Anonymous Valentine

My mother advised me.  She advised me a lot.  By the time I was twelve……………the advise that came out of nowhere was quite often about……………drum roll, please………….boys.

I was advised in very strong terms not to be “Boy Crazy.”

I no longer thought that all boys had cooties.  My nose told me that most of them should bathe more.  I was still out kicking many of them at kick ball.  I was still out running them during Hide and Seek.

My mother might have given me the “boy” advise a few years too early.  But, I did listen.  I assured her that my mind was never going to be overrun with thoughts of the opposite sex.  I hadn’t met one yet that was as smart as I was.  None of them had ever read a book.  None of them had ever baked a cookie………….they only ate them.

“Give me an example of boy crazy” I asked one day …………I must have been about fourteen.

Mom took a moment to think about it.  And, then she gave me the example of ‘Pearl’.  Pearl was a smart girl.  Much beloved by her many girl friends.  Then all of a sudden Pearl started smiling and gazing at all the boys.  The boys started ringing the door bell and the phone rang off the hook.  Pearl put away her dolls just in time to deliver a twelve pound baby girl.

I was sorry I had asked.

But, Mom wasn’t done.  Here came the story of Loretta.

Loretta was a plain girl.  She became a plain young woman.  She married her sweetheart when she was eighteen.  She gave him a kiss and he marched off to war.  Loretta took her hair out of the bun.  Loretta bought herself some red lipstick.  All of a sudden Loretta looked like a movie star.  Loretta liked to have fun.  Her sweetheart of a husband came home from war two years later……………….. and was greeted at the door by a set of twins. The twins were a year apart and looked nothing like him.

Yup, the stories were getting juicier the older I got.

Then there was Bernice!  She took a job in an office full of men.  Bernice made coffee.  Bernice typed like the wind.  Bernice came in early and went home late.

Anonymous gifts started to arrive at the office and at home for Bernice.  Flowers.  Chocolates.  Love poems and books of poetry.  Bernice’s head started to swim.  Who could be sending her these special tokens of love?  Could it be a movie star?  Could it be the mayor?  Could it be the handsome man that helped her up when she fell on the ice?

Yeah, no.  It turned out to be her boss.  The one whose wife had just left him to raise three boys alone.  Bernice fell for it.  One box of chocolates……………a dozen red roses…………some lame poetry………….and she spent a lifetime raising kids that weren’t hers.  And, those kids never liked her at all.

I heard many more of these stories.  My mother made all women out to be poor lovelorn schmucks.  No wonder every boy that looked my way was told to take a hike.

I got to high school unencumbered by boyfriends.  Oh, a few tried.  I found them amusing.  I wished there was no such thing as a phone book.  I would start out trying to be nice when the phone would ring and it was for me.  But, I didn’t have much patience.

A third try…………..that interrupted me watching ‘Here Comes The Brides’ and my obsession with Bobby Sherman was met with “Please, do yourself a favor, lose my number.”

I wasn’t just ‘hard to get’.  I was impossible to get.  I’m thinking it was all Bernice’s fault.

Everyone in high school had a locker.  Each locker was placed in a spot that was not handy at all.  If all your classes were in the west wing?  Your locker was in the east wing.  I visited my locker in the morning and at the end of the school day.  I would stare at my books.  Which of them was I willing to carry home?  It was a long walk and these text books were heavy.

This is why I never did well in history.  This is why I aced every test given on a four ounce paper back novel. This is why I gave up the clarinet and band.  This is why I chose choir instead.  My voice didn’t weigh anything.  That clarinet was heavy after the first mile.

I was a junior in high school.  Sixteen and unencumbered.  Boys had tried.  Me and my smart ass mouth had run them off.

My mother hadn’t wanted me to be boy crazy……………..but, now she was a little worried that there were no boys around at all.

And, then the stickers started.  Yeah, even to me that sounds like a weird sentence.  But, I’ll say it again.  The stickers started.

My locker was missing it’s number plate.  Each day I would arrive to throw the weight of my books into my locker.  I was greeted by a sticker with beautiful art on it.  Pen and ink drawings of sunsets.  Mountains and lakes.  Trees and flowers…………..all with my missing locker number in the middle of the drawing.

I was not enchanted by the anonymous attention…………….like Bernice had been.  I was freaked out.

Every day, I peeled beautiful artwork off of my locker.  I couldn’t make myself dispose of it.  Instead, I decorated the inside of my locker and wished for it to end.  It went on and on.

And, then the expensive flower deliveries started at home.  A dozen red roses with a drawing of my gold cat sitting in our front yard attached.  Gerber daises with a picture of me sitting studying on my front steps.

My mother was enchanted by all of this.

“Tell me!  Is he tall?” she asked.

I told her to snap out of it.  I had no idea who was sending this stuff.  There was no boy in the world that I had encouraged.  I had lent a pencil to a boy in science class yesterday………….after telling him to grow up and buy himself a pencil.  I don’t think it is him!

I was still not boy crazy.  But, some boy was driving me crazy.

I started showing up to school as early as I could………………but the art work was always in place already.  Days and days of this………………I was starting to get pissed off because I am not a natural detective.

I finally figured it out.  If it’s not being placed on the locker early in the morning…………it must be done late in the day.  Long after I’ve dumped my books and run so I can get to my after school job on time.

Having a girl’s restroom exactly opposite from my locker helped out.  I usually just used that restroom to check out my hair and apply lipstick.  I took a day off from work.  I stood in the shadows of the restroom entrance and stared at my locker as the hallways emptied out after school.

It didn’t take long.  A tall boy appeared.  He rested his book bag on the floor.  He took out a sticker twice the size as normal.  I watched as he tore the backing off of the sticker.  He took his time adhering the big red heart to the very center of my locker.

Red heart?  Oh, yeah, tomorrow was the only holiday that I detested………….Valentine’s Day.

He wasn’t to know that…………….poor soul.

I let him move a foot and pick up his book bag.  I left the darkness of the girl’s room and went to my locker.

“Excuse me.” I said.  “I’d like to get into my locker.”

I’d never laid eyes on this boy before.  My high school had over two thousand students.  Quite possible to see new faces every day.

I might have imagined it…………..but, I think I could hear his heart pounding.

“Oh, boy!  Mr. Van Gogh has struck again!” I said as I peeled the red sticker off of my locker.  “While I think this was drawn by a real artist……………….I have no interest in anonymous gifts.  I don’t feel flattered.  I feel targeted.”I explained to the boy standing next to my locker.

“Did you see who put this here?  I’d like to return this and all of these to him.” I said as I opened my locker and showed him the array of his artwork.

“I think you’re beautiful.” he stuttered out.  “I’d like you to go to the prom with me.”

He laid all the cards that he had out on the table.

I took a step back.  I looked deeply into his eyes to see if he was just downright crazy.  He wasn’t.

“I don’t know you.  I’ve never laid eyes on you before.  I’ve never heard your voice before.  I have no idea if we have anything in common. You see a girl that you think is pretty.  You imagine too much.  It’s called a crush.  It’s not real.  I don’t know you.  You don’t know me.” I said kindly.

I was kind……………….but, I really wanted to rip his face off.

“You will never know me now.  You went about this all wrong.  This isn’t a TV movie of the week.  I don’t take kindly to intrigue and mysteries.  All you had to do was introduce yourself during lunch.  Stop hiding behind the book stacks in the library.  You may be a really nice guy.  But, I’ll never know that.  I want you to walk away and never look at me again.” I ended with.

I slammed my locker shut.

“Get this straight!  I am no Bernice!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Valentine’s Dance

I am woman, hear me roar.  Famous line from a famous song.

My mother was a young woman during WWII.  She had gone out to work with droves of other women.  The men had gone off to fight.  Women had been left to fill the jobs as well as keep the home fires burning.  The war ended.  Many of the men came back.  The girls were told to go home.  Thanks for your help.  Couldn’t have done it without you.  Return to your allotted spot.

Grammar school was almost over when my mother had a talk with me.  She remembered that good paying job………….that steady paycheck.  She remembered writing letters to my father the Marine every night.  She remembered being perfectly happy being sent home to keep house when the men came marching home.

She talked lifetime plans with me.

“You’re not one to be bossed around.  You’ll never play second fiddle to any man.  So, here are your choices.  You stay in school.  You get an education.  The jobs open to you are teacher, nurse, secretary and then there is wife/mother.  You’re pretty good with that typewriter.  I’d go for secretary.” she advised me.

Oh, don’t get mad at my mother.  This was 1968.

I can only imagine my response all these years later.

My guess?  It was probably something along the lines of “Shoot me now!”

I was in sixth grade.  I had already noticed the trend ………….of teachers calling on boys more than girls.  What did this cause?  It caused me to raise my hand and say “Oooh!  Ooooh!” over and over even if I had no clue what the answer was.

I had never heard the word before………….but, I’m thinking I was a little feminist.

Valentine’s Day was coming.

I just wrote that like it was no big deal.  I didn’t use an exclamation point.  Because, even back in grammar school ……………lovey dovey Valentine’s Day made me yawn.

I was all for decorating a shoe box with crepe paper and cutting hearts out of construction paper.  That got me out of an hour of writing vocabulary words.  I dutifully made out Valentines with an alphabetical class list in front of me.  I was known to change the wording on those cards.

I didn’t like you.  I knew that.  You knew that………..but, still I was forced into giving you a Valentine.  So, “Be Mine” was changed a bit. “Not in a million years.” was added on.  You didn’t mind.  It made us both laugh.

Sixth grade was the year that girls started to change.  To mature.  They didn’t know what had hit them.  The boys wouldn’t start their metamorphosis for a few years.  They just sat at their short little grammar school desks…………….in awe…………of girls turning into women right in front of their beady little eyes.

The boys in our class started a little game.  They passed around a note.  It was a list.  It became grubby with so much handling.  There were many names crossed out and added.  Arrows going up and down.

One boy that didn’t hit 5’8″ until high school had started it.  The paper folded into a triangle landed on my desk by mistake during a US History lesson.

Boys hissed at me.

“Give it back.  Don’t open that!”  they all whispered.

What was I to do?

I opened it.

I found a list with every girl’s name in our classroom on it.  We were being rated.  Prettiest was number one……………………all the way down to number 12……………..the girl these boys deemed to be the ugliest.

I wasn’t even thrilled that I was ranked between number 1 and 2.  Erasures and arrows showed me that I was in a dead heat with Lorraine.

I missed most of the lecture about the Boston Tea Party because I heard a roaring in my ears.  I was that angry.  I was that pissed…………..that boys that still looked like immature little squirrels thought that the girls in their class deserved such treatment.

Every boy in that class groaned and put their heads down in despair…………….when I started ripping that list into teeny tiny confetti sized pieces of paper.  I threw them over my shoulder.  I threw them up in the air.  I blew them off my desk.  I blew a few of them off of my middle finger.

Teacher ended the Boston Tea Party lecture.  She advised reading Chapter 16 again for a quiz on Friday.  And, then she started in on plans for Valentine’s Day.

“Boys and Girls!  Listen up!  Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.  A card for each of your classmates, please.  Home Room Mothers will be bringing in treats for a party.  I would suggest that you all wear red tomorrow!  Gym class will be a square dance!  Isn’t that exciting!  All those square dance lessons in gym pay off tomorrow!  And, as an extra added bonus!  My Valentine’s gift to you will be a weekend with no homework whatsoever!”  Teacher exclaimed.

The girls sounded excited at all the Valentine’s news.  The boys were weirdly quiet.

I was the only one that knew why.

The end of the day came.  The boys ran for it.  Little ferret cowards.  I stood at the door and stopped all the girls.

“Could I have a moment of your time?” I asked just like a grown up.

I used my minute well.  I told them all of the list I had just ripped up.

One girl asked about the rankings.  Was she in the middle?  Was she at the end of the list?

I told her to have some self respect.

I lied and told them I didn’t pay attention to the rankings.  When I figured out what the list was?  I ripped it into a million pieces.

“So, tomorrow……………we HAVE to give all those dweebs a card.  But, we don’t have to dance with them.  There are 12 girls and there are 12 boys.  At the square dance we’ll be lined up.  The boys ask us to dance.  We all say “No, thank you.”  We dance with each other.” I advised.

“Little shits have it coming!” said Lorraine.

So, Valentine’s Day arrived.  Every girl in that class spent time getting dressed that morning.  I think quite a few of them went to bed with rags curling their hair the night before.  They were gorgeous and resplendent in their pink and red dresses.  Patent leather shoes shined.  Hair ribbons were in place.

Gym class came.  The boys lined up in a row.  So, did the girls.  Boys stepped forward and asked us to dance.

They were turned down one after another.  Even the good looking ones.  Even the ones that didn’t smell bad.

The boys returned to their places in line.

Instead…………..girls bowed to each other and offered their hands.  Girls paired up and danced the first dance all by themselves.

The gym teacher blew her whistle after that first dance.

“One of you girls get up here and tell me what the heck is going on!” she yelled as the whistle dropped to the end of it’s cord.

I walked up to the gym teacher wearing her short pleated skirt.  Her red polo shirt.  Her short hair gelled into spikes.  I wondered if she’d understand.

I motioned that I wanted to whisper into her ear.

She bent down after saying “Make it good, Missy!”

I told her about the list.  I told her that girls weren’t dancing with boys today.  I told her that the young women in Grade Six would not be ranked according to looks.

Gym Teacher’s eyes widened.

She turned to the line of cringing boys.

She blew her whistle.  She blew it again.

“You NASTY LITTLE PIECES OF DOG CRAP!  Get out of my sight!  March!  March towards that door!  Get back to your classroom!  I will be paying your teacher a visit!  MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!  March!” she yelled as she shooed them towards the double doors.

“You!  You smirk once more and I’ll slap you upside the head!  Do you think women were made to do your bidding?  Do you think women are less than you?  Get this straight Little Buddy!  We’re smarter than you are!  We live longer!  We’re built to last!” she yelled at she marched them down the tiled hallway.

The girls spilled out into the hallway so we wouldn’t miss any of this.

The gym teacher continued yelling at the top of her lungs.  All doors flew open.  All teachers came out to their doorways to watch this dozen young men being herded home.

“And, do you think for a moment that I’m not going to call EVERY ONE OF YOUR MOTHERS?  Think again, you little WORMS!  You will pay for this!  And, I’ll make sure it hurts!” she ended at the doorway of our classroom.

That gym teacher WAS woman!

And, I heard her roar!