What's a memory from your childhood that shaped who you are today?
07.06.2025 09:07
And so it was Nursery School for me, no matter how much I protested, and because of this incontestable LAW, I was denied an extra 2 years of time alone with Cora Belle, which experience, I believe, would have made a far more functional person of me today, as in, you'd be holding my books in your hands. A big jump, I know, but there it is.
Because, you see, something happened to me that day, that moment when my cherished flight suit betrayed me, something happened from which I've never been the same. The agony of my embarrassment was extreme enough that every piece of me wanted to be dead. But feeling that was so intolerable that within a minute I'd switched out that feeling for one more befitting a superhero.
In case the message wasn't clear, this was repeated numerous times, or so remembered my 6 years older sister when she began analysis many years later. She recalls seeing it in a There-But-for-the-Grace-of-God-Go-I sort of way, but that would suggest she felt some pity, which was never evident, as she was my most severe torturer.
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Until I left home, this self-imposed nudity was metaphorical, consisting of pounding the world with my innermost secrets. But as soon as I was on my own, at 16, I became a literal nudist, as well. You've all had those horrifying dreams, right, in which you're naked in public, with everyone else clothed? Well, I had them far too much, as a reminder, I suppose. Leaving home emboldened me the rest of the way, and it was not uncommon for me, by choice, to be naked in public -- at parties, mostly. I discovered that if you do it enough while awake, nudity loses its power to injure, in dreams.
The one time my brother did wear it, I was insane with envy. He wore it to school, and as soon as he got home he tore it off and threw it on the floor, complaining how uncomfortable it was, how it was silly, for peeing. "It's too small, that's why!" I shrieked, "Let me have it!" and I went to grab it -- was that mud on the knee? -- but he got there first, and dangled it out of reach.
I was the second youngest of 9, if you count my mother's sister's family, the portion of my cousins with whom we shared clothes. (I suppose that makes me the "penultimate," a word I've always liked, but it isn't much of a thing to be.) Our holiday-wear was divided by gender, so there were only 3 who wore my dresses before me, but outfits of play clothes were often worn by 7 others by the time they got to me.
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Picture it: 5 girls, all in the same dress, meaning there were 5 different sizes of the dress. Probably one for each season -- 5 different sizes of 4 different dresses. (Fuck, I'm getting a headache! If the train was going to Cleveland, how fast was the youngest running to keep up?) My sister was the eldest of the 5 girls, 6 years older than I. This meant that every time I grew out of a dress, I'd get a used version of the same one, for 6 years.
My brother didn't care about it -- he really preferred dresses and heels -- but he always had an innate sense of how to torture me, so he picked up on how much I wanted it, and lorded it over me. We were almost the same size, and there really wasn't any reason I couldn’t wear it once it had landed in our house, no reason except that it gave him a sense of power to keep it from me. Once in a while he'd ask me if I wanted to wear it, make like he was passing it over to me, then he'd snatch it back before I could grab it.
Cora Belle entered our household when I, the youngest, was 2 years old, and though, yes, she saved me and instilled in me a deep understanding of unconditional love, a lot of damage was already done.
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It's only recently that it occurred to me how cruel it was that they made me go. Cora Belle was in the house every day and loved having me around, so it wasn't like they'd need to hire a babysitter in order for my mother to avoid ever being home. I had a brother very close in age, and a number of neighborhood children with whom I played, so worrying about my socialization couldn't have been an issue (though I doubt those concerns had been invented yet, anyway).
The following year it was my turn to begin Nursery School, which I saw merely as a way to drag me from love and safety, and toss me to the lions. Cora Belle didn't drive, and far be it from my mother to take me that first day, but due to my extreme protestations, my mother at least recognized how upset I was to be torn from Cora Belle, and allowed her to ride with me in the Nursery School carpool -- driven by a nice man named Pete, in a beat up old red station wagon.
It was many years before I realized how frightened my mother was of her own nature, how poorly she fit into the suburban 50's mold, how severely her own mother and sister reprimanded her for her refusal to conform, and how much she worried that one false move and the sky would fall. But too fucking bad; there's no excuse for abusing the babies.
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There was a glaring dichotomy here, as we were taught free-thinking, independence, and to question things, except for when faced with Because I Said So, which was pretty much all the time.
And there lies the secret of my bravery. Ever since the betrayal of my flight suit, I've voluntarily shown my ass, in any way I could think of, in order to avoid anyone snatching a peep without my say so.
But, there was ONE unique outfit. I don't know where it came from or who had it first, but I coveted that fucking thing, and couldn't wait to fit into it. It was a flight suit, like a pilot would wear, a zip-up jumpsuit with winged epaulettes and an airplane pin.
All I know is that I saw my older boy cousins wearing it in their turns, none of them seemed to appreciate what they had, and I wanted the damn thing. It was a rough and rugged blue/gray/brown, dark like a mechanic's coveralls, with those shiny wings on the shoulder. One cousin had it, then another, and nobody thought a thing about it. I don't remember anyone wearing it more than once, and if I'd been capable of speech, maybe I'd have begged for it. But there were rules, and the clothes passed down according to growth spurts and nothing else.
I'm pretty much unembarrassable, especially when it comes to nudity, both literal and metaphorical. It's long since become automatic for me to reveal my innards -- and I wouldn't have it any other way -- but there was actually a definitive starting point for the baring of my soul.
Morning finally came, and I bounced up, jumped into my suit, and was ready ready ready! No clinging to Cora Belle's dress today! I insisted on waiting at the end of the driveway for Pete's red station wagon all by myself, and once I got in, I actually looked out the window the whole way, grinning, instead of studying the floor for an escape route.
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Hard to say whether I was born shy, or if the hoarding of my words was brought on by the physical and emotional torture chosen for me by parents and siblings who otherwise ignored me entirely.
For the first time, I was excited about going to Nursery School, so excited, in fact, that I couldn't sleep that night (not that I did, anyway). I knew my superpowers wouldn't really show up until we got to the playground, so I shut my eyes and saw myself in the flight suit, strolling through the playground with sort of a Cary Grant nonchalance, supercool and untouchable, everyone wanting to be me. They'd ask how I got the wings, and I'd mumble, modestly, about the fearless deeds I'd performed.
I believe my abandonment fears were set in place before Cora Belle's arrival, probably initiated the first time my non-stop-crying, colicky infant self was put out on the porch in the scorching East Coast summer sun, so that, with all the doors and windows closed to keep in the air-conditioning, nobody would be disturbed by my wailing.
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But Cora Belle was only to drop me off, not stay with me, and I'll never forget her leaving me that fateful day, because it was the first time I ever felt my heart ripped from my chest.
I knew my chances of it coming to me sooner were greater if I didn't care about it, and I tried to feign disinterest, but it was impossible! I just wanted the thing too damn much. My brother wasn't even wearing it, not once! I couldn't understand it, knew when it came my turn I'd never take it off, would insist it was my uniform! Life would be better then; no one could touch me in that thing.
There were matching play clothes, too -- genderless -- and my eldest cousin was 10 years older than I, so I pretty much had the same few shorts and pants in 8 different sizes from the minute I popped out til puberty.
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My being forced to go to Nursery School against my ever-burgeoning will was the first in a long line of punishments fed to me as necessity -- just... because. Because that's the way it was done, dammit, and to stray from the path would destroy all sense of order in the world.
Oddly enough, when I arrived at the Baby Dumping Ground, no one paid any attention to my flight suit. No matter. When we got to the playground they'd see my superpowers, they'd see!
Outsiderness became key; from The Tickle Man I went on to noticing the other things that delighted all the children but me. I was miserable in Nursery School, every damn day, and it never got any better.
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But I was granted a bit of a reprieve after Cora Belle came. That first year, between 2 and 3 years old, I remember as clearly and sweetly as I do the day Cora Belle arrived and won me over. My brother was 14 months older than I and already in Nursery School, my sister was also in school, my father at his miserable guilt-inducing martyr's job, and my mother at whatever sort of meetings were available for women in the 1950's, women whose social status at the time forbade working, but whose misplaced bohemian nature eschewed shopping.
And they did. I think that was the day my superb athleticism was first noticed, by me or anyone else. I was lightening fast! I was Mr. Universe strong! I was giddy and giggly and untouchable! For about 3 minutes. Then, while leaping from one bar to another on the jungle gym, the zipper busted on my magic suit, the entire thing just fell off, and suddenly I was naked.
In retrospect it's a little difficult to understand, as a 4 year old in underpants (because I was wearing underpants) does not seem much of a gasping moment, and I was raised in a family in which nudity was not an issue. Nor do I actually remember pointing laughter at my expense. But I DO remember, as though it were yesterday, the red hot shock of being stripped of my powers so publicly, of being shamed to the core of my being.
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Even my sister's torture -- which was always embarrassment-based -- hadn't prepared me for humiliation that deep and wounding. And so, right then and there, I claimed that moment as the most mortifying of my life, and vowed to never feel that way ever again.
This was not the last time my clothes fell off at school -- my 4th grade teacher ripped my dress off in the middle of the playfield once, when a bunch of bees got in -- but it was the last time it mattered.
This was not simply for show, either, nor was I distracted from my kidnapping by the jolly joys of Miss Molly and Miss Sunny, who couldn't have been kinder. Still, each day was an endless repetition of "Doe, a Deer", "The Clean-Up Song", finger-painting, and dodging The Tickle Man on the playground.
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In other words, day after day I was home alone with Cora Belle, and I suspect this wonderful time of peace, comfort, and safety is what gave me the confidence to remain true to myself in this life. But still, at a certain hour we were invaded by chaos (my mother), frustration (my father), bitter superiority (my sister), and spiteful jealousy (my brother). The day's spell was broken, and I drew up inside myself to protect what Cora Belle and I secretly shared, still never uttering a word to another.
And I realized at once that the only way to safely keep my vow of never feeling that exposed again, was to remain naked. If I kept myself stripped bare, I could never again be staggered by unexpected nudity.
The thing is, it really was too small for him. He'd waited too long, and now it didn't fit him, not that he cared. Eventually he found some new way to torture me, or else I got better at hiding my unruly desire. At any rate, he gave up that game, proclaimed the thing too small, and silly, anyway, for babies. AND THE FLIGHT SUIT BECAME MINE!
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Sky King was all the rage -- one of the very few TV shows available at the time -- and though I seem to remember he flew in fancy Western wear, I suspect the existence of a child's flight suit was due to that show.
Finally my brother got the flight suit. It was actually in my house! I was next in line! Understand that this is a Nursery School story, from my second year of Nursery School, so I was 4 years old. But I know I'd never wanted anything near that much before, and I don't believe I've ever wanted anything that badly since, either. I wanted that flight suit!
And it never got any better. Each morning, at the end of the driveway, I'd hang tight to the bottom of Cora Belle's dress, and throw a full fledged fit when my tiny fingers were pried loose and I was tossed into the back of Pete's station wagon.
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I didn't care about dresses, so it didn't much matter, but we spent all our dress-up holidays together with those cousins, and the moms thought it was cute for all 5 girls to have the same dress.
The latter exercise was probably my introduction to wondering what the fuck was the matter with everyone else in the world, and why they did the things they did. All the children loved The Tickle Man, whereas I would have rather had my eyes gouged out than be tickled by him, or anyone else, though it was a few years before I realized he must have been some sort of pedophile, however much his tall handsome stature, suit, tie, hat, and briefcase lent him the confident, comforting air of Father Knows Best. (Fathers, to me, were not a comforting thought.)
Whichever, the fact is, though I started speaking at 9 months old (beginning, appropriately, with the word MORE), no one but Cora Belle, the woman who raised and saved me, was privy to my words and thoughts.