I can remember getting in trouble in sixth grade. School was the place to express myself. At home, my mother was either grieving for my father or too exhausted from working to support me and herself. I was to be tough in a little girl's body and had no explanations for what had happened to my father. I wondered about my own grief later and feelings of loss without the loving parent who could show me more than harsh structures. I wanted to play and be loved.
My father was a cheerful man who was excited to see me when he came home. His fullness before passing cemented my need to look continually for fun or make it. He offered me a reason to cheer for myself. School was to become my playground. I continually looked for people to fill my need. I found my needs met in the doctors who were to visit our home as sickness was another venue for my mothers fear. Her words were you can’t be sick. So cheer and fancy were to be my comfort. I was sick a lot.
Neither school nor my mother could control my creative energy. Artistic expression was not fostered then while excellence in reading and writing and math were what was expected. I refused to be tempered, talking incessantly or staring out the window watching rain leave trails on the dirt left on the windows. This was all so much more interesting to me than listening to the teacher. Whatever I did wrong, the teacher would tell me to stand up and face the blackboard until I learned not to disturb the class. Each day I would walk into class and she would ask, “Well, will you not talk today?” I would say I didn’t know. How could I?
Each day my resilient spirit would be ignited. I would go home and scan a giant pictorial dictionary we had for answers. I found drawings of hands forming shapes with letters below them. Sign language would become my new form of communicating and engaging with my classmates. I faced the blackboard with my hands making signs. The teacher could not see what I was doing behind her back with my hands making the shapes of letters. I now only remember the letter Q.
By 7th grade, I began to shut down and did not get into more trouble in school. My mother also got a boyfriend who would show us a whole new side of living. He was a doctor's son and I remember that’s when we started dressing up and going out to dinner. He took me to the Eastman Theater to see the Nutcracker. Each week it was something new with a meal at a fancy restaurant. In the summer we would go out to the park and watch Opera Under the Stars. I came home and started singing opera. I dreamed of being a singer. I sang at every opportunity listening to records that my God Mother had over and over again. “Oklahoma” and “South Pacific”. I even called my cat in an operatic tone.
The boyfriend Don Otis was a quiet man and each year he would go to the Miss America Pageant. He told me of the Etiquette the young girls must learn. I learned about their talent and their beautiful form and speech. All this found rewards in a box of salt water taffy from the boardwalk of Salt Lake City. By the age of 14 I wanted to be Miss America. My mother frowned on this thought and said: “ What can you do?”
