TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 72

[Tobie Shapiro]

November 27, 200000000000000000006


Dear Wise Skies,

	We made turkey soup yesterday with the 
carcass and the leftover turkey meat, but the pot 
wouldn't come to a boil.  My mother has this new 
age electric stove top that only works if the pot 
is completely flat, and then, it never gets up to 
the temperature that a gas stove would reach 
instantly.  So the pot sat there for an hour or 
more, getting less than tepid.  We'd already made 
the matzo ball batter, and finally had to call 
off dinner at home because the soup just wouldn't 
be ready in time.  Maybe we would have eaten at 
8:30 or 9:00.  And it was a school night.  So we 
went out to a little diner not far from us. 
Okay, if not terrific food, and dubious service. 
But convenient.  And you know what people will do 
for convenience!  Practically everything.  Easier 
doesn't mean better, I tell my kids.  And they 
listen.

	Listen here.



                             ßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßß


Chasing father

	2405 Colston Drive was our address in 
Silver Spring, Maryland.  I still remember our 
phone number: JUniper 7-8190.  It is weird how a 
telephone number can stick in your head like 
that.  Of what use is this information now?  And 
what useful information has this pointless 
recollection of an ancient extinct phone number 
pushed aside in my brain?  There are just so many 
slots in the brain's memory banks to fill, and 
when they're all filled up, when you shove 
something new in there, something else has to be 
deleted so it can fit.  Out goes the memory of 
those dates in the Civil War and the names of the 
generals; in goes the name of the bagger at the 
Safeway who dropped your bottle of wine and broke 
it into a million pieces in the parking lot.  If 
you're going to forget something, let it be those 
Civil War generals and the dates of the battles. 
But how does the mechanism work?  How is the 
selection made of what to jettison from the 
memory?  Is there a hierarchy of importance of 
memories?  Does the oldest memory fall off the 
end of the brain?  Who studies this sort of 
thing?  How far have they gotten?

	Colston Drive ran parallel to the East 
West Highway and perpendicular to Grubb Road. 
Rock Creek Forest Elementary School was on Grubb 
Road.  And further down was a block full of 
stores:  a hardware store, a delicatessen, a drug 
store with a soda fountain, a five and dime.  I 
knew my way around those businesses on Grubb Road.

	When I was four years old, my father 
announced that he was going to the hardware store 
on Grubb Road.  I shouted out, immediately, that 
I wanted to go with him.  Please, could I go with 
him?  He looked at his wristwatch and counted out 
the seconds to exactly 9:00 on that Saturday 
morning.  He instructed me to get ready to go, 
and that he would wait for me for precisely two 
minutes, not a second longer, and then he would 
depart without me.  I ratchetted up my activity 
level.  Had to get ready in two minutes.  I was 
frantic.  Put on the socks and shoes, pull that 
dress over my head, quick quick quick.  He's 
going to leave without me.  This was a lot to ask 
of a four year old.  I rushed through my paces, 
trying my best to make it out to the front door 
so I could go with him down the street to the 
hardware store.  I crammed my dress over my head, 
got my socks and shoes on, and ran to the front 
door, all out of breath.  He'd left the front 
door open, and he'd left without saying a word. 
No warning, just left without me, leaving the 
front door open.  I felt punished.  But maybe I 
could catch up to him.

	I bolted out the front door and down the 
path over the hill in the front yard.  I could 
see him far up ahead walking away.  So I 
redoubled my efforts, and I called out after him, 
"Daddy!  Daddy!  Wait!  Wait for me!  Here I 
come!"  He didn't hear me, or else he was 
ignoring me.  He kept marching forward, striding 
quickly, not turning to see me.  I closed the 
gap, and rounded the corner from Colston Drive to 
Grubb Road.  I was gaining on him.  I could see 
the back of his head only twenty feet in front of 
me.  I shouted out again.  "Daddy!  Wait for me!" 
At that point I knew he had to have heard me.  We 
were that close.  But he didn't pause, or turn 
around, or answer me.  He kept up his pace, 
ignoring me, shutting me out of his mind.  I 
tried to run faster, my skirt blowing in the 
wind.  Then suddenly I realized that I'd 
forgotten to put on my underpants.  I stopped 
dead in my tracks, gathered my skirt around my 
legs, turned around, and crawled back home, 
humiliated.  Who knew how much of me had shown in 
public view?  I cried all the way home, ran into 
the bedroom I shared with my sister, and sneaked 
back onto my bed, where I found my underwear and 
slowly stepped into it, pulled it up over my hips 
and covered myself.  Then, snivelling, I crept 
into the living room, turned on the television 
and watched the Saturday morning cartoons.  I was 
mortified.

	I've wondered where that excruciating 
shame came from so early in my life.  Four years 
old is a bit young to be so exquisitely shamed by 
nudity.  But it had been drummed into me, 
somehow.  I've contemplated it, but I don't know 
how far back the sexual abuse started. 
Certainly, the psychological shaming could have 
begun by then.  I had a good dose of it.  I 
didn't look my father in the eye for the rest of 
the day.

                             ßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßߥßßß
-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net