Text is Beautiful

I have always been a font junkie. Perhaps I mentioned annoying my friends by being able to call out a font used in movie credits... while they roll... in the theater and not just at home with the DVD player? No. Oh well, forget I mentioned it. Anywayyyy.... I have seen these cool looking text clouds in a bunch of places and wondered how they happen. At one point I thought that I would make one at PicMonkey but thought better of it. For now, at least. And it turned out, I didn't have to labor to do it.

Calligraphy. Typography. What ever you want to call the alphabet in its many guises, text is beautiful. And there is a website to prove it. There are a few options and it seems like you could have endless combinations. This is what the 6° blog's cloud looks like. This is what is going on in my head, a representation of the thoughts that I have shared here. This is what we have been focusing on here in Geekdom.

And  I think that I am glad that Dr. Freud isn't here for analysis. For the most part this is a pretty positive cloud, mostly silver linings. It is evident to me from the large green "loss" the large raspberry pink "depression" and medium sized "crap" & "depression" and the smaller sap green "wrong" that there are some dark things for which the larger brilliant words provide cover or succor. Most telling is that the largest word in the bright raspberry is "stories".

Every person on the planet is a living, breathing, walking, talking story. As a writer in general and specifically as a fan of novels, movies and songs, it should not surprise me that this is the word that comes through in a sampling of my blog posts. Several things surprise me about this cloud. But I think I am just going to look at it and appreciate it for what it is for a few days then analyse the hell out of myself later.

Interview Questions: Your Favorite Job and why... Go!

I'm not sure why I was thinking about the things that you have to talk about in the interviewing process since I am not looking for a job. Well, other than the fact that we had someone come in to talk to us about the interview process and how to get better candidates for the positions that you post on the open market. Which, as my mind wandered brought me the to question that I love and hate to have asked. And one that I am dying to ask of some of the people I have met recently. And that question is: what was your favorite job.

My answer is almost never the job that I have and not the one I am about to apply for. The answer will always be daycare. With the daycare I got to do everything that I am good at and had to learn really quickly how to do the things that I could not or did not immediately know. It is the kind of thing that very few jobs can offer someone with an over active brain and a lot of energy that needs directing. All of my skill sets came in handy and the spiritual gifts were exercised.

Discernment: Being able to read both parents and children helped to gauge how to structure rules and when to amend them; when to offer advice and how much advice to offer was helpful or overwhelming but most importantly... discernment helps you know when you are being fibbed to.

Hospitality: encompasses all areas of entertaining. You have strangers in your home everyday. It is like running a hotel or bed and breakfast except that no one is spending the night. You serve 2-3 meals and have to make them fun and enjoyable without losing a sense of decorum on some level so that you don't find yourself cleaning up the remnants of an Animal House styled food fight during nap time.

Hospitality also means that you are putting on birthday parties, teaching children how to mark time with the calendar holidays and teaching manners to some degree. With children many more things are events than with adults. Catching wildlife is an impromptu event which requires fast thinking to keep it special and educational and does not usually mean there will be cake or cookies... unless of course cookies were part of the craft project. In that case catching a butterfly meant that I switched out whatever fast cookie cutter was an option and digging out the butterfly. Likewise, catching a good snowfall in Winter that made a perfect day of impromptu sledding called for a special treat of hot chocolate and high carb goodies that normally were not served. To some degree, when the Mr Roger's Neighborhood Plan and Play book came out with the season lineup so that you could have the stuff to do the activities along with the show, TV was an event.

Hospitality is catering to guests needs and wants before they know that they need or want something as much as it is about food and comfort.

In the daycare that meant that I could do everything that I wanted to do with the kids: games, art projects, books, field trips, outdoor activities, cooking, teaching.... sometimes there was only time for one or two activities. But on many days what ended up happening was that I taught everything, art, science, culture, reading, cooking, baking, manners and etiquette... exhausting.

At the same time it was all very rewarding. I haven't done daycare in 20 years. And it's been 7 since I've had to think about any of this for a resume. After the seminar I spent the day thinking about it though. And I realized that I tend to forget two things in the discussion of my favorite job, two things that are the most geeky and least used of my skills and passions in any other job I have had since. Research and writing.

As a 19 year old dealing with kids and parents, you realize that there is a lot you don't know even with nine years of babysitting for 40 hours a week under your belt. Fortunately at the time I started my daycare the print industry was enjoying a glorious and lucrative season. There was a magazine for every topic and every kind of reader imaginable. So for someone dealing with kids and needing some help there were some great magazines. I got a couple of subscriptions which I made available to the parents of my daycare kids. But the checkout and return process was a little cumbersome. And not every article applied. So I ended up just starting a filing system for articles and when a subject came up I could whip out the expert advice for us all. I read everything I could find. And with the provider groups I belonged to, I was able to get my hands on a lot of information that normally you can only find in early childhood development classes.

One of the habits that I got into rather early was to write notes to the parents at nap time. Things that were funny and quotable that their kid would say as well as noting physiological and behavioral issues kept the parents feeling like they were not missing out on things. And it included the parents in the social loop where inside jokes and group specific language patterns happen. Some of the things made for such entertaining stories that it seemed a shame not to share it with everyone in our group. And that lead me into writing for my families.

Research and Writing lead me to create a newsletter. And since I had a good solid publications course I was able to cut and paste that stuff and run it off in no time. Once a month we had a good newsletter go out with the kids. It was almost a scrapbook and almost a real school newsletter... some thing that was in between and as much fun as it was work to produce. I'm not sure when it occurred to me but I did realize that having a blog or four is completely natural to me. Technically I have been writing a blog since 1991. A blog is just a newsletter/journal/family letter at the holidays/school or church newsletter. The only difference is that one is digital and has the ability to have open subscriptions and the others are on paper meant for a select audience.

Blogging is as natural to me as anything else that I do on a regular basis. I am not any different today than I was in 1991 only the technology has changed to provide proliferation of my own thoughts. I would wish that I had a job where I can again use all of the skills that I have instead of applying them in so limited a capacity. But if I did that with this job then I would not have the energy to pursue the German culture and food blog, nor the art and watercolors that I am doing. The job that I have encompasses enough details that I should be content to have two separate lives instead of having everything as intertwined as it was in my youth.

Reflecting Today... my cousin Michelle

My Pintrest boards have been filing up with lots of inspiration for the Boho/Shabby Chic lifestyle. I have to say, honestly, if I win the lottery the first thing that I am going to do is commission a Vardo. I don't know how I will use it, but I want it. While all of these images are flooding onto my board, I keep thinking of my cousin Michelle.

I love all of my cousins for a variety of reasons. I think Michelle stands out because she was always different and didn't really care what anyone thought of her choices, her style or opinions. She went with the flow.

Michelle babysat us for a few Summers. We were always barefoot. It was the early 70s so there weren't laws about having to wear your shoes in the car, or stores, or anywhere. And I remember the Summer that I learned the hard way why shoes are important: I split my big toe open on the running board of the Galaxy 500 while we were clamoring to get into the car so Michelle could take us to the beach. She didn't freak. She didn't call me names. She stuck my feet in the sink, hosed me down with Bactine and put a bandaid on it.

Mom, on the other hand, freaked. And forbade me to be barefoot ever because I could get ringworm, or some other thing. And she freaked out on Michelle for not paying attention. So Michelle and I conspired to more antics that would potentially damage either of us... but not permanently. Michelle was one of those people who challenged the rules, not because she was an anarchists at heart. But because some rules are far too limiting and keep us too safe, too comforable and don't challenge us to creativity or strength. When we are coddled overmuch we do not grow in any productive manner. We only grow in fearfulness.

And that is one of the things that I liked best about Michelle. She was fearless. At least she was to me. I was 4, 5, and 6 when she stayed with us for the Summers. She was exotic in her hippie maxi's with the long hair and big sunglasses. The staid housewives in polyester Carol Brady housewife attire looked at her askance. The uptight men in suits seemed in equal parts curious and appalled by her flamboyancy. We just didn't have many hippies in Traverse City. I guess. We certainly didn't have a lot of people who made alternative choices. And by alternative I mean there might have been 4 shades of nail polish that were acceptable back then, peach, pink, rose and red. And given the choice, Michelle always chose something other than those. Or no polish at all. Which unless you were a farm wife that was unacceptable as well. Ooooh...... danger on the rise!

But truly, I don't know much really about her life and choices back then. I just knew everyone worried about her until she was about 35. Much the same way that everyone worried about me. All I needed to know about Michelle was that she was encouraging, sympathetic, convivial and patient in explaining things to a child. Other than my grandparents, Michelle was the only one who ever explained anything.

She explained why she said no on the rare occasion that she did say no. She explained to me why the things that I was afraid of in my dreams needn't be scary. She explained how things were made (foodwise). She explained how nature cycles worked. And she explained adults to me. Nothing is more valuable to a kid than understanding how the adult mind works in the face of an adult episode of kid rage.

She explained that sometimes adults get mad because the things that we do scare them and they are too busy being scared to know that they are scaring us in turn. Sometimes adults get mad because they forget what it is like to be curious kids and they are too busy being addled adults. And yes, she explained what addled meant. Sometimes, she said, adults get angry because they don't have time to stop and pay attention to the things that kids want explained or to share. And sometimes adults get mad because they don't know the answers to our questions, because it makes them feel dumb. Most of which are silly reasons to get mad at a kid. But with an explanation life was a little easier to understand and navigate.

photo from C'est si Bon! La Joie de Vivre 

Michelle also had interesting friends. She had interesting ideas. And she liked to get out and do stuff instead of stay in the house. As I've been absorbing all the boho-design goodness and thinking about Michelle, I've come to realize that the friends that I have share one quality with her that I treasure the most. They are safe, or make me feel safe by fostering an understanding of the things that I don't know or reminding me of the things that I have forgotten. Not all of my friends share the gypsy aesthetic. But they foster understanding. In some sense all of my friends are teachers; though I doubt all of them would see themselves that way. In a safe environment I feel like I can do anything. I do not see my limitations as a stop sign. I see them as an inspiration to sneak around a roadblock or a fence.

Michelle was sneaky like that. Sometimes evading the rules, bending them and breaking them got her into trouble enough to warrant worry. But sometimes, more often than not I suspect, evading the rules gave her greater strength of character and a whole lot of perseverance. Rebellion is not without its problems. Rebellion is also not the problem that authority would make it out to be. Certainly it makes the figures of authority uneasy, fearing they will be toppled by a pitchfork wielding mob. But for the most part rebellion is how we learn who we are as individuals. Michelle took a lot of chances. She made a lot of bolder choices. Some of them worked. Some of them did not. As a result of the ones that did not work, her life was a bit harder than it had to be.

Similarly, as a result of some of my choices, my life is more difficult than it need be at the moment. But I am stronger than otherwise I would be. I have a mental and emotional strength that I had not thought possible. I might have a few edges that were not there before. But I am stronger. I know that nothing bad that happens is the end of my world. I might not like what happens. But I know that I can survive it. And.... getting back to those friends, I know who will be with me through everything in spirit if not in person.

Perhaps that is the best thing that Michelle taught me. How to really know who your friends are. They are the ones who caution you but encourage you to make your own choices; who cry with you when you make a wrong choice and will hand you the shovel so you can dig yourself out instead of playing keep away with it. It's the playing keep away that annoys me. It is not a friendly thing to do to dangle the tools of self help in front of someone. Real friends also do not defile your personal limits. If you are deathly afraid of spiders they will not dangle one in front of you. If you despise practical jokes they will not play one on you. Friends understand that your fears and limits trump their joy. Really, what kind of friend enjoys humor at your expense (except when of course it is a natural consequence of reality)? Friends don't take pleasure in your suffering. And those who derive the greatest joy from your discomfort can not be called friends.

Somehow, slowly through the years, I have regressed into the people pleasing mode and forgotten a large part of who I am. As I indulge in these Pintrest boards, a little voice says, "You might like this, but others will think it weird." In greater leaps than I imagined possible, the boldness returns, I see Michelle's smile and recall the fabulous patterns of her maxi dressed dappled in the shade of our large maples and I remember more and more what she inspired in me. Coupled with my Gramma's assertion that we are all made differently to make the world more interesting, I grow increasingly confident in my own direction. And I grow increasingly indifferent to other people's opinions.

I am told that there are many colorful characters in my cousin's branch of the family tree. I have found a few colorful characters in the Gerbstadt branch. The part of the tree from which I stem is rather dull by comparison with only Gramma and Michelle there. It would appear I am to be another colorful leaf in the tree.

Flashbacks

I haven't seen my friend Sheri since 11th grade. And when I saw her I was too wrapped up in the year's projects, German II and after school work to do more than make a mental note to get back with her the minute I had free time. She's been out of State for 6 years and things just kept truckin' along so we lost touch. When I did have time to seek her she had moved again. Until Facebook I hadn't heard from her in nearly 2 years. So we got together for coffee.

Coffee has to be the cheapest date in this town. for a meager 4.00 you can sit with a friend for 2,4,6 even up to 10 hours and gab about nothing and everything. It was a good visit. Not only did we get to hit the highlights about life, love and living situations we were able to touch off old memories and get some explanation for things that we remembered. And we got confirmation that we were not crazy. That we did really remember some very bizarre things about school in Traverse City. One thing in particular struck me with such a force that it has taken me a couple of days to let it sink in.

"I remember the day you told me you were psychic."

We were talking about elementary school, first kisses, the boys with the cool toys and art supplies and the teachers that scared the confessions right out of us. Sheri stunned me. How in the world would I have known when I was 10 that I was psychic and why would I know? Clearly befuddled she offered this story.

It was the day that girl got hit by a car on the corner where you used to live. I don't remember her name. She was a red-headed twin. We were standing by the gym, looking at the accident; for some reason you just said "I'm psychic." Whenever I think back on those days and remember you that is what I remember first. Most. I don't know why.

I don't know why I would have said that to her. I'm sure that my Irish Gramma had a lot to do with it though. She used to say that I was an old soul. And that mom was kinda afraid of me because she couldn't fool me like she could fool everyone else. Oh sure, I fell for every practical joke out there. But when it came to teaching me about the world and how to treat people I was able to call her out on the carpet. Unfortunately I couldn't always tell what was going on when she was trying to teach me who I was. Gramma said that psychic connection is why I liked people so much for, as mom would say "So little reason." And why it hurt so much when they left. But also why animals liked me so much and I them. Gramma also said that it would be a difficult gift because I would not need constant letters and phone calls to keep me connected to people I love but they would need those things from me... sometimes in abundance.

After talking to Sheri, I remember that day and Gramma's words so much more clearly. But I can not for the life of me figure out why I would have told her that. The only explanation I have is that I was bursting to tell someone and she felt like a safe place to divest myself of such a burdensome secret.

Laid up in the Summer

There was always one good thing about being sick in the Summer. I remembered this last night as I sought refuge out on the deck. When we took up permanent residence on the "farm" we had the option of fending off the chills under 100% Irish cotton sheets on Gramma Ada's chaise lounge. When you were stone bored of your own sweaty bed and the siblings persistent assurances that 3 hours of game shows at full volume were the cure for your migraine and stuffy head, Dad swooped in for the rescue.

He'd wheel the chaise out into the grassy swale by the plum-grafted-to-pear tree near the old chicken coop, bring out the sick sheets, a mason jar full of fresh, crisp well-water and your stack of library books. If there were nary a cloud in the sky he'd bring out the boom box and plug into the chicken coop's juice. I'd feebly trudge out my healing music: Michael Jackson's Off the Wall, Thriller, something something Mozart with Eine Kleine Nachtmusic and a mixed tape with the favorites from Kasey's American top 40, mostly the Police and a couple extra King of Pain for good measure. And of course the requisite grumbling from mom about using the electricity running off the chicken coop. I don't know what the deal was. Maybe playing Thriller over the grave of a 100 savage chicken corpses reminded her that she watched way to much Hitchcock as an impressionable youth. I don't know.

But it was such a treat to sit in the sun-splashed shade with music set low, cool refreshing water and the comfort of Gramma's chaise. So tonight, as whatever malaise is affecting me has now developed a sore throat and reduced my already childish sounding voice to that of squeaky Disney rodent, I am on a less comfy chaise on a deck. There is nothing dulcet in the tones I can hear at present. An old oil rig is cricketty-cricketty cricketting its owner to a modest retirement less than 1/10th a mile away while some insect's scissor step is whining much closer.

But I do have a great book in my hands. This book helped me remember the chaise as I associate it with the music that healed me and comforted me as a kid. "Love is a Mixed Tape" is the light Summer read that my friend Michelle said it would be. It seems such a shame to devour it so quickly. It is just so full of greatness that I can't put it down. everything that I love about what music does for my memory is in here. Rob Sheffield is way cooler about keeping off the overwrought fence than I am when it comes to those memories. I promise you that you will love this book.

But...
If I say it will LeVar Burton sue me?
You're right. He is too nice a guy. See ya next time.

1987

For me the best music is frozen between 1985 and 1987. I haven't had physical copies of the music I had in high school in 15 years. An unfortunate brain washing incident when I was in Marquette caused me to dump my entire music collection. While cassettes were never meant to last, throwing them away once makes justifying their CD replacements a bit impossible. The great thing about this music though is that my spongy high school mind absorbed it all. Even with the poor audio quality and the volume reduced to accommodate age... it's like being 17 again. The words are as fresh in my head as after the first listen. The happy is there. I haven't quit smiling since I found this stuff on Youtube. These songs are portals to another time.

My fingers want to fly over the keyboard as fast as the music. Thoughts and images are flying through my head like they did when I was writing a lot of fiction. And this, I think is where Wilw's Artists oogabooga comes in handy. This was the soundtrack to everything that I was writing about. It is the encryption code for all the things that were flying through my head: pain and sorrow, joy and laughter, fear, loathing dreaming the future alive and wishing the past a peaceful death... it's all in this music.

Here's what I mean. These are snippets from the Swing of Things, a track from A-ha's second release Scoundrel Days. And this is going to mean a trip to Borders to see if they can get it for me. If not, it will be the portal to an iPod.

how can I speak of the world rushing by
with a lump in my throat
and tears in my eyes

how can I sleep with your voice in my head
an ocean between us
and room in my bed

there's a world full out there
of people I fear

oh what have I done
what lies I have told
I've played games with the ones
who rescued my soul

Yeah, at 17 that room in my bed was the empty spot where the cat used to sleep. The voice in my head was synthesized, a composite of all the chastising one little fat kid could/couldn't handle in one day. At 17 the only lies I was telling on a regular basis I told to myself. But even those affect how you interact with others so the lie spreads like ripples in a pond...
It is haunting music. And it still applies today. But now I do know that adult emptiness and there is still some fear and trepidation in dealing with the world full of people. But the same thing that I heard at 17, the message of hope and truth is that "there is still time to get into the swing of things."

Setting the Stage

Here's the story of a girl who learned very early on that she could not trust those who showed interest in her. What point is there in telling this story? It will explain, I think, just how aggressive my mental defenses are and why I'm having such trouble undoing them. Keep in mind that I am not using any real names beyond my own. The principle players and I, after 30 years, have become dear enough friends that I would not wish ill feelings directed at them. Their actions had purpose which I could not see at the time. I don't know if they consciously supported the purpose or if it is a comfortable tale I tell myself now 3o years later. The point is that things are good and I don't resent the events or the persons involved.
And as I said, I thought that it was dealt with. When this new situation arose I was shocked to find myself reduced to the 10-12 year old child that I had been. I think my defenses may be protecting her without realizing that she is now 40 and possesses (I hope) the faculties to heal and defend herself with out the automated response.


10 year old Sherry was knobby kneed and gaining girth to prevent herself from continually being dragged to the top of a 15 foot slide and thrown off the sides. Her hair was long blonde and straight as a board, a curtain to hide behind at her desk. Her hair hid the blushing caused by the pain of the insults thrown at her daily. 10 year old Sherry had bright blue eyes with a thin rim of green that glistened in the sunlight. Most people thought that it was the eagerness of youth that put the shine in her eyes. Only she knew that the shiny gloss came from the film of tears that were ever on the verge of falling whether or not she were being actively targetted. She spent most of her time alone hiding on the playground, hoping to avoid detection.
One autumn day, sometime before Halloween of her 5th grade year, one of the popular boys noticed her. He had not been one of the boys who gave her knobby knees scars by tripping her in gravel. He had not been one of the boys who followed her down the sidewalk on her way home,throwing rocks and twigs. He had not been one of the boys who called her humiliating names. He had not ever shown that he noticed her before. He was one of those boys that all of the girls noticed for being cute, outgoing and having the smile of an angel or rogue... no Devils allowed in Catholic school. During the time Mrs. Bauer set aside for reading, he leaned over the aisle between their desks.
"Hey Sherry."
10 year old Sherry thought that he'd been trying to get Geri's attention. So she ignored him. A wad of crumpled paper landed on her desk. "Hey Sherry."
Sherry looked through a part in her curtain of blonde hair. "I have to ask you something."
Sherry ducked back behind her hair. Mrs Bauer was a generous teacher but she didn't like there to be talking during reading time since our class had below average scores in reading. When class broke for lunch Mark hissed at her.
"Hey Sherry. I wanted to ask you a question."
"What?" She thought that he wanted help with homework or just wnated her to do it for him. If they weren't insulting her that is the only time her classmates talked to her.
"Would you go out with me?"
Ten year olds don't date, she thought. What she said was, "Why?"
While Mark was looking at her, Sherry did what she always did; she read the room. A ripple of winks and nudges from Mark to the last row of students in the popular clique made her back rigid.
"I think you're awfully smart. And funny."
Sherry didn't recall laughing much at all and began to register his words as lies.
"Will you go out with me?"
"No."
Sherry left the room thinking that was the end of it. The sound of conspiratorial tittering follwed her out the room as she went home for lunch. When she came back Mark was at his desk. His friends were gathered around a singel desk at a respectable distance. "I really mean it. You're smart, and funny and kinda pretty. Why won't you go out with me?"
"Because I don't believe you." She wanted to believe him. But she had spent 3 years listening to Jimmy H telling her how ugly she was with no dispute from her classmates. And in this, their 5th grade, no one was arguing Jimmy's accuracy either. Sherry sat at her desk, eyes glistening with tears she prayed would not fall on her writing assignment. She begged God to make her invisbile to Mrs. Bauer. If she were called on to answer a question her voice would crack and that would surely mean tears would follow. It seemed like all she ever did was cry.
The rest of the day passed without incident. Three days passed and she was sure that this disgrace had evaporated. As the class filed in, Mark sat at his desk, hands forlornly folded atop his books. "I don't know why you don't like me, Sherry." He pouted. "Why won;t you go out with me?"
Sherry ignored him.
The next day his friend snuck up behind her, "If you won't go out with Mark, will you go out with me? I think you're awfully sweet and we could have a lot of fun."
"No."
"Why not?"
"We are ten." Sherry's voice was barely a whisper. "We are too young to date." Still timid, her voice had gained in volume. Her body shook with fear that her refusal would be punished. But hse had to speak her mind. Grampa told her that there was no point in hiding the truth. "Besides, I know you are lying."
He turned her around, a huge and fake smile on his face. She knew it was fake because he should have looked either hurt or embarrassed. Her if her accusation was false and embarrassed to have been caught if it was true. His expression did not change so she knew that he had a motive she could not see.
"Why would I lie?"
Sherry ran away.
"Well Mark, she won't have either of us. Maybe she lieks Tom better. Hey Tommy, come overh ere and ask Sherry out."
Tommy's reluctance was evident. Mark and Mark dragged him to Sherry's desk. Barely audible, Tommy did as he was told and then ran for the haven of his desk before she could say anything. Mrs Bauer called the class to attention. Again the curtain of blonde hair drew over Sherry's face. This time the tears fell on her math homework. She didn't care. And she didn't make a sound as she wept, smearing number two pencil over the loose leaf paper.
The next day each Mark in turn asked her to go steady. Each day until Christmas they asked. And they asked up through Easter break. Tommy submitted to their pressure and asked only periodically after protesting that he didn't want to because it was mean. School resumed after break. As did the daily ritual. Each say until Summer vacation was much the same. She cried into her dilapitated teddy bear's stomach, sure that she was rusting the music box sown inside him.
6th grade began with orientation in which new classmates were introduced and homeroom was assigned. Sitting with Mark Mark and Tom was Donovan. Sometime during orientation she noticed the Marks pointing in her direction. Donovan looked, sized her up and wrinkled his nose as though he'd just been told he had stepped in dog poop. Then he laughed and nodded affirmatively to something being discussed. Before she ever got to homeroom, Sherry was caught about the elbow.
"They tell me that you're one of the smartest people in school. I guess that means we'll be spending time together since I need a little extra help. You'd like to do homework with me wouldn't you?" Donovan smiled the smile of snakes and charlatans. Sherry's heart sank. This year would be the same as the last. "No."
Each day until Thanksgiving was the same. The Marks took turns asking her why someone so cute and smart would turn them down. The first Mark came up with a new speech. "You're breaking my heart Sherry. I've liked you ever since the 3rd grade and all you do is turn me down. Am I ugly?" No, I am, she thought to her self. "Am I mean?" I had not thought so until last year, she thought to herself again. "Do I smell?" No, she answered in her heart. "I go home every night and cry that you tell me 'No'." No you don't, she heard in her head. That voice was not her own.
Sherry, rather than continue the conversation, this time said nothing. she thought that ignoring them would make the tire of the game and stop. She'd thought about begging. About crying and telling them how much it hurt to know that they were only pretending. But when Jimmy found out how much he was hurting her he kept doing it more. He found more ways to cause pain. Sherry didn't think that telling them how she felt was a good idea. She thought about telling one of the new teachers what was going on. But who would believe that the three most popular boys in class would ever ask her out? She'd be laughed at, called a liar and branded as a trouble maker. Best to keep to herself. They'll stop soon enough, hse thought.
But it kept up through Christmas, ans Spring break. It was close to Summer vacation when a new boy joined the class, and their clique and their game. Just before the end of the school year Clay asked her to go steady. Sherry ignored him.
"Look guys, she thinks she's too good for us."
When Gramma and Grampa picked her up for her only weekend with them alone she cried all the way home. After Star Trek and learning that Cheese puffs and tears don't mix, she told her grandparents what was happening. Gramma cried silently with her for a while. Grampa waited until the hiccups went away and asked her what her course of action had been.
"I don't know what else to do. I tried to think what Laura (Ingalls) would do. ButI can't hit them and I don't know where to get leeches."
"Hitting won't work. Jimmy H you should hit. These boys.... what they are doing is psychological."
Grampa Gerbstadt gave Sherry a crash course in basic psychology. "You'll just have to say yes."
"But "I don't want to! They don't mean it."
"Of course they don't. That is the point in saying yes."
"I don't understand."
"Al, she can't. She's too young for all of this foolishness."
"She isn't. If she were it wouldn't be happening."
"You don't really want to do this do you?" Gramma put her arm around Sherry's shoulders.
Sherry's chin dropped to her chest and the sobs started again.
"Al, this is just going to make her feel worse."
"How, she already knows that they are lying to her."
"But this is the proof. Once this happens..."
"It will put a stop to the torment."
"I-I ca-an't."
"You will when you're tired of this. Wash your face and get your books. I'm sure you have a lot of homework to do."
Summer came with the reprieve from her torture. She thought. Her brother began to tease her every day about them liking her. "And maybe (fill in the name) likes you too!" Then 7th grade started. The very first day, before she ever got into the building, the first Mark began cajoling her from the curb. "Look, there she is. The only girl to ever break my heart. Will you ever go with me Sherry?"
Sherry dashed inside the building hoping to find solace that was not there. That first weekend of school she was at Gramma and Grampa's again. "Well, has it stopped?"
Sherry didn't need to ask has what stopped. All she did was shake her head no as tears flowed. later in the weekend, as she colored in her homework for religion class, Grampa appeared in the doorway. "Why do they do this,Grampa? Why do they say nice things that they don't mean?"
"Its the way people are. Sometimes people say mean things that they don't believe because they are hurt or scared. Sometimes people say nice things that they don't mean because they don't want to admit to thinking nasty things. Action. You have to look at what people do."
"Actions speak louder than words." Sherry didn't know who she was quoting. But she heard it a lot from everyone so she believed it was a wise thing to know and say.
"Most of the time. You'll always know when people tell the truth by action. You can't always believe the words. There are a lot of good actors out there and they aren't all in Hollywood."
Sherry went back to school that Monday thinking of the things that Grampa said. Her heart hurt. Her head hurt from all the crying. She knew she needed this to stop. But when it stopped then she would know that she never had been wanted and most likely never would be wanted. After this no one in her class would want her anymore that they all ready did. And, at the age of twelve, Sherry didn't have the bigger picture to know that there was a world beyond Catholic school and more people in her life than her classmates.
Sherry let it continue through Thanksgiving and Christmas break. Each day it was harder and harder to want to go to school. It was getting harder to sit through class not knowing during which period the attacks would come. Then, just before Easter break, Clay trapped her at her desk. She hated having to sit by the wall... no escape.
"Sherry, Sherry Sherry. Why do you keep saying no? You know that I want you. Those guys are just a couple of chumps. I've got money, we live in a nice house and I am the most popular boy in school. You've got to want me as much as I want you."
"OKay."
"what?" Clay blanched.
"I'll go with you."
Mrs. Huffman called the class to attention and grabbed Clay by the scruff of his collar to show him to his seat. The popular girls were laughing at him. Mark, Mark and Donovan were laughing at him. As they were leaving for the next class, the first Mark clapped Clay on the shoulder, "you're stuck with her now!"
"You said she'd never say yes!" Clay screeached. Sherry's worst fears were finally realized. This would stop the daily torment. But what was she to do with the pain in her soul?
Sherry successfully avoided Clay for the rest of the day. For the whole weekend she refused to aswer the phone or talk to Clay when he called.
"Why is that boy so desperate to talk to you?"
"He wants to break up with me?"
"What do you mean break up with you? You shouldn't be dating anyone. And who would want to date you anyway?"
"Don't worry. No one really wants me. It was a joke that back fired."
On Monday morning, Sherry approached Clay as he stood nervously by a lamp post.
"Um... I tried to call you all weekend." He looked like he'd eaten an entire plate of deviled eggs that had been left in the hot Summer sun for hours. "We can't go steady."
"I know."
"It's uh... nothing personal, it's just that...
"Your mother didn't approve."
"Right. And well.. you know... its not like you have money for the movies and stuff."
"I know."
"And well you just couldn't afford gifts all the time for like birthdays and stuff."
"I know."
"so uh... yeah. So we aren't going steady."
"Right."
Clay ran into the building and never looked Sherry in the eye again. Mark, Mark, Donovan and Tommy never asked her to go steady after that. Her Grampa was right. "They won't have the guts to do it again. They'll be afraid that you'll say yes again." And he was right.

Only one person asked her to go out, to go steady with the hope of building a relationship after that. His actions matched his words. But he didn't stay either. And at 40, Sherry feels like that 10-12 year old girl all over again.