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Sure, without the pimps, there would be a lot less human trafficking of young girls and boys. I’m in favor of prosecuting the customers and helping the prostitutes. It’s the whole “supply and demand” factor.

But you have to dig much deeper to find out why that child went down the path they did.

What was lacking in their life? How was someone able to grab them and whisk them away?

For each child, there is perhaps a different answer.

I’m often asked “But what can we do? How do we stop this?”

I always answer “What can YOU do in your immediate area?”

Because that’s how this is done. You deal with your block, your neighborhood, your school, your city and start helping individuals.

Don’t expect anyone else to do it. Don’t wait for the government for they are always late on the scene. Laws are being passed, awareness and understanding is increasing, but it’s not enough.

To quote “Truckers Against Trafficking:”

“Imagine if these pimp’s words fell on deaf ears because young people knew they were worth more, knew people loved them, knew they had a future and a hope.

It is very important to be investing in the lives of our own children but also the lives of the youth around us.

Get involved in your community’s outreach programs.

Mentor, tutor, donate much needed supplies to local assistance programs, be kind to the kids in your neighborhood. 

Say hi to the morose teen.

If non-exploitative adults get involved, pimps and exploiters will struggle to get a foothold. Let’s stop allowing this to be so easy for them.” 

Pay attention to your children. Pay attention to the kids around you. Learn the signs. Teach them that they need not look outside themselves for validation. Give them love, too much love. Show them by example, that they are priceless and start with yourself.

Children learn by seeing more than by listening, but they do listen. They watch everything. They miss nothing.

Suicide

Posted: April 10, 2015 in jail
Tags: , ,

Her cuts were strong and deep. No hesitation marks. No second thoughts. Just clean, firm, and deep. The decision was made and she carried it out. Her room was clean and tidy. What few bills she had were paid. Her laundry was done and placed in bags. She didn’t have money for suitcases, but that didn’t matter. Everything was perfect. Her bed was made. She even fluffed the pillows and smoothed out the blankets

A note had been left to give all of her belongings to her daughter, but she didn’t know where she was or if she was even alive. She had given her up for adoption and never looked at her face. Her daughter was the result of rape, but there had been so many, there was no way to know who the sperm donor was, not that it mattered. She left her medical records next to her note, just to make it easier for everyone.

She had started out as a normal and happy child. Just like most of us, but she was snatched away by an insane and drug addicted mother when she was 5. She was often sold to men to pay for her mother’s addiction. Soon that beautiful child was turned into nothing more than a bartering tool. What humanity she had been born with was soon gone.

I remember her dead eyes and slouched shoulders. But that’s all I remember. She wasn’t anyone who stood out, who said anything, or did anything remarkable except one thing:

She learned how to disappear. I don’t know how she was able to do this, but often times, she would be sitting there and yet you never really saw her. You would forget she was taking up space. Your eyes would scan the room and yet you’d never see her.

On her last day of life, I imagine she may have smiled. I like to think she did. I can’t say what she did was right or wrong, though I wish she had stayed. I wish her life had turned around enough to give her hope. I wish she had called, but I’m not surprised she didn’t.

She was made into nothing at an early age.

She had disappeared years before she slit her wrists.

Susan Lewis:

This story is more in line with this blog.

Happy Memorial Day!

Originally posted on I can explain:

Story

Some of you know that I do volunteer work in the field of criminal rehabilitation. For those that don’t, well now you know.

I am currently working with 30 inmates, all via the mail. I do this in the very limited amount of spare time that I have. I’ll usually grade lessons and get caught-up on my correspondence with them during my lunch hour.

I really don’t take a lunch hour. I’m entitled to one, of course, but I always work through it. I’ll grade lessons or write and once in a blue moon, I’ll sit back and get in some additional reading time.

Today I opened a letter from one. Let’s call him Bubba. Generic name and I don’t really know anyone by that name, so I should be fine in using it.

He’s been in prison a very long time and he won’t be getting out soon. I’ve…

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Originally posted on I can explain:

were

And that’s why I never had kids.

It all makes sense now, right?

Oh shit! Is this out of context for you?

Allow me to clarify.

This is what I said to a woman last week who assumed the reason I didn’t have children was because I must have been traumatized or something. Like something horrible must have happened because I hadn’t procreated – and it’s WAY to late for me to even try – and the only reason it could be that way was because something was wrong. Very wrong. Scary wrong with me.

The thought that it had been my own choice never entered her mind.

Nope.

Something was wrong and she was bound and determined to find out what it was.

This amuses me. This is not the first time I had told this story but I was very surprised to see that such a young woman…

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Ironic Sexism Is Still Sexism

Posted: February 11, 2014 in Uncategorized

Susan Lewis:

This resonated with me for many reasons and then – I read the comments the writer had to deal with. Unfortunately, I was not at all surprised she had to put up with yet another man, explaining to her how she should be.

Some people just don’t get it and I have to give the author credit for her patience. If the topic had to do with racism, I am sure the commenters would have agreed with her blog.

But since it had to do with women, oh well then, we are still considered fair game on how we should think and respond and many men feel it is their obligation to explain that to us.

We still have a long ways to go.

Originally posted on shattersnipe: malcontent & rainbows:

All too often, gross remarks – be they racist, sexist, homophobic or otherwise abusive and vile – are excused or condoned on the grounds of irony; that because they were meant to be humorous, they can’t possibly be offensive. And if somebody is offended, then they’re either oversensitive or incapable of laughter – either way, though, the problem is with them, not the joke-teller.

Except that, no: it’s not.

Generally speaking, there are two reasons why people make ironically offensive jokes: either they think we live in such a post-racist, post-sexist, post-discriminatory world that the act of mimicking historical abuses cannot possibly reinforce those abuses, on account of how they no longer really exist; or they secretly think the stereotypes which underlie offensive jokes have some basis in reality, and are therefore funny because they’re true. The former person can be anything from genuinely well-intentioned but oblivious to belligerently convinced…

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I took one last look around. The deal was done. The paperwork had long been signed. My pets were secured and everything had been moved. The house had been cleaned, scoured and every nook and cranny gone through. Twice. Maybe three times.

The house was bare and the only sign that I had ever lived there was the slight crack on the mirror above the fireplace. That was where I had thrown a glass against it years before. It didn’t shatter like it does in the movies. Instead the glass broke, left a small chip on the mirror and landed on the carpet. I had a unfulfilled expression of my justified anger at the time.

Empty rooms and houses have always given me the chills. Now with everything gone, I felt uneasy with standing in the kitchen and looking around. It was cold, barren, deserted and a few other words that all came down to one meaning: void of life.

Even my breathing seemed to echo. This was going to be the last time I walked through the front door and I would never return. That was the plan. That was what I had agreed to. There was no turning back and even though I knew this day would come, and I often looked forward to it, but now that it was here I no longer knew what to feel.

Relief? Sure, if you call losing everything and almost everyone relief that it was now over and you realized you were a big, fat failure.

Excitement? Perhaps, but who wants to turn 50 and have nothing to show for it and be alone and financially destitute? Excitement about what?

Hope? That had dissipated when I lost the house.

I was trying to feel numb. That’s what I wanted. Nothing. No feelings, no sensations, no thoughts. I wanted to be wrapped in cotton and oblivious to everything around me.

I glanced around at the kitchen and saw myself sitting there at my table with stacks of work and the phone in my hand while I sipped coffee and chain smoked as I sold another deal in my pajamas. I turned around and saw myself doing the dishes and laughing as a friend sipped wine and entertained me with her stories. There I was taking a turkey out of the oven as friends and family helped. I could hear the men in the living room, watching football and cheering on the 49ers.

I walked towards the sound of their voices. I came around the corner. The room was empty. The couch and chairs and tables were gone. Their voices were only in my head but I could still hear them. I could see them cheering and opening another beer. I knew it was all in my mind, but for a moment, I wanted to sit down and join them.

I looked in the mirror above the fireplace and stared at my reflection for just a moment. I didn’t want to look too long because I didn’t want to see myself. Not now. Not today.

I walked down the hall and ran my hand over the wall. Yes, it was still there and it was real. I could feel it. I looked in the first bedroom and saw the bed against the wall and on the floor. I saw the desk against the other wall and I saw my friend fast asleep. He was snoring quietly with the covers pulled up to his chin.

I walked into the next bedroom and saw all the shelves full of books and the curtains softly moving in the breeze. I saw boxes to still be unpacked after all these years pressed against a bookcase that was overfilled with books. Books were everywhere. I smiled at my inability to ever let go of a book, even if I knew I would never read it again. There just always seemed to be something sacrilegious about destroying a book, even a bad one. I had a hard enough time selling them to used book stores.

I passed the bathroom. The white tile on the walls and floor had never looked this awful to me before. I shuddered and tried to remember why I had never remodeled such an ugly bathroom.

Walking into the master bedroom was much harder. I stopped at the door and began to turn around. My footsteps had echoed through the house as the hallway was hardwood floors. Only the bedrooms had carpeting. I had always liked the look of hardwood and was convinced that it would be easier to keep the house tidy when the dogs were inside, but that was a foolish idea. It just meant that their shedding traveled faster throughout the house and would end up on the carpet in the bedrooms. Either way, my weekend mornings included sweeping and vacuuming.  I smiled as I remembered them running down the hallway. I often referred to that as “The running of the bulls.”

I turned back around and took my shoes off. I loved the carpet in this bedroom. I walked across it and out of habit, stopped where the bed used to be. It was long gone but the imprints of it were dug deep into the carpet. I outlined a bit of it with my toe and smiled. I had loved that bed and now it was gone. It didn’t fit into the tiny studio apartment I had rented. It was a floatation bed and I could have spent my life in it. A water bed inside a mattress in a large frame with shelves in the headboard and drawers underneath the bed frame. Since getting rid of it, I was once again waking-up with back, neck and shoulder pain.

I looked at the empty closets and remembered how much fun I had filling them up with nice clothes and shoes. I fondly remembered those days when I not only made enough to pay my bills and eat, I could afford to spend money on myself and still have a savings. I missed the Porsche I had driven for many years and hoped the person I sold it to was taking good care of it.

I saw myself sitting on the best bed in the world, putting my new clothes away. Some I tried on again and rummaged through my jewelry chest to find the perfect pair of earrings. I saw myself unpacking the shoes and boots I bought once at Nordstrom’s and not even worrying about being able to afford them.

I sighed and knew it was time to leave. I was fine and had made the best decision possible. I would be alright and pull myself out of it. All I needed was to be able to sleep again, have a fling and get my bearings. I knew it would all work out. I just didn’t know how.

I walked back into the kitchen and picked-up my purse. I took one last look around and then looked out into the yard.

I should not have done that. I knew it but I did it anyway.

I put my purse back down on the counter and walked towards the sliding glass door. I stopped but couldn’t turn around. I had one more thing to do before leaving and it had to be done.

I slid the door open and stepped out onto the patio. The backyard had also been stripped of any remembrance of me. The lawn furniture had been sold (since I now lived in an apartment, I had no use for it) and all the plants had gone with me. I had hosed off the patio and the gardeners had recently mowed the lawn. I took my shoes off again and walked on the grass. I knew I would miss it. Living in an apartment on the second floor meant no longer being able to sit outside privately with my morning cup of coffee and cigarette.

I slowly walked towards the corner of the yard. I don’t know if I could go any further, so I stopped. I peered over and saw the headstone. I knew what it said because I’m the one that wrote the words. It’s the one piece of my life that still lingers here. It’s the only thing that would let anyone know that at one time, this was my house. My yard. My life.

I closed my eyes and I saw him all over again. Running to catch the ball that I threw for him thousands of times. Lapping up water from a bowl that I filled-up countless times. I saw him lying on the grass under the big oak tree during a heat wave. I could hear the clicking of his nails as he walked through the house to investigate some sound that only he could hear.

I could feel his head on my lap and hear his quiet growl to get me to pay attention to him. My hand runs down his face and over his shoulders and I could feel the softness of his fur. I heard a groan from him and I rubbed his ears and felt the gentle pressure of his head against my hand to not stop.

I felt him run by and for a moment, I was happy. I was happy to see him again and then that moment was over and I was back in the yard, looking at his grave.

I moved closer to it. I got down on my knees and brushed the dirt away from his headstone. It had been 2 years since I had buried him but now it felt like I had just placed the last shovel of dirt over him. He was wrapped in plastic and buried with his favorite toy. I still carried his tags on my key chain and kept his collar and leash in a box.

I don’t know when the sobbing started. I was in the middle of it before I knew what had happened. I didn’t want to leave him there but I knew that was an insane thought. I knew he was dead but I never thought I’d lose the space where I had laid him to rest.

This was the worst loss of all; walking away from him. Had I known this day would come, I would have had him cremated and buried with other dogs. It was too late for that and suddenly, everything was too much to bear.

My crying was about everything and nothing. I felt the loss all over again and vowed to never bury another pet in the yard again. I felt like a traitor.

“Good-bye Roscoe. I love you,” I finally said.

It took me half an hour to get up and walk away. I finally allowed myself the time to grieve for all that had gone wrong, for every dream that had been shattered and for all the people I had lost. I cried for what I had become and who I had not. I took the headstone with me and put it in the trunk of my car, buried beneath boxes still to be moved.

It took me 6 months to move those boxes because I was afraid of seeing it again and having another sobbing fit.

When I finally did, I smiled. Somehow I had survived and was beginning to find my way. Throughout the last 6 months, every morning I got up and put one foot in front of the other. I kept going. I got out of bed when it was the last thing I wanted to do. I went to a job that I hated but did the best I could. Every day, I came home and cried and went to bed and did it again and again and again every morning.

Eventually debt was paid off and bills were manageable. I still had a roof over my head and a prospect of the perfect job for me. My family was well and the friends that were left were always there when I needed them.

At some point, happiness had arrived and the sadness left and I don’t know when that happened. It was just there one day when I woke-up, rolled over and saw Maverick staring at me. He began to wag his tail when my eyes opened and instead of an alarm clock, I was greeted with a cold wet nose on mine and slobbering kisses all over my face.

The cycle was beginning again and I was glad.

Best friends

Posted: January 8, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,

1963

I didn’t expect for someone to be standing there as I climbed over my backyard fence. We had moved in a few months before but most of the houses in the new development were vacant. The Harris’ lived 3 doors down and I had met Jennifer. She and I were the same age and getting ready to start 3rd grade. Polly lived up the street at the top of the hill. Polly, Jennifer and I were friends by default. I liked them well enough, but Polly could be bossy and Jennifer liked to have tea parties in her bedroom with her toy troll dolls and talk baby talk to them.

“Hello. Who are you? My name is Rebecca,” I heard as I hoisted myself up the fence and straddled the middle in preparation of jumping down. I was planning on playing in the yard without the prying eyes of my older brother who had been left to babysit me while my Mom ran to the store. He thought this made him the boss of me. It didn’t but rather than have another argument about it, I decided to go play in what I considered my own personal backyard.

Now someone else was here and I didn’t know why. I looked at her for a moment and suddenly felt as if I had done something wrong.

“I’m Susan. What are you doing here?” I asked as I jumped down. I almost landed on her. She stepped back but continued to smile. She was about my height but thinner. Her hair was so blond it was yellow. She had enormous blue eyes with pale lashes. Her nose was large and her skin was so white it was almost translucent.

She was wearing a starched white blouse that was tucked into her pants. Her socks had lace on them and she was wearing white saddle shoes that didn’t have a mark on them. Her hair had a ribbon in it which matched her shirt

“I live here now,” she said. She began blinking rapidly and her eyes darted for a moment.

“What do you mean you live here now?” I asked. I quickly looked into the living room window. “I don’t see any furniture.”

Her smile got wider. “Oh, that’s because we haven’t actually moved in yet. The movers come on Saturday. We’re staying at a motel until then.”

“I see,” I said as I wiped my hands on my jeans. I wasn’t wearing any shoes and my feet were dirty. I tried to smooth my hair down but it was pointless. It was curly and stuck out everywhere. My Mom gave up trying to comb it so she cut it short and hoped it would somehow stay put.

“Do you live next door?” she asked.

“We moved in here a long time ago. I know everyone in the neighborhood,” I said as if that would mean something.

“Rebecca? Where are you?” I heard a man’s voice call out. Rebecca turned and I saw a man approach us.

“Hi Dad. This is Susan. She lives next door,” she said. He walked over the stuck his hand out. I shook it and hoped it was clean.

“Nice to meet you Susan,” he said. He was tall and younger than my parents. His hair was cut short and his teeth were so straight that I wasn’t sure if they were real or not and tried not to stare.

“Thanks, you too,” I said and pulled my hand away.

“How did you get in the yard? I didn’t see you go through the gate,” he asked and looked directly at me.

This was the second time in 2 minutes that I felt as if I had done something wrong. “I climbed over the fence like I always do,” I said.

“Oh well, please be sure not to do that anymore. This is our house and you should come to the front door from now on.” He turned and looked down at Rebecca and put his arm around her shoulder. He had spoken and I had been dismissed. “It’s time to go,” he said and turned her around. “It’s nice to have met you Susan,” he said as they walked away. Rebecca turned around, smiled and waved.

I waved and walked through the gate. I left it open. I figured if he had such a bug up his ass about it, he could close it himself.

                      1968

It was such a beautiful Saturday morning so I jumped on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could to Rebecca’s house. I had so many things to tell her about my new crush that I couldn’t wait. We weren’t in the same classes anymore and had different schedules. Since she wasn’t allowed to use the phone during the week, the only time we had to talk was on the weekend. Sometimes we would catch each other in the cafeteria but she had new friends I didn’t like.

Rebecca’s mom opened the door. I had parked my bike exactly where they had told me. Everything in their house was always in the exact right place. It was spotless and I often felt that if I moved wrong, I would knock something over and they would banish me forever.

“Good morning Susan,” she said and just stood there. She always did this. I always had to tell her I was there to see Rebecca even though it was obvious.

“Hello Mrs. Monroe. How are you?” I asked and waited. This ritual was usually short.

“I’m well. Are you here to see Rebecca?” she asked.

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t. I wanted to say I was there to visit with her even though I knew she didn’t like me and never had.

“Yes I am,” I said and continued to stand there and wait.

She looked me up and down. I automatically reached up and flattened down my hair.

“She’s upstairs in her bedroom,” she said and opened the door wider. I walked through it and started to go up the stairs.

“Thank you Mrs. Monroe,” I said.

I heard her close the door. “Rebecca has a lot to do tonight, so please be back here by 4:00,’ she said as she walked into the kitchen.

I rolled my eyes but made sure she couldn’t see them. “No problem,” I said as I sprinted up the stairs and into Rebecca’s room.

She was sitting at her desk. She jumped up and hugged me. I closed the door and flopped down on her bed. I wanted to leave as soon as we could. I felt like I was in jail.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked.

She turned around and smiled. “Yep. Let me just grab my purse. You want to grab some food for our bike ride? We could ride up the trail and there’s a bunch of nice spots where we could stop. Angie lives somewhere near the lake. Maybe we could go over to her house…”

“No, I don’t like Angie. I know she’s your friend but I don’t think she likes me,” I said.

“Oh, that’s not true! She does like you,” Rebecca said. Rebecca only saw the goodness in people. She didn’t like it when I said something unkind or mean. She would always tell me something positive. It annoyed me at times but I had grown used to it. That was just the way she was.

Her door opened and her father was standing there. They never knocked. They just walked in. Rebecca never did anything wrong and I wondered if they were like that when I wasn’t around.

He stood there and I saw he was holding a book in his hand. He had a serious look on his face. I looked down at the book. It was “Soul on Ice” and right then I knew I was in trouble.

“Where did you get this book Rebecca?” he asked as he held the book in front of him. Rebecca looked at it and then immediately looked at me. She blushed when she realized that she had just answered his question without saying anything. She looked back at him and then down at her lap.

“Well? I asked you a question young lady,” he said.

“I gave it to her,” I said. She couldn’t lie to her father and didn’t want to get me into trouble. It was easier for her if I just told the truth.

He looked at me and slowly shook his head. “Did you…read this book?” he asked.

I nodded my head. I felt my face getting red. I knew what parts he was talking about. I looked down at my shoes. At 13 years old, much of the book I did not understand but the sex scenes were vivid enough.

“Do your parents know you read this book?”

“I have no idea. It was given to me. I read it. I gave it to Rebecca to read. It’s just a book and a popular one,” I said. I did not like anyone talking to me as if they were my parents.

“Well I may have to talk to them about. I’m sure they would not approve. I think you are both a bit too young for this type of…book. There are parts that are fine. I stapled the pages that you are not to read Rebecca, but you can read the rest of it,” he said and handed her the book. She took it and nodded and placed it on her desk.

He turned and looked at me. “But the next time you want Rebecca to read something you find so…interesting, please give it to me first,” he said and walked out. He left the door open. I got up and closed it.

I looked down at Rebecca. She was still red and was wringing her hands slightly. “Sorry I got you in trouble,” I said and took the book. I started to take the staples out of it. Rebecca reached over and took the book from me.

“You can’t do that! He said I couldn’t read those parts!”

“So what? It’s my book and he had no right to ruin it. If I want the staples out of my book, I’m taking them out!” I said. I snatched the book back and began to pull out the staples and sneered every time they tore a page.

“You can see the pages that had them and if you don’t want to read them, then don’t,” I said and handed her back the book.

She shook her head. “No, that’s OK. I’ll read something else,” she said and got up and picked up her purse.

I took the book with us. We found a place to eat. I read the parts he told her not to read. Technically, she didn’t read them. I just happened to be reading out loud while Rebecca was sitting there.

I never saw her blush so much for so long. It was worth it. From then on, anything I wanted her to read, I kept in my locker at school.

                     1973

I could hear her guitar as I came out of my last class for the day. Her last class for the day ended an hour before mine. She had taken up the guitar and would use that hour while she waited for me to practice. We took the same bus home and that gave us time to catch-up on the day. It was my most favorite time of day except my English class because Ted was in it. I had a crush on him since 6th grade and 6 years later, he still didn’t know I existed.

I found her sitting on the stairs near the girl’s gym. She was in her own world as she sat and strummed her guitar. Her hair was almost to her waist. She was wearing a long dress and boots with a headband and flowers pinned into it. The sun was hitting her back and her hair looked like corn silk. I tried to flatten my hair down and forgot for a moment that it was also long. I wore it pulled back most of the time and I could feel the long pony tail hit my waist as I jogged towards her.

She was practicing “Dark Side of the Moon” by Pink Floyd. It had been the number one song on the charts for a few weeks.  I wasn’t sure if I liked them or not. No one would ever replace The Beatles for me. I walked up and stood in front of her and waited for her to stop.

She looked up and continued to strum her guitar. She was getting better and better. She taught herself much of what she played. She had taken lessons but she had a talent for it. I tried to learn but had no patience. I wanted to pick it up, play it perfectly and refused to practice.

“You ready? I want to have a smoke before the bus comes,” I said. She stood up and walked with me to the parking lot. That was where some of us went to in order to sneak a cigarette.

As we were walking, I heard someone crying. I looked around. “Did you hear that?” I asked Rebecca and stopped. She listened and then we heard it again. We looked around and followed the sound. It was subtle but someone was sobbing.

We saw a girl standing behind the partition in front of the girl’s gym. I had never seen her before. She had her face pressed against it with her hands covering her face. Her body was shaking as she sobbed and tried to be quiet. We looked at each other and walked over to her. Rebecca didn’t know who she was either.

“You OK?” I asked. She jumped back and a slight scream left her mouth. She quickly put her hands over her mouth and nodded her head. She was a mess. Her face was soaked from her tears and they had dripped onto her blouse. Her nose was running.

She was a large girl with hair worse than mine. Hers stood straight up as if she had stuck her finger in a light socket. Everything about her was wrong. She was wearing a pleated skirt that was plaid with a large sweater and knee high socks. She looked as if she had just been transported from the 50’s. I looked to see if there was a poodle on her skirt. She had the thickest glasses I had ever seen and when she looked back and forth at us, only one of her eyes moved. Her left eye stared straight ahead.

Rebecca stepped forward and put her hand on her arm. “What’s your name?”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and tried to breathe. “Dawn,” she said and attempted to smile. All you could see was a mouthful of braces and she was wearing a head-gear.

“I’m Rebecca and this is Susan. Why are you crying?”

Dawn looked around and then stared at her shoes. She shrugged her shoulders.

I already had a good idea of what happened. She was near the girl’s gym when the cheerleaders came out. I hated those girls even though we had all been friends since 3rd grade. Something happened to some of them during the summer between Junior High School and starting our sophomore year. They had grown-up suddenly and were pretty and thin and popular. Suddenly I wasn’t allowed to have lunch with them or talk to them. My greetings went unanswered or even laughed at as they flipped their hair and wiggled their butts as they walked away.

I didn’t want to hear what they had done. Those girls had turned into demon spawn. Dawn was a perfect target. I grabbed her hand and started walking. “Come with us and don’t worry about it,” I said as I headed towards the parking lot and began to pull my cigarettes out of my purse.

I found a spot to sit where I wouldn’t be seen and could hear if anyone was approaching. I had Dawn sit down between us and lit up. Her face was beginning to dry. She looked back and forth between us. Rebecca picked-up her guitar and started strumming. I leaned back, inhaled deeply and watched the smoke rise in the air.

“What happened to your eye?” I asked Dawn.

She looked at me and I saw a horrible memory pass over her face. I wasn’t trying to be mean or rude but it was like a huge elephant sitting in the middle of a living room and no one was saying anything.

“Some girls picked on me and bullied me for a long time where I used to live,” she said. Her hand went to her eye and she rubbed it. “We just moved here. My dad lost his job, so they haven’t had any money to get me a better eye.”

“A better eye? What does that mean?” I asked.

“This is a glass eye,” she said and pointed to it. “One day, those girls held me down and one of them stuck a needle into it. They laughed. They thought it was funny.”

Rebecca had stopped playing her guitar when Dawn started talking. I looked at her. Tears were in her eyes and her hand went to her mouth. I looked at Dawn as she looked out into the parking lot.

There wasn’t anything left for to say.

I watched the side of Dawn’s face as she gazed at the cars coming and going. Her jaw was tight and her bottom lip quivered. I put my hand over hers and squeezed it.

We were graduating in a couple of months. Rebecca was going off the college. She wanted to be a teacher. I had no plans. I didn’t want to go to school for a while. I wanted to write and be someone. Even then I knew that High School would have a memory that would never die. I sat there and felt the story Dawn had told go into my bones. I knew that it would stay there forever. I would never forget it. I saw what they did to her in my mind and I knew that memory would affect me for the rest of my life.

I was an adult and I didn’t want to be one. I wanted to sit in parking lots and smoke cigarettes and not have to think about what some people did to other people.

I saw our bus pull up. “What bus do you take?” I asked Dawn.

“I don’t. My mom will pick me up in a few. I’m OK now. Thanks,” she said.

I held out my hand and helped her up.

“Rebecca and I meet for lunch under the tree in the courtyard everyday at noon. Be there or be square,” I said.

Dawn smiled and blushed. I chuckled that I now had two friends that randomly looked like beets.

  1977

“Would you like some more punch?” Mrs. Monroe asked me. She was smiling and her eyes were still judgmental. I concluded that she was born that way, had lived that way and would die that way. No matter how old I got, the lack of respect in her eyes when she looked at me would always make me feel inferior.

“No thanks. I’m good,” I said. She nodded her head and walked away. I took a deep breath and turned and watched Rebecca continue to open her presents and chat with the other women. She was getting married in a few weeks. She had not forgotten to invite me to her shower even though we had not seen each other for a few years. She had graduated with her degree. I was proud of her for doing what she wanted. Being a teacher was met with approval from her parents and her entire family.

She was doing what she wanted and would soon be married.

“Are you seeing anyone?” I heard someone ask. I looked around and saw it was Debbie who had asked me the question. She was Rebecca’s younger sister.

I felt my hackles go up. Once again I was about to be subjected to the third degree by women who I didn’t know but yet wanted to know all about my love life. I didn’t like Debbie and she didn’t like me. I remembered her as sneaky and quite often running to her parents to tell them something I had said.

“Yes, but no one you know,” I said. I decided it was easier to lie than explain why I wasn’t married.

“Oh, please, tell us all about him!” she said and moved her chair closer. “Rebecca said you weren’t seeing anyone. Is this someone new?”

I wanted to scratch her eyes out. She knew damn well I wasn’t seeing anyone but now was talking loud enough for everyone to hear. A few of Rebecca’s relatives stopped talking and began to listen.

Debbie had a smug look on her face. I wondered for the millionth time if Rebecca wasn’t adopted.

“What makes you think it’s a man?” I asked and batted my eyelashes.

Debbie looked confused for a moment and then she blushed. I could see the top of her head turn red where she had pulled back her hair. She put her hand to her mouth and gasped. A few of the women looked at each other.

Mrs. Monroe stood up quickly. “Would anyone like some cake?” she said and told everyone to go into the kitchen. She glared at me and told Debbie to come help her.

I chuckled as I watched everyone leave the living room. Once they were gone, I leaned back against my chair and looked at Rebecca. She was blushing and shaking her head.

“What?” I asked and started to laugh.

“I can’t believe you said that! You would think that after all these years, I would get used to you, but I haven’t,” she said and laughed.

I knew our friendship was ending. She vowed that it wouldn’t, but she was getting married and moving away. I had met her fiancé Michael and I didn’t like him. He was rude and abrasive. Rebecca never stood up to anyone in her life. I had not been around for the last 4 years to stick up for her and speak for her when she couldn’t. I never told her I didn’t like Michael. She wasn’t going to teach. After all she had worked for, Michael wanted her to stay home. He wanted a family right away.

“You’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” I said and held her hand in mine. She still looked 8 years old to me even with the shorter hair and breasts. I looked down at her hand and back at her.

“What are you talking about? You’re not going anywhere,” she said.

I wasn’t going anywhere but Rebecca was. She didn’t understand how everything had changed over the last couple of years. We had grown up and gone our own way. She was on her way to start a new life and I was stuck in mine. I didn’t have much of a future but she did.

I no longer fit into her life.

“No, of course not. I’ll always be around,” I said. I stood up. “I have to go but I’ll see you at the wedding, OK?”

She hugged me and then stood back, held my hands and smiled. “Yep. I’ll see you at the wedding! I can hardly wait!”

She had a smile that lit up the room and I was the only one in her life that knew that.