I am fairly certain I peaked in elementary school. Starting about the third grade, I was the heart-throb of Gainesville Country Day School, with the majority of the boys in my class of 25 under my thumb. What has gone wrong since is a mystery; all I can think is that middle school hit and with it an awkwardness for which I was utterly unprepared. Thinking back on it now, I'm not quite sure why I drove 'em all wild. I was just as tall and gawky then as now; even more so. I was possibly the boniest nine year-old in Alachua County. My fashion sense was non-existent and I loved to part my long, wavy, frizzy hair right down the middle. I did this for so many years that I have a tiny bald spot at the top of my hairline marking the center of my forehead. I was also a fairly shy child. I didn't talk to many people in my class; perhaps my eternal quiet and face shaded by messy hair lent an irresistible air of mystery. Either way the boys fawned over me, something I found in equal parts appalling and flattering.
None of this really mattered (with the exception of a certain James Davis whose charms I fell for with alarming ferocity the last two and a half years of my elementary career) until my third grade Thanksgiving Feast. On that day, dressed as pilgrims in long skirts and kerchiefs, and crammed full of turkey and sweets cooked by my fellow classmates, my best friend Maddie and I found ourselves with an hour of free time and nothing to do. As we were both wholly un-athletic, and the only playground activities involved kicking a ball, swings, or the monkey bars, we decided to make some fun of our own. The CSARPLS was born: the Crazy, Scary, Annoying, Running Pilgrim Ladies Society was dedicated to the torment of boys. I thought the name lent an air of clever irony; not as though any of us actually knew what irony was, though...
ANYWAYS. We had a log book in which we thought we'd keep a record of our battles, carefully inscribed with sparkling purple ink. I recently unearthed the log book, long hidden in the detritus beneath my bed, to find a paltry two entries: the first, the mission statement of the CSARPLS, and the second, a glowing account of sneaking up on a boy named Scott Plavac whilst he played goalie in a soccer game. "I came up behind Scotty and shouted and then ran away. He was scared." Actually, I was the only active member; Maddie was even more introverted than me, content to sit on the sidelines and watch my exploits through half-covered eyes. The club lasted, although was only true to its mission statement of male torment for about a week before I completely lost my nerve. Despite my deranged attempt to scare boys/flirt with them (I didn't really see much difference), they continued to fall. The only exception to this rule seemed to be James, whom I seemed to legitimately frighten off, despite being dancing and seat partners for a criminally long period of time. When I actually tried to be attractive, it backfired horribly, something, I'm embarrassed to say, still happens. Maybe it's time to go back to scare tactics...
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Of Costumes and Confusion
I am fairly certain that I have a faulty gene. That part of human nature that tells us to go with the flow, ANY flow, seems to have backfired in me. I delight in the strange and unknown. I am talking genuinely different, caused more by a random set of occurrences, such as watching more British TV than American, never liking dolls, and refusing to listen to Britney Spears. Did I mention I always thought Pokemon was stupid and never owned a gameboy? Perhaps now one might understand why when it came to choosing Halloween costumes, the usual favorites and popular new costumes never occurred to me, resulting in far more, “Wait, what are you?”s than any child, even one as strange as me, would care to hear.
For as long as I can remember, when it came to the annual costume, I refused to go with any of the old standbys. Or a pre-made costume, for that matter. If I was dressing up, I was to make it myself (with a little help from my grandmother and what I thought to be a magical sewing machine). My preschool costumes were relatively normal: I can remember being Mulan at the age of five. It was not until first grade hit and I was first exposed to British television that things began to go awry. Somehow the first seasons of a campy '60s spy show known as “The Avengers” made it into our house. Upon watching the first episode, I was in love. So naturally it followed that I would be none other than the lovely Emma Peale on October 31st and everyone would think me a clever young thing. When I arrived at school dressed in all black, I was immune to the confused stares that followed me through the room. No one but my British-born teacher knew who I was, and she only after I revealed my identity. Despite being asked 26 times my character, it never occurred to me that Halloween costumes were not much fun if no one knew who you were.
By age nine, I had become a most avid reader, so of course my costume was to be of a literary nature. Even at a tender age, I had a sense of cultural snobbery. Anyone would find my representation of a “doran” from the little-know book Wise Child far superior to the average witch or ghost. I wore a homemade green cloak and stole a breadbasket from the cupboard which I filled with herbs cut and carefully dried from our garden. Again, the confused stares met my gaze, but they could not penetrate the superior feeling of using a literary work as inspiration. It was not until seventh grade, with Halloween again rolling around that my view of dressing-up changed. I was listening to my parents discuss with my aunt and uncle costume parties of old. During a discussion of individuals, my aunt said something that changed my life: “Having a costume where no one knows what you are is just so… so… dumb.” I could feel my cheeks burning as I remembered Emma and the doran. With new resolve, I decided to be something that everyone would know. What did I do? I went, of course, to “Mad Magazine” and decided to be a character from Spy v. Spy. And not just any character. The one female character, The Grey Spy, who exists only twice in the history of the strip. With my costume complete, even down to the fedora and pumps, I was shocked that no one could figure out who I was.
To this day I can’t be anything normal. I no longer go with the shockingly obscure – “The Avengers”, a doran – only the moderately. I still refuse to be a ghost or witch, and derive a strange pleasure from leaving people stumped. Whether it be my up-bringing or biology is still a mystery.
For as long as I can remember, when it came to the annual costume, I refused to go with any of the old standbys. Or a pre-made costume, for that matter. If I was dressing up, I was to make it myself (with a little help from my grandmother and what I thought to be a magical sewing machine). My preschool costumes were relatively normal: I can remember being Mulan at the age of five. It was not until first grade hit and I was first exposed to British television that things began to go awry. Somehow the first seasons of a campy '60s spy show known as “The Avengers” made it into our house. Upon watching the first episode, I was in love. So naturally it followed that I would be none other than the lovely Emma Peale on October 31st and everyone would think me a clever young thing. When I arrived at school dressed in all black, I was immune to the confused stares that followed me through the room. No one but my British-born teacher knew who I was, and she only after I revealed my identity. Despite being asked 26 times my character, it never occurred to me that Halloween costumes were not much fun if no one knew who you were.
By age nine, I had become a most avid reader, so of course my costume was to be of a literary nature. Even at a tender age, I had a sense of cultural snobbery. Anyone would find my representation of a “doran” from the little-know book Wise Child far superior to the average witch or ghost. I wore a homemade green cloak and stole a breadbasket from the cupboard which I filled with herbs cut and carefully dried from our garden. Again, the confused stares met my gaze, but they could not penetrate the superior feeling of using a literary work as inspiration. It was not until seventh grade, with Halloween again rolling around that my view of dressing-up changed. I was listening to my parents discuss with my aunt and uncle costume parties of old. During a discussion of individuals, my aunt said something that changed my life: “Having a costume where no one knows what you are is just so… so… dumb.” I could feel my cheeks burning as I remembered Emma and the doran. With new resolve, I decided to be something that everyone would know. What did I do? I went, of course, to “Mad Magazine” and decided to be a character from Spy v. Spy. And not just any character. The one female character, The Grey Spy, who exists only twice in the history of the strip. With my costume complete, even down to the fedora and pumps, I was shocked that no one could figure out who I was.
To this day I can’t be anything normal. I no longer go with the shockingly obscure – “The Avengers”, a doran – only the moderately. I still refuse to be a ghost or witch, and derive a strange pleasure from leaving people stumped. Whether it be my up-bringing or biology is still a mystery.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Pretend
I often joke that I am simply a female version of my brother. Our tastes in music, humor, people, fashion (to an almost alarming point); even common phrases are seemingly identical. This is because, for better or for worse, my brother has been the single largest influence in my life. I have wonderful, loving parents, but I often think my brother has raised me. He shaped my early childhood, most profoundly through the game “pretend.”
Playing pretend with my brother was unlike any other thing I have ever experienced. What made these games so fantastic was our commitment. Although we both had strong imaginations, we relied heavily on the use of costume boxes hidden in our closets. There were Power Ranger masks, light sabers and old cotton bath robes, my favorite but threadbare Batman’s Robin pajamas, a pair of highly fought-over civil war uniforms sent by our Uncle Henry. As I re-call, we seemed to use pirate bits and pieces to an extreme; him as captain, me as first-mate, a rubber knife gripped unwaveringly between my teeth, despite the difficulty it put on dialogue. Kitted up, we would establish our storyline. These varied based on the characters involved and the influences of recent movies. The pirate games stayed more or less the same: someone/we was/were attacking our/their ship/fort. The civil war ones changed more as we got older; spies and double-agents played an increasingly important part in the goings-on. Those with a "Star Wars" theme were at once the most scripted and at the same time the most creative of the games played outside; these required much more pre-planning and dialoguing.
The backyard acted as a third and important man in our games; large and sprawling it was perfect fodder for our already over-active imaginations. There was a big play fort near the front that at one point had boasted a lovely sandbox situated beneath the main raised fort structure, rope ladder and swing, and a slide of a most shocking shade of orange. By the time I got old enough to fully appreciate the use of set pieces, the sandbox had become a damp, hard-packed, weedy sandlot, home to insects and litter box to Lord knows what. It worked perfectly as a dangerous sort of place in a story; a dungeon, an enemy camp. The fact that the rope-ladder had begun to rot in places simply added a new dimension to the game; same with the ever decreasing number of steps on the ladders. In addition to this was what seemed to be the largest hill in Florida. In actuality, it was tiny, but it had a slope perfect for rolling down and in spring it was covered in soft clover. A typical civil war excursion would begin at the fort where one would receive instructions or a plan of attack that somehow involved rolling down the hill, hopping the back fence, and running into the bit of woods and field behind my grandparents’ house where the ponies would graze in summer.
As all good things come to an end, so to did our games. As John Gray entered middle school, he no longer had the time to play with me due to school work and baseball. I was beginning to find new interests which did not involve running around dressed as a guy, second in command to a boy in a bathrobe. The end of these games was an inevitable thing; we got older. That is not to say we do not still spend time together. Although he is in his second year of college, we still try to see as much of each other as possible through “brother/sister dates” and other such excursions. I share everything with him, and he with me, as we continue to grow together and at the same time find our differences. He is my influence, my brother, a third parent, and my closest friend, no matter what age or game.
Playing pretend with my brother was unlike any other thing I have ever experienced. What made these games so fantastic was our commitment. Although we both had strong imaginations, we relied heavily on the use of costume boxes hidden in our closets. There were Power Ranger masks, light sabers and old cotton bath robes, my favorite but threadbare Batman’s Robin pajamas, a pair of highly fought-over civil war uniforms sent by our Uncle Henry. As I re-call, we seemed to use pirate bits and pieces to an extreme; him as captain, me as first-mate, a rubber knife gripped unwaveringly between my teeth, despite the difficulty it put on dialogue. Kitted up, we would establish our storyline. These varied based on the characters involved and the influences of recent movies. The pirate games stayed more or less the same: someone/we was/were attacking our/their ship/fort. The civil war ones changed more as we got older; spies and double-agents played an increasingly important part in the goings-on. Those with a "Star Wars" theme were at once the most scripted and at the same time the most creative of the games played outside; these required much more pre-planning and dialoguing.
The backyard acted as a third and important man in our games; large and sprawling it was perfect fodder for our already over-active imaginations. There was a big play fort near the front that at one point had boasted a lovely sandbox situated beneath the main raised fort structure, rope ladder and swing, and a slide of a most shocking shade of orange. By the time I got old enough to fully appreciate the use of set pieces, the sandbox had become a damp, hard-packed, weedy sandlot, home to insects and litter box to Lord knows what. It worked perfectly as a dangerous sort of place in a story; a dungeon, an enemy camp. The fact that the rope-ladder had begun to rot in places simply added a new dimension to the game; same with the ever decreasing number of steps on the ladders. In addition to this was what seemed to be the largest hill in Florida. In actuality, it was tiny, but it had a slope perfect for rolling down and in spring it was covered in soft clover. A typical civil war excursion would begin at the fort where one would receive instructions or a plan of attack that somehow involved rolling down the hill, hopping the back fence, and running into the bit of woods and field behind my grandparents’ house where the ponies would graze in summer.
As all good things come to an end, so to did our games. As John Gray entered middle school, he no longer had the time to play with me due to school work and baseball. I was beginning to find new interests which did not involve running around dressed as a guy, second in command to a boy in a bathrobe. The end of these games was an inevitable thing; we got older. That is not to say we do not still spend time together. Although he is in his second year of college, we still try to see as much of each other as possible through “brother/sister dates” and other such excursions. I share everything with him, and he with me, as we continue to grow together and at the same time find our differences. He is my influence, my brother, a third parent, and my closest friend, no matter what age or game.
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