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Sarah has the mentality of maybe a six year old. Her speech is slow and slurred, and usually I have to listen to her for a few minutes before I can understand what she is saying. She is in the eighth grade by age only. She has her own classes at school, but comes to some of the regular classes like P.E., art, and home ec so that she can learn to interact with her peers. Sarah’s family doesn’t have a lot of money. They live four houses down from my house. Their house and yard are always run-down and poorly cared for. Siding has broken off, weeds are growing in the front yard, rusted bikes and car parts, though the family has never owned a car, are scattered across the drive way and front lawn/dirt patch. The city is always getting after them to clean up their yard. Some of the neighbors say their house is an eye sore in our neighborhood. Once a year, some neighbor will get ambitious and organize a service project to clean up their yard. The whole neighborhood takes an entire Saturday and lays down sod or paints the outside of the house or pulls weeds. A few months later it looks like no one has touched it in years. I hate to say it, but Sarah’s family is just plain weird. Sarah is an only child, but I wonder if her parents even know that they have a child, especially a child with special needs. Sometimes Sarah comes to school in the same clothes the entire week and her hair is rarely combed. Often, Sarah smells really awful, and I know she hasn’t taken a shower in at least a week. Her mom is this timid woman who rarely comes out of the house. When she does emerge from her home, she doesn’t look at or talk to anyone. She has blonde, scraggly hair and a drab face and could blend into the wallpaper if she wanted to. Sarah’s dad gives me the creeps. He is constantly changing from one part time job to another. Currently, he is unemployed. He is bald, has beady eyes, and is convinced that the world is conspiring against him. While his wife avoids making eye contact with anyone, everyone avoids making eye contact with him because even the slightest hint of eye contact, and he will take the next 20 to 30 minutes of your life to tell you about his latest conspiracy theory.
Despite her physical, mental, and family challenges, Sarah has such a bright outlook on life. She gets so excited about the littlest of things. I gave her a piece of gum one day, and she almost shook my arm off trying to say thank you. She does this squeal when she’s really excited and will hop up and down and clap her hands. She does this often because she is always excited about something or other. I don’t think she really understands just how bad she has it. She always has a compliment for you when she sees you. She loves to run her hands through my hair and tell me how pretty my hair is. This bugs me, but I still let her do it. I like being around Sarah, it’s like hanging out with my five year old sister, but sometimes I feel awkward and don’t know how to act around her. Sarah thinks everyone is her friend and likes everyone just the same. She doesn’t know that people make fun of her. She doesn’t understand that sometimes people are laughing at her not with her. This one time, last year, these older boys convinced Sarah that it would be fun if she would dance on top of the lunch table for them. She climbed on top of that table and danced away, elbows and knees jutting out, legs kicking out awkwardly and all these boys were gathered around the table hooting , clapping, and hollering things, “Yeah baby!” “Work it, baby!” Sarah was in high heaven. Luckily, a teacher noticed what was happening and put an end to it. The boys got in trouble, but kids still talk today about how hilarious it was when Sarah danced on the table. Sarah might not understand how other kids pick on her, but I do, and it makes me so angry. I hate how those other kids treat Sarah sometimes. I just want to punch all of them. Why do they feel like they have to pick on someone like Sarah anyway? I hope they can outgrow all of this by high school. If not, then I’m seriously worried about the world we live in.
Now, before you start thinking of me as a saint, as some crusader for the handicapped, let me be honest. While it infuriates me to no end to see Sarah being teased and harassed, I never do anything to stop it. You’ve got to understand, my own existence in this middle school is precarious at best. I have a reputation to build, and the road to being part of the ‘in’ crowd is a rocky one. So don’t judge me, when I say that sometimes when I see Sarah coming down the hall, I duck my head and hope she doesn’t see me. If she latches on to me at school where everyone can see, I might as well pull up a chair next to Jessie Sutherland in Outcast City for the next five years.
This is why, when my mom announces the new carpool situation, I tell her, “But mom, we can’t give Sarah a ride because…because…because sometimes I have to go to school early.” It’s a lame excuse, but all that I can think of at the moment.
“I’m sure she won’t mind going early some days. We’ll just let her know beforehand.” Mother logic is difficult to fight.
“But, mom-m-m-m!” That’s all I’ve got. Sign me up for the debate team!
“Besides, Sarah needs a friend at school, and you’re such a good girl, Janie, I know you’ll do what is right.”
I hate when parents do that. They put the ball into your court. “I know you’ll do what is right.” Where do they learn these things? Is there some kind of class called Evil Parenting 101 that every parent is required to take before they can have children? I wish I could explain to my mom why I don’t want to give Sarah a ride to school, but, to be honest, I am ashamed of the why and would hate to see that shame reflected in my mother’s eyes. I slink off to my room to devise some sort of plan of how I can ride in the same car as Sarah to school, exit the same car, and somehow lose her before we get to the front doors. Maybe I can convince my mom that my locker is at the back of the school and that it would be easier if she dropped us off in the back parking lot. The only problem with this solution is that all the doors are locked except the front doors, and we would have to then walk all the way around the school to get inside. Perhaps, I could just start walking to school. It’s only four or five miles away. Yeah right. I picture myself dragging my weary, frost-bitten body through a winter blizzard, my sweat-soaked hair frozen to my face. Finally I arrive at school just in time to hear the final bell of the day ring and then I am trampled by a horde of frantic-to-escape students rushing out the doors. Finally, I come up with a plan to tell my mom that I’ve joined the science club and that I have to be at school half an hour early every day. That way we’ll get dropped off while a majority of the other students are at home still getting ready for school, and no one will see us. I can feel the bags under my eyes already. This is going to be a really long year.
The next day, my plan seems to be working. My mom buys into the whole science club story. While I hate to lie to her, I tell myself that sometimes a girl’s got t o do what a girl’s got to do. We pick Sarah up at 6:50 a.m. Her clothes are mis-matched, and while she doesn’t smell too bad, her hair is oily and stringy and badly in need of a good washing. My mom gives Sarah a strange look and then quickly recovers with a huge smile. “Hi, Sarah! How are you this morning?” My mom chirps, far too chipper for this time of day.
“Hi-uh, Missezz Yarson. I good. Hi-uh, Janie. Your hai-wa is so pwetty!”
I’m slouched down in the back seat trying to get a few more minutes of shut-eye. “Hi, Sarah. Thanks.” I grumble and then close my eyes again.
I’m about to completely zone out when I hear my mom say, “Sarah, do you think you could come to our house a little earlier each day? We could play beauty shop and do your hair up all nice and pretty!”
Sarah claps her hands. Her volume rises with her excitement, so she’s practically shouting when she says, “Surwa, Missezz Yarson! I will come at six oooooo’clock!”
Sarah is going to be at our house everyday at 6:00 A.M. so that my mom can play beauty shop? I let this sink in for a moment. Could my life get any worse? If any of the other kids find out about this, my life is over. I resolve to have a good discussion with my mother about this tonight. I will prepare a solid argument during my English class. What was my mom thinking?! I slouch down further and pretend to have not heard the conversation.
My plan goes much more smoothly after that. My mom drops us off at school. I manage to lose Sarah as soon as we enter the building. Luckily, she is a person of habit and immediately heads for the special education classroom. The school is completely deserted this early in the morning, so I park myself at a lunch table and pretend to study. When the first busload of students bursts through the doors, I casually mingle my way into the group and make my way to my locker where I wait for Cari and Julie, just like any other regular day.
In English, I prepare a well-thought out, well-written argument of why we should just mind our own business and leave Sarah alone. It is some of my best work.
At lunch, I absentmindedly listen to Cari talk about some amazing volleyball slam she did in P.E. and Julie talk about some boy band that she is absolutely in love with (for the week, anyway). Eventually, they notice my lack of attention.
“What’s up with you?” Cari asks, stealing one of my tater tots.
I push my tray towards her. “Eat ‘em while they’re still warm.”
“Are you in lo-ove?” Julie teases. She knows that I have, in fact, been in love with Scott Peterson since the fifth grade. However, I’m not sure Scott Peterson even knows that I exist. Nothing new there. But someday, the stars will align, and he will look into my eyes, music will start to play, and he will realize that he is madly in love with me. Someday.
“No. It’s nothing. I just, I don’t know.” This is conversation at its finest.
“Wow. That totally made sense!” Cari says as she wolfs down the last of my tater tots.
I don’t want to explain my situation to them because I know I will sound like a complete jerk. I shrug. “No, it’s just that my mom has gone all Annie Sullivan on me.”
Julie’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “Wasn’t Annie Sullivan Helen Keller’s teacher? What’s wrong with her?”
Nothing. I think. While Annie Sullivan is now considered a saint and a hero to much of the world for her patient and loving work with a wild, deaf and blind Helen Keller, I bet she was picked on in middle school. Out loud, I say, “Nothing. That’s the problem.”
My friends just shrug. They know me well enough to know that they’re not going to pry anything out of me when I’m in one of these moods.
After school, I stall as long as I can. No need to exit with the crowd. I am walking out the main door with Julie when we hear it. Honk. Honk-honk. Honk-honk-honk-hooooonk-honk. It sounds like someone is attempting to play Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on a car horn. Julie and I look at each other and burst out laughing. Some of the kids walking out of the building with us also start looking around and laughing. And then I see the worst thing I have ever seen. It’s so terrible that I want to look away but I can’t, you know, like, if you were to come across a terrible car accident and you know you should look away but you just can’t. Right there, in front of the entire school, is my mom’s mini-van. Sarah is sitting shot gun and honking the horn with great gusto. As she honks away on the car horn, she is laughing maniacally. And to my complete horror, my mother is doing nothing to stop this spectacle. In fact, she is laughing too. I can feel a deep, crimson/purple blush spreading up my neck and across my face. For a moment, I think that maybe I can mumble something about forgetting a book in my locker and go back into the school before they see me. But then, Sarah spots me. She stops honking the horn, and , to my horror, leans out the window and shouts, “He-e-e-e-e-y, Ja-a-a-a—anie-e-e-e-e!”
I want to die right then and there. Is thirteen (almost fourteen) too young to die of a heart attack or stroke or maybe just unknown causes, a.k.a. complete humiliation? I just stand there, frozen to that spot on the sidewalk. Then Mason Johnson bumps me and snickers, “Hey, it’s the retard-mobile! I though Janie rode the short bus, but it looks like she’s moved up in the world! Isn’t that your ride, Janie? Isn’t that your retard-mobile?” The kids around us start to laugh at me. When did the entire school show up for my humiliation? Because it definitely feels like the entire school is standing around me, laughing at me. In the corner of my eye, I think I catch a glimpse of Scott Peterson walking by. Forget stars aligning, now I just wish a black hole would appear and swallow me into oblivion.
Mason Johnson is such a jerk. He has always been a bully and always will be. I want to say something mean and cutting, but all I say is, “Shut up, Mason.”
I am waiting for Julie or someone to stand up for me, but Julie just mumbles a quick good-bye and disappears. Some best friend! Though I hate to admit it, I probably would have done the same. Now I feel a rage rising up within me, replacing my embarrassment. I shoulder past Mason, stomp up to the van, open the door, and toss my backpack into the back seat. I throw myself into the back, buckle me seatbelt , and slam the car door shut. Mom and Sarah, all fun and giggles, greet me, but I just growl, “I really don’t want to talk to you guys right now.” Mom can see that I’m upset, but Sarah is oblivious, as always, and tells us about her wonderful day of school all the way home.
Once we get home, mom approaches me like a lion trainer approaches a ferocious, unpredictable lion. I half expect her to hold a chair out between us. “How was your day?” She asks.
I make no reply. Instead, I pour myself a glass of milk.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Talk to me.” The fact that mom is acting so innocent only makes me angrier. She is clueless.
“That was so embarrassing, mom!” I finally blurt out.
“What was?” Mom thinks for a moment, drumming her fingers on her lips, and then the realization hits her. “Oh, you mean, when Sarah was honking the horn?”
I refuse to dignify her lack of thought with a response. Instead, I just glare at her. I know that I need to wrap this conversation up quickly, because if I stand here much longer, I’m going to start crying. I want my mom to see my wrath not tears.
Mom sighs. “I’m sorry, Janie. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Sarah was so excited waiting for you, and it was fun to watch her playing songs on the horn to get you to come out of the school. It’s just sweet how much she looks up to you, you know.”
The tears are getting closer. The dam is going to break. I decide to turn up the anger. “It’s not just that. It’s the rides and the whole beauty shop thing…and, well, you have your own kids, you know. You could try taking care of them.” I wish I could have stopped those words from coming out of my mouth, but they just burst out. I don’t mean them. I certainly know they aren’t true. My mom is some kind of super-mom. She quit her career of nursing, when I was born. This is a woman who went through college to become a nurse, worked long hours, was really good at what she did (from what I’ve heard), and then just gave it up to be a stay-at-home mom. Now her focus and her pride is being a good mom for me, my nine year old brother, and my little sister. And here I am, attacking her mothering skills.
I see something flash in my mom’s eyes, and I know I’ve hurt her feelings. But then she just licks her lips and says in a soft, matter-of-fact tone, “I know you don’t mean that. I understand that you are upset. I think that Sarah needs a little extra love and care, and I don’t think it will be such a sacrifice for our family to give that to her. Now, I think you need to go up to your room until dinner and think about things for awhile. Get your head on straight.” Mom always tells us to ‘get our heads on straight’ when we are acting really stupid.
I grab my backpack and stomp upstairs to my room. Once I get to my room, I am tempted to slam my door, but then I remember how much trouble I got into the last time I slammed my door, and decide against it. I close it gently and fling myself onto my bed. I pull out my well-thought out argument from my notebook, crumple it up, and toss it in my garbage can. Then I release the flood gates and let the tears fall.
I read somewhere that some Native American tribes used to make prisoners-of-war run the gauntlet. However, there was no running involved. It was slow, grueling, excruciating…a prisoner-of-war had to walk slowly between two lines of people, young and old, with clubs and rocks. You had to keep walking while people on all sides of you pummeled you with clubs, rocks, and their fists. If you made it through the gauntlet, you were a member of the tribe. Some made it through the gauntlet with injuries that healed over time; Others were scarred for the rest of their lives; And some didn’t make it at all. Sounds brutal, right? If you ask me, it sounds like middle school. I mean, have you ever attempted to walk down the halls of a middle school during the five minute class break? It can be brutal. Forget about tardies, most of us are just happy to be alive.
In middle school you are a part of the gauntlet many times. Sometimes you are the one running the gauntlet, just hoping to survive. Sadly, sometimes you are the one holding the club, swinging away at someone else. I wish I could say that I have never done anything to hurt someone else, but let’s face it, I’m thirteen (almost fourteen)—I think it’s in my DNA. I mean, we all come into middle school as these wide-eyed kids. The halls are so big, the cold, metal lockers, terrifying, the lay-out of the school, confusing. We are all scared and awkward together. We still say things like, “Do you want to come over and play after school?” and sometimes we accidentally call our teacher “mom”. By eighth grade, we are hardened soldiers. We’ve seen it all (or so we think). We make fun of the new little kids coming in, forgetting that it was us once, not too long ago. We wouldn’t be caught dead asking a friend to come play, instead, we say, “Do you want to hang out?” Calling your teacher “mom” would be devastating to your middle school survival, so we avoid talking to teachers altogether. By eighth grade, it’s like you lose your innocent and naïve outlook on life, and you realize that it’s all about survival. You do what you got to do to survive because, hey, it’s a jungle out there.My husband and I are very different. Don't get me wrong, we have many things in common. We are both determined, hard-headed, and completely in love with each other. We enjoy being together as much as possible. When the world says, "Why?" we say, "Why not?" However, in many ways, we are polar opposites.
Nic is driven by 'how can I make money' or to be more accurate and give him credit, 'how can I provide for my family'. He is made of logic, reality, common sense, and steel determination.
I am driven by dreams. I am made of unicorn breath, stardust, and magic fluff.
Recently, I resigned from my career of teaching, a path I chose with dreams of changing the world and making a difference (did I get paid? No matter...), to become a full-time dreamer (I am raising our son and keeping the house some-what under control on the side). These are some of my dreams:
I dream of being a famous author. I want to walk up to J.K. Rowling, as old chums do, and say, "Hey, J.K.! What do you know?" I want to sign something other than credit card slips at Barnes & Noble. I want to tour the world reading excerpts from my novels to adoring fans. I want to cry with Oprah as I read one of my more poignant excerpts. I want movie producers to ask me my opinion on who should play the lead role in the movie being made that is based on my book. Or if they don't want my opinion, I want to criticize their choices on my blog followed by thousands.
I dream of having an apple stand at the local farmer's market where I would sell fresh apples, rich apple cider, gooey caramel apples, sweet apple turnovers, and slices of delicious apple pie.
"But you're not a farmer and don't grow apples!" My husband points out.
"But I might someday! Can't you just imagine how yummy it would be?"
"So do you want to do this to make money or for fun? Never mind, I already know the answer!"
I dream of opening my very own restaurant, 'Around the World in One Meal'. The tables would be painted to look like the world. The servers would wear costumes from various cultures, and they would learn a handful of phrases in different languages. We would serve Italian, Chinese, Mexican, and American with specific head chefs for each specialty. One weekends, we will have live performances--fire throwers, hula dancers, mariachi bands, Irish step-dancers...it will be amazing! Bring your family!
"And you're going to make money with this, right?" He hesitates to ask.
"Uh...sure...we'll charge people to eat there."
To give my husband credit, he is no dream squasher. He is my scientist designing a rocket to reach my stars; he is my architect building a tower to my clouds. When I say that I want to be a professional horseshoe competitor and travel the horse shoe circuit, he's out in the backyard measuring to build a horse shoe pit so that I can practice. Nevermind I haven't ever really played a true game of horse shoe!
