There was this family that lived about a quarter mile from us. They were poor; and not just poor, but dirt poor. There was the mother and father and four little girls who ranged in ages from one year to eight years. Their names were Darlene, Janet, Sarah, and Hester. They came from Tennessee and moved into a small, white, one-room shack. They didn't have running water; just an old-fashioned outside hand-pump. The stove was rigged up in such a way that it certainly wouldn't have passed a code inspection. Though we were poor, too, we had a lot more than they did.
They all walked down to our house a few days after moving in to that shack. My siblings and I were friendly to them, and they were friendly and smiling. They were just in time to sit in the living room with us to watch Gilligan's Island while the parents sat at the kitchen table smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. The oldest one--Darlene--said, "I really like Giiiiiiiligan's Island." She had a speech impediment. She stuttered. I thought she was trying to be funny, and so I laughed to acknowledge her joke. But it was no joke. My sister had to tell me later that Darlene had a speech impediment and wasn't joking.
While watching Gilligan's Island, my siblings and I were giving each other subtle looks because these girls had dirty faces, gnarled and ratted hair, and they smelled strongly of burnt wood and coal. And thier clothes were so ragged. I'll always remember Darlene's coat. It was an old brown vinyl thing that was missing all but the top button, and it had a triangle-shaped tear in the back that made me think of a slice of pizza hanging down the middle of her back. I remember thinking that her mom should cut it off with some scissors, or maybe tape it up with some Scotch-Tape. We eventually came to learn that the parents would leave them alone once a week with not much to eat while they would go with a friend of theirs to an auditorium forty miles away to watch Bull Curry take on the Sheik in a no-holds-barred fight to the finish. We wondered where they got the money for it. One thing was for sure, they wouldn't miss it for the world. Their girls will attest to that.
At school it wasn't long before these girls were forced to take their place among the other living symbols of lesser beings--the kind of human it's okay to insult or otherwise hurt the feelings of because they didn't matter. One day while riding the bus home from school, Darlene was trying to find a seat after being pushed out of the seat she was in by someone who didn't want to be next to her. She would sit in another seat, but the one in that seat would shove her out. She was making her way to the back of the bus as she repeatedly tried to find a seat, only to be met with mean scowls and stronger arms than hers blocking her from every seat. To this day, I don't know why the bus driver didn't intervene on her behalf. But this all happened fast.
She was standing in the aisle pushing her way into a seat occupied by a little boy who was smaller than her. But someone bigger than her used his arm to help keep her out. And the next kid used his legs to push her out of his seat. Someone said, "Hey Darlene, you wanna sit by me? That burnt wood perfume really turns me on." Some other guy laughed, and then hands were reaching out and shoving her from behind and from the sides, and then some kid shoved her hard from the front. His hand met her chest and she went down. There was a moment of silence, and then laughter. Darlene was finally crying.
One of the older girls near the front of the bus got up and walked to the back. She reached down and lifted Darlene off the floor, and then took her by the hand and they both went back to the older girl's seat. The next day, the older girl moved over in her seat when Darlene got on the bus. She made room for her and motioned with her arm to sit. So she sat with the older girl. I recall the smile that came to Darlene's face, which was such a stark contrast to the absolutely wounded look on her face as she got on the bus. When she left her seat to get off the bus, I was struck by the sight of the back of her coat. It still showed the dirty footprint from the kid who pushed her out of his seat with his foot. Her coat bore the scar of the day before.
I'm the kid who delivered the final push to her chest that put her on the bus floor. I was ten.
On a related note, a few years ago my nephew asked me if I believe in ghosts. I said, . . . "Yeah."
They all walked down to our house a few days after moving in to that shack. My siblings and I were friendly to them, and they were friendly and smiling. They were just in time to sit in the living room with us to watch Gilligan's Island while the parents sat at the kitchen table smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. The oldest one--Darlene--said, "I really like Giiiiiiiligan's Island." She had a speech impediment. She stuttered. I thought she was trying to be funny, and so I laughed to acknowledge her joke. But it was no joke. My sister had to tell me later that Darlene had a speech impediment and wasn't joking.
While watching Gilligan's Island, my siblings and I were giving each other subtle looks because these girls had dirty faces, gnarled and ratted hair, and they smelled strongly of burnt wood and coal. And thier clothes were so ragged. I'll always remember Darlene's coat. It was an old brown vinyl thing that was missing all but the top button, and it had a triangle-shaped tear in the back that made me think of a slice of pizza hanging down the middle of her back. I remember thinking that her mom should cut it off with some scissors, or maybe tape it up with some Scotch-Tape. We eventually came to learn that the parents would leave them alone once a week with not much to eat while they would go with a friend of theirs to an auditorium forty miles away to watch Bull Curry take on the Sheik in a no-holds-barred fight to the finish. We wondered where they got the money for it. One thing was for sure, they wouldn't miss it for the world. Their girls will attest to that.
At school it wasn't long before these girls were forced to take their place among the other living symbols of lesser beings--the kind of human it's okay to insult or otherwise hurt the feelings of because they didn't matter. One day while riding the bus home from school, Darlene was trying to find a seat after being pushed out of the seat she was in by someone who didn't want to be next to her. She would sit in another seat, but the one in that seat would shove her out. She was making her way to the back of the bus as she repeatedly tried to find a seat, only to be met with mean scowls and stronger arms than hers blocking her from every seat. To this day, I don't know why the bus driver didn't intervene on her behalf. But this all happened fast.
She was standing in the aisle pushing her way into a seat occupied by a little boy who was smaller than her. But someone bigger than her used his arm to help keep her out. And the next kid used his legs to push her out of his seat. Someone said, "Hey Darlene, you wanna sit by me? That burnt wood perfume really turns me on." Some other guy laughed, and then hands were reaching out and shoving her from behind and from the sides, and then some kid shoved her hard from the front. His hand met her chest and she went down. There was a moment of silence, and then laughter. Darlene was finally crying.
One of the older girls near the front of the bus got up and walked to the back. She reached down and lifted Darlene off the floor, and then took her by the hand and they both went back to the older girl's seat. The next day, the older girl moved over in her seat when Darlene got on the bus. She made room for her and motioned with her arm to sit. So she sat with the older girl. I recall the smile that came to Darlene's face, which was such a stark contrast to the absolutely wounded look on her face as she got on the bus. When she left her seat to get off the bus, I was struck by the sight of the back of her coat. It still showed the dirty footprint from the kid who pushed her out of his seat with his foot. Her coat bore the scar of the day before.
I'm the kid who delivered the final push to her chest that put her on the bus floor. I was ten.
On a related note, a few years ago my nephew asked me if I believe in ghosts. I said, . . . "Yeah."
