Becky

I am from bellbottoms and peasant blouses and chukka boots. Honeysuckle bath oil, Sun-in and a giant Dr. Pepper Lipsmacker. I am from black and white television (three channels only), Sonny and Cher and Barry Manilow on 8-track. I am from late-night picnics of wildcat sandwiches brought home in daddy’s lunchbox. I am from where the peony bushes grow full of black ants and sour purple grapes climb up against the rusty chain link fence. I am from "it is better to look good than to feel good" and never looking at price tags. I am from such sage advice as "ladies keep nice nails" and "if nothing else, invest in a good bra" and "good girls don’t call boys". I am from rotten granite, skinned knees and coming in before the street lights come on. I am from a place where your neighbors have the authority to spank you if necessary, and where bran muffins and cranberry juice can cure anything. I am from dogs on the bed, the Jackson Five on my closet door, and sneaking out my bedroom window. I am from suntanning on the garage roof, from stealing lipsticks from Kresge’s on the way to dance class, from boys grabbing my tits on 4-H bus trips, from saving myself for Kelly King. I am from skipping CCD to spend my lunch money at the candy shop and the dirty bookstore. I am a little bit from Catholicism, from the guilt and fear of confessing my little sins. I am from only going to church on Saturday nights for the free lobster dinner and to please my Grandparents. I am from being a very bad do-bee. I am from way too many old snapshots my mom glued into flowered albums, from the childhood she painstakingly documented in my baby books for no one to see. I am from drinking TJ Swann with boys behind the log piles. I am from pompons and wet n’wild eyeshadow, big bangs and Kirt Blarik’s shiny red Nova. I am from worrying my parents to death. I am from a paper mill town, from the river, from the tracks, from the hills, from the valley from the shame of taking the yellow bus home. I am from always being too short and too fat and too too. I am from campfires and bike rides, skinnydipping and poison ivy . I am from holding my grandmother’s hand as she died. I am from strong women who smell like Caress, who bake bread from scratch and are soft in all the right places. I am from men who are good providers with big arms and rough hands, men who look like Mike Ditka or James Arness and are hard of hearing and like to tickle the children. I am from cousins and aunts and uncles and neighbors squooshed around the picnic table eating jello salad from Grandma's glass bowl with the red rim. I am from never being able to see the forest for the trees. I am from being the black sheep of the family. I am from making all the wrong choices and hiding all the bad truths. I am from screaming drunken fights and rape and revulsion, desperate courtrooms and lost children and hate and shame. I am from marrying the wrong man. These days, I am from a cluttery house with too many family photographs, on a street where you can hear three languages walking to the mailbox. I am from a place where it’s ok to love someone who doesn’t share my race, and where our half-breed children are allowed to exist to change minds. I am from being responsible for too many, and loving too fiercely. I am from driving my husband crazy. I am from breaking out, doing my thing, and moving on. I am from picking myself by my bootstraps. I am from failure and loss and new beginnings. I am from shedding my skin and not quite recognizing what’s underneath. Rebecca, May 17, 2006.