paused, feeling someone’s eyes on me. Still climbing among the web of monkey bars, I turned. There she was. Another student from the playground, she didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there staring up at me. Her eyes never wavered from my ears. As she silently continued to peruse my ears, I jumped down. As I landed, I felt the world sway beneath my feet. Gathering my footing, I demanded what she wanted.
“Why don’t you wear your hair down?” she asked.
“I like it better up. It stays out of my face,” I explained, puzzled.
“You should wear your hair down,” she said. “That way, they won’t know that you are hearing impaired.”
I stood, mouth open, staring back at her. Furious when words refused to work in my throat, I turned on my heel and stomped away from her, away from the suggestion that there was something about me that wasn’t acceptable to this shiny plastic group, away from them.
Months later while at the beauty parlor, I shocked my parents and family by cutting my hair. Long, blonde locks that could tickle my ribcage now lay scattered across the dirty floor of the salon. In the place of the golden locks was a short cap that reminded me of Joan of Arc as she prepared to do battle in France. No one would be able to tell me to hide that part of me, ever again.
In Virginia, I had always felt comfortable with myself. Never before had I been made to feel unworthy or inadequate. There was never a reason for any walls or extra defenses to be built against other people. And yet in a matter of weeks in San Diego, California the first brick had been laid.
That day, as I stomped off the playground I left “Jo” on left the playground, never to return. That day I became “Johanna” at school.
(Personal Narrative)
July 13, 2011
Leaving the Playground
Another move, the second one in my young lifetime. The first move at the ripe age of four was long forgotten. This one split my third grade year in half. Another school, the third one, (fourth, if you counted a month at Shoal Creek Elementary).
Back in Southern Virginia, I was “Jo”, not “Johanna”. Known by my friends as a tom boy who biked with friends and chased them in tag. A ponytail always perched high on my head. Except for the two identical hearing aids in my ears I was just like everyone else. My mom had always said that people were simply afraid of what they didn’t understand and it was our job, more specifically my job, to educate them. And so I did. Not that many kids cared in Southern Virginia. I was simply "Jo" to my herd of friends. None of my friends seemed to care that I needed a little extra help to hear what they had to say. I was one of the group: fearless and trustful, accepted. If someone didn't understand my hearing impairment, then I had friends who did.
San Diego was different.
To begin with, too much sun seemed to have burnt out people’s willingness to be open to anything different than their monochromatic idea of a person. Starting with my teacher, Ms. Myers, who seemed to set the tone of what was acceptable and what wasn’t. She only wore my FM system, (a microphone that assisted me in hearing her talk in class), if it made her feel like a Hollywood actress. She praised only her favorite students as they sat in the front row of the class doing "A" work. The students, themselves, were no better. It probably didn't help that I had chosen early on that I wouldn’t be making any friends. So sure was I that I held some sway in getting my family to return to Virginia away from this idealized plastic world.
That day, the Southern California sun beat down upon the playground. My hands were callused from winging them up, down, and around the monkey bar set. Around me excitement rose in laughter melodies. Cackles and hoots chased each other across the field beside the playground as the kicked ball rose in the air like a free bird climbing the skies until suddenly the ground yanked it back and sent it collapsing towards the cheering hands ready to catch.
On the monkey bars, fashioned like a spider’s web, I hung on the edge of a collective group of girls peeping a word in whenever I had a chance. We , when I say ‘we’ I really mean them, (a collective group of girls), and me, played a twisted version of Marco Polo where one person would count, eyes closed, and remain blind until they managed to tag someone else. Using the cage of bars clamped on the ground as a border to the game, we climbed high, not wanting to be the monkey in the middle on the ground. Though we were all joined in this desire, the other four girls clumped together, away from me.
“Ready?” the red head asked from the ground before closing her eyes and beginning to count. As she counted up, she hung down from a low bar. Her feet tipping back and forth on the wood chips in this oversized sandbox. She finished counting and jumped high, tilted forward and-BANG!-smacked the bar squarely in the middle of her forehead.
She cringed as she cupped her forehead. Silence lingered from us as we waited for her reaction. From where I clung, it didn’t look that bad. I was used to getting scrapes from my tom boy ways. Back in Virginia, my friends and I would have laughed over a bump on the head. One girl called down to the redhead. I didn’t know her meek composure well enough and let a giggle escape, hoping that this would move us all past the uncomfortable moment. She whimpered, tears squeezing out. Her pale face, scattered with freckles, broke into tears. The girls around me leapt down. Huddling around the injured girl, they glared up at me as they all departed to the nurse’s station. They left me alone to climb the bars, where I waited, alone again, for the yard monitors gathered in the middle of the field to stop gossiping and blow their whistles. Reclaiming their rights to end my time in this torturous recess time.
I tried to become fascinated with climbing in solidarity, but the metallic smell was little comfort to me. I paused, feeling someone’s eyes on me. Still climbing among the web of monkey bars, I turned. There she was. Another student from the playground, she didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there staring up at me. Her eyes never wavered from my ears. As she silently continued to peruse my ears, I jumped down. As I landed, I felt the world sway beneath my feet. Gathering my footing, I demanded what she wanted.
“Why don’t you wear your hair down?” she asked.
“I like it better up. It stays out of my face,” I explained, puzzled.
“You should wear your hair down,” she said. “That way, they won’t know that you are hearing impaired.”
I stood, mouth open, staring back at her. Furious when words refused to work in my throat, I turned on my heel and stomped away from her, away from the suggestion that there was something about me that wasn’t acceptable to this shiny plastic group, away from them.
Months later while at the beauty parlor, I shocked my parents and family by cutting my hair. Long, blonde locks that could tickle my ribcage now lay scattered across the dirty floor of the salon. In the place of the golden locks was a short cap that reminded me of Joan of Arc as she prepared to do battle in France. No one would be able to tell me to hide that part of me, ever again.
In Southern Virginia, I had always felt comfortable with myself. Never before had I been made to feel unworthy or inadequate. There was never a reason for any walls or extra defenses to be built against other people. And yet in a matter of weeks in San Diego, California the first brick had been laid.
That day, as I stomped off the playground I left “Jo” on left the playground, never to return. That day I became “Johanna” at school.
July 12, 2011
(Personal Narrative Rough Draft #2)
Leaving the Playground
Another move, the second one in my lifetime. The first move at the ripe age of four was long forgotten. This one split my third grade year in half. Another school, the third one, (fourth, if you counted a month at Shoal Creek Elementary).
Back in Southern Virginia, I was “Jo”, not “Johanna”. Known by my friends as a tom boy who biked with friends and chased them in tag. A ponytail always perched high on my head. Except for the two identical hearing aids in my ears I was just like everyone else. My mom had always said that people were simply afraid of what they didn’t understand and it was our job, more specifically my job, to educate them. And so I did. Not that many kids cared in Southern Virginia. I was simply "Jo" to my herd of friends. None of my friends seemed to care that I needed a little extra help to hear what they had to say. I was one of the group.
San Diego was different.
To begin with, too much sun seemed to have burnt out people’s willingness to be open to anything different than the monochromatic idea of a person. Starting with my teacher, Ms. Myers, who only wore my FM system, (a microphone that assisted me in hearing her talk in class), if it made her feel like a Hollywood actress. She praised only her favorite students as they sat in the front row of the class. The students were no better. It probably didn't help that I had chosen early on in this move that I wouldn't make friends. So sure that I held some sway in returning to Virginia away from this idealized plastic world.
That day, the Southern California sun beat down upon the playground. My hands were callused from winging them up, down, and around the monkey bar set. Around me excitement rose in laughter melodies. Cackles and hoots chased each other across the field as the kicked ball rose in the air like a free bird climbing the skies until suddenly the ground yanked it back and sent it collapsing towards the cheering hands ready to catch.
On the playground, we, when I say ‘we’ I really mean them, (a collective group of girls), and me hanging off of the edge peeping a word in when I had a chance, played a twisted version of Marco Polo where one person would count, eyes closed, and remain blind until they managed to tag someone else. Using the cage of bars clamped on the ground as a border to the game, we climbed high, not wanting to be the monkey in the middle on the ground. Though we were all joined in this desire, the four girls clumped together, away from me.
“Ready?” the red head asked from the ground before closing her eyes and beginning to count. As she counted up, she hung down from a low bar. Her feet tipping back and forth on the wood chips in this oversized sandbox. She jumped higher, titling forward and-BANG!-smacked the bar squarely in the middle of her forehead.
She cringed as she cupped her forehead. Silence lingered from us as we waited for her reaction. From where I clung, it didn’t look that bad. I was used to getting scrapes from my tom boy ways. One girl called down to the redhead. I didn’t know her meek composure well enough and let a giggle escape, hoping that this would move us all past the uncomfortable moment. She whimpered, tears squeezing out.
Her pale face, scattered with freckles, broke into tears. The girls around me leapt down. Huddling around the injured girl, they glared up at me as they all departed to the nurse’s station. They left me alone to climb the bars, waiting, always waiting for the yard monitors gathered in the middle of the field to stop gossiping and blow their whistles. Redeeming their rights to end this torturous recess time.
I tried to become fascinated with climbing in solidarity, but the metallic smell was little comfort to me. I paused, feeling someone’s eyes on me. Still climbing among the monkey bars, I turned. There she was. She didn’t say anything. Just stood there staring up at me. Her eyes never wavered from my ears. As she silently continued to peruse my ears, I jumped down. I landed, feeling the world sway beneath my feet. Gathering my footing, I demanded what she wanted.
“Why don’t you wear down?” she asked.
“I like it better up. It stays out of my face,” I explained, puzzled.
“You should wear your hair down,” she said. “That way, they won’t know that you are hearing impaired.”
I stood, mouth open, staring back at her. Furious when words refused to work in my throat, I turned on my heel and stomped away from her, away from the suggestion, away from them.
Months later at a hair shop, I cut my hair so that no one would be able to tell me to hide that part of me, ever again. Short, it barely brushed the tops of my ears. A ridiculous cut I would later regret.
That day, I left the playground, never to return. That day I became “Johanna” at school.
July 11, 2011
(Personal Narrative Rough Draft #1)
Leaving the Playground
The California sun beat down upon the playground. My hands were callused from winging them up, down, and around the monkey bar set. Around me excitement rose in laughter melodies. Cackles and hoots chased each other across the field as the kicked ball rose in the air like a free bird climbing the skies until suddenly the ground yanked it back and sent it collapsing towards the cheering hands ready to catch.
On the playground, we, when I say ‘we’ I really mean them, (a collective group of girls), and me hanging off of the edge peeping a word in when I had a chance, were playing a games where one person would count with their eyes closed and all of the others would jump down from the bars to the ground or up onto the monkey bars. The person would wander around, blindly trying to get the rest of the girls hanging off of the walls of bars or the string of monkey bars. The monkey bars attached the two walls together. The other side there were levels of single bars where you could swing, bruising your palms with blisters. A terrible version of Marco Polo that I loathed, especially when I was caught.
The red headed girl that was counting bounced up and down as she counted, oblivious to the danger. She jumped higher and-BANG!-smacked the bar squarely in the middle of her forehead.
The four of them clung together, clumped near each other on the bars.
"Ready?” the red head on the ground asked before closing her eyes and beginning to count. As she counted up, she hung down from the lowest middle bar. Pulling herself up in a little jump and bouncing up and down until-BANG!
She cringed as she cupped her forehead, banging it squarely in the middle. Silence lingered in our group as we waited for her reaction. From where I clung, it didn’t look that bad. In my house, my sister and I were tomboys so we didn’t complain at every scrape and fall. I didn’t know her meek composure well enough and let a giggle escape, hoping that this would move us all past the uncomfortable moment. One girl called down to the redhead. She whimpered, tears squeezing out.
Her pale face scatter with freckles scattered across her nose broke into tears. They didn’t think it was funny and turned from their place of huddled around the injured girl, glaring up at me as they departed to the nurse’s station. They left me alone to climb the bars, waiting, always waiting for the yard monitors gathered in the middle of the field to stop gossiping and blow their whistles. Redeeming their rights to end this torturous recess time.
Another school-the second on in my lifetime (third if you counted a couple weeks at the other elementary school in San Diego-name). The first move at the ripe age of four was long forgotten. I was still simply “Jo”, not “Johanna”. In the time that it took to settle in, I had chosen not to make friends, believing in the childish power that if I was unhappy enough with this place the entire family would pick up and move back to Virginia. This rebellious act had left me on the outskirts.
I began to notice a tickling in the back of my neck. The singular sixth sense that everyone seems to be born. It spikes up when someone’s eyes are boring into the back of us. Still climbing among the monkey bars, I turned. There she was. Looming on the ground. Her feet stood in the woodchips cradling everyone in this oversized sandbox. She didn’t say anything. She just stood there, staring up at me. Her black hair in a messy ponytail. Her eyes never wavered from my ears, where two identical hearing aids sat, as they have always been since I was five years old. My hair, long then, was swept into a ponytail. Constantly on the move, it was best to keep it out of my eyes. As she silently perused my ears I jumped down. As I landed, I felt the world sway beneath my feet. Gathering my footing, I demanded what she wanted.
“Why don’t you wear your hair down?” she asked.
“I like it better up. It stays out of my face,” I explained, puzzled.
“You should wear your hair down,” she said. “That way, they won’t know that you are hearing impaired.”
I stood, mouth open, staring back at her. Furious when words wouldn’t work in my throat, I turned on my heel and stomped away from her, away from the suggestion, away from them.
Months later at a hair shop, I cut my hair so that no one would be able to tell me to hide that part of me, again. Short, it barely brushed the tops of my ears. A ridiculous cut I would later regret.
That day, I left the playground, never to return. That day I became ‘Johanna’ at school again.
