I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.
Tag: Legs
Super 8 Childhood memories
I realized today, as I traveled across Atlanta to share lunch with my sisters, that my past has become a dark cave. I am fascinated and sad at once. Fascinated, continually, by the swiftness of the process, and sad, because what I always feared must be true.
Growing up as one of 4 female children proved challenging for me, given that I have always preferred my own company to that of others, and I enjoy the company of other females least of all. Being the oldest of 4, only served to sharpen the challenge.
I never understood until recently why my childhood memories are so patchy. On the rare occasions I have sought to replay the images, I have found them so blurred and lacking in detail as to be almost indescribable. I listen, as my sisters recount the funny/sad struggles we faced as we experienced childhood “together”. While I appreciate the humor and empathize with the pain, the stories are new. All my life, the stories they share bear no resemblance to those that play in fits and starts in MY brain. I’ve often remarked that it is almost as though we were raised in separate households. I listen as they laugh at the absurdity of an event, and smile to cover my confusion.
Remarkably, my memories are mostly singular ones. I can remember sitting beneath an enormous oak tree whose roots had, in my mind, formed the shape of an equally enormous tortoise. Despite the fact, that by the age of 8 or 9 I already had 2 sisters, this tortoise was my best friend. I literally spent hours under that tree, talking to my friend. The importance of this tortoise, whose name escapes me, is obvious by the brilliant colors contained in this memory. It seems I wore a lot of pink. I can feel the hot Atlanta sun on my bare arms as I lean against the tree and absentmindedly draw in the sandy soil with a crooked pine twig while I pour my heart out to a root.
I also took great joy out of tormenting our really ugly little dog, Jo-Jo. My parents always proudly announced to anyone listening that Jo-Jo was a Manchester Terrier, and I’m sure he was but what he mostly was, was ugly. I have distorted visions of poking a gnarled stick towards his pointy little snout, and rejoicing at his growling. When tired of the stick game, the front tire of my bicycle produced the same results, to equal enjoyment. I don’t remember my mother ever discouraging my aberrant behavior, but I definitely remember her mentioning it years later at a family gathering, and I remember feeling myself shrink in my usual way under her tongue.
I can’t remember my mother smiling. None of the “Super 8″memories of my childhood include a smiling mother. That might be all I need to say about that.
My father, on the other hand, fills the screen of my mind, not with his physical presence but with his emotion and spirit. Strong words echo even today, “Remember who you are! You are a Howell, and nobody is better than you are.” countered by “Look at your calves! They’re as big as my thighs!”. Of course, they weren’t, and years would pass before I realized my father had chicken legs.
I spent those years, covering up my calves.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Are We There Yet? 