I’m trying to remember how it was. I see myself skinny on the concrete driveway, dirty knock knees, a striped t-shirt, tiny bumps for boobs. Not only the youngest, but a young youngest.
I didn’t develop until I was 17, didn’t know about Kotex or tampons, although my older sisters told me about starting periods and not to worry when it happened.
I sat on Janet’s bed and watched her being a teenager, brush her thick black hair and curl her eyelashes. When she was out with friends I tried the eyelash curler on myself, clamped down steel on rubber, my eyelashes held hostage as if in a guillotine, waiting for the blade to fall. I was startled by how tightly the contraption held on to my lashes, so startled that instead of opening it back up, I pulled it away from my eye and ripped out a bunch of hairs. Afterwards, I felt like I was peering out of one of those old clown wigs that’s missing sections of bangs.
Being the youngest makes me think of creeping around places I shouldn’t be, opening drawers, looking for scandal. Nudie pictures, drugs, notes from boyfriends. I fell in love with Janet’s boyfriend, Paul, and every time he called I listened in on the conversation. I perfected how to lift the receiver without them knowing. I would unplug the cord from the wall jack, pick up the receiver, plug back in the cord.
Once Paul yelled at me to get off the phone. I got so hurt that I crawled under the impossibly small space under Mom and Dad’s bed and cried myself to sleep. I woke up hours later to my parents and Janet, frantically searching the house, about to call in a missing person’s report.
I loved sneaking around Larry’s room, too. I stole his clothes, wore too-big flannel shirts that sometimes smelled like sweat, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be like him, listen to New Riders of the Purple Sage, Alice Cooper, Jethro Tull.
No music, it seems, was ever my own. Everything I got they gave to me, from 50s bop (Patty), Carole King and R&B (Bobbi), Cat Stevens and The Carpenters (Janet), and Frank Zappa (Larry).
They taught me how to drive, I still remember going around the corner of Glenarbor Court for the first time in Janet’s VW. She said to shift into second, but second was right next to reverse. I hit the wrong gear and it sounded like the engine was going to drop out. We came to a halt and she said, “I’d better drive.”
Larry once rescued me when Jay Baca was going to take me off to one of the bedrooms. We threw a party when Mom and Dad went to the lake and Janet had already moved out. I got drunk and Jay had me in his arms. “Where do you think you’re going with her,” Larry asked, blocking Jay at the hallway. They threw Jay out, and me and Larry got in trouble, much as Janet tried to erase the traces of the party the next day.
Being the youngest, I think how much I adored my older siblings, how much they left their imprints on me. I sometimes wish we could go back to those days, those natural roles. My oldest sister says I’m bossy now. I think she’s probably right.
-related to Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – BIRTH ORDER
ybonesy, something I had never thought of before reading your Practice, is how younger siblings sneak around and go through older siblings things. It never dawned on me until you said that. Of course, younger siblings would do that! And a firstborn never gets to experience that. It’s interesting.
You sound like you had a tender relationship with your older brothers and sisters. Like they looked out for you when they could, protected you. And they were teachers – taught you about what was cool, how to drive, ways to dress at the time.
And the other thing that struck me — how nothing felt like it was yours. You learned so much from those who were older in the family, it was harder to sort out what was true for you and your personality. Good stuff.
I never thought much about being a role model when I was the oldest at home when we were all younger. But there were a few big gaps between me and the next youngest kids. I have a feeling my siblings probably remember me as being aloof and always trying to find a space of my own. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were glad when I left the house! 8)
I think I was really internal back then, struggling to figure out who I was without the roles and responsibilities. It took me a while!
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RECALL:
skinny on the concrete driveway
dirty knock knees
striped t-shirt
tiny bumps for boobs
Not only the youngest, but a young youngest
17
Kotex
tampons
older sisters
periods
Janet’s bed
watched her being a teenager
brush her thick black hair
curl her eyelashes
eyelash curler
clamped down steel on rubber
eyelashes held hostage
waiting for the blade to fall
ripped out a bunch of hairs
missing sections of bangs
creeping around places I shouldn’t be
opening drawers
looking for scandal
Nudie pictures
drugs
fell in love with Janet’s boyfriend, Paul
unplug the cord from the wall jack
pick up the receiver
plug back in the cord
Paul yelled at me to get off the phone
crawled under the impossibly small space under Mom and Dad’s bed
cried myself to sleep
sneaking around Larry’s room
too-big flannel shirts that sometimes smelled like sweat
wanted to be like him
New Riders of the Purple Sage
Alice Cooper
Jethro Tull
No music, it seems, was ever my own
Everything I got they gave to me
50s bop (Patty)
Carole King and R&B (Bobbi)
Cat Stevens and The Carpenters (Janet)
Frank Zappa (Larry)
taught me how to drive
hit the wrong gear
sounded like the engine was going to drop out
“I’d better drive.”
Jay Baca
“Where do you think you’re going with her,” Larry asked, blocking Jay at the hallway
They threw Jay out
me and Larry got in trouble
Janet tried to erase the traces of the party
adored my older siblings
left their imprints on me
wish we could go back
My oldest sister says I’m bossy
I think she’s right
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Like you Ybonesy, I looked up to my older two siblings, especially my brother (4 years difference), but he was annoyed with me. I was always bothering him about wanting to be included in stuff, but he wouldn’t allow it.
I hated being compared to him…”Why can you be more like B******?” teachers would say. I hated that about him. He was always a way better student; driven, intelligent, confident. He was the school valedictorian.
I too inherited his music. We shared a bedroom, so I listened to Deep Purple, Alice Cooper, ZZ Top, and Jethro Tull.
When he went away to the Univ. of Arizona, I was proud of him (I still am). He graduated near the top of is class (metallurgical engineering).
As we got older we started becoming friends. After he graduated from the U of A and me from SHS, we did a road trip together to Florida via Arkansas, Tennessee, and Georgia. We had to deliver a car for one of his former Tucson professors who had taken a position at the Univ. of Arkansas. We spent a week or so in Arkansas with our grandparents, aunts and uncles, then hit the road. We learned to respect each other on that trip. We had a lot of fun. Still one of the best trips of my life.
Now when we see each other, there is a mutual respect. I respect him for his life successes and he with me. He no longer treats me like a little brother but as an equal. 😎
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I was 4 years younger than my next older sibling, also a brother, and he’d get annoyed with me too.
Cool that you guys did that road trip. Perhaps because you were both boys, the comparison side of things were inevitable.
That reminds me, I have two girls about that many years apart. It’s true the comparisons happen, and they start happening early. Not so much by ourselves (the parents) — although we do often reflect back on how one was and how the other is — but especially by others.
The relationship does change in adulthood, doesn’t it? That’s the part that struck me so much when I did this writing practice. I reflected on the notion that writing memoir is about letting go of the past, not clinging to it (paraphrased from Natalie Goldberg’s book Old Friend from Far Away). I was sad while doing this writing practice, and I suppose that was because I was letting go of those days, those roles, having those care-taking siblings. Now we’re all on much more equal ground, which is fine, except when I get melancholy for my childhood.
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Thanks for the recall, QM.
I don’t know that my siblings knew how much they were teaching me. In some cases, yes, but other things were much more about me just pushing in on what they were doing. My poor sister Janet used to drag me to parties because she’d get stuck taking care of me when she was a teenager. So off we’d go to her friends’ homes. I thought it was a blast.
Also, our relationship could be extremely rocky. We fought a lot, too. We all get a long well now though. I travel with different siblings — went to Spain with two of my sisters and my sister-in-law, and then a few trips with a sister or two to different places now as adults. I do feel very comfortable with them now. I can be completely myself, no need to make small talk or no need to be nice or anything other than how I am and who I am. I appreciate that about them.
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I was inspired by your writing to go for it myself. I set a 15 min limit on the topic. I did not scratch the surface of these memories. It was just the very slightest penetration of the topic. What kicked up was memories of my mother. She passed at 82, 6 years ago, in the frozen mid-winter in Caribou Maine. I don’t think of her very much, but for two days now I am seeing in my mind’s eye glimpses of my mother from memory. She was in her 30’s – when she walked a mile to work in high heels and a cloud of Chantilly, leaving us with TV dinners so she could save one dollar a week for Christmas Club, not that I blame her for her choice. I am seeing her in her 40’s in a darkened room with the amber vials of prescriptions, bringing her a glass of water, she was supposedly dying. In her 50s I thought she was 100. Seeing her over and over, all the costumes and ceramics and baking and decor and wonderful art she created and taught me, it’s coming back to me. How her eyes shine through my daughter, a firstborn, especially when she is mad. Birth order? I was a third girl out of four, followed by a surprise brother. Middle – or lower-middle class? I’ll get back to this – but for Mother’s Day, well, heeeeere’s Mom…..she’s right here. She’s ba-ack.
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chickenlil, what a great Mother’s Day tribute — all those memories of your mother. Seems like your Writing Practice is the beginning of a rich piece. I’m thinking of my mother this morning and many, many memories, too. Thank you for sharing.
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Isn’t that something, ‘lil, that she came back for Mother’s Day. I’m intrigued by the picture you sketch in this comment, which I assume is distilled from the writing practice. I would love to read more. Perhaps this short visit (of your memories and your mom) will inspire more writing about her? I’d like to know.
Also, this notion of middle class and how it has/had upper and lower boundaries…I was just reflecting yesterday how during my childhood, especially as a teen, those boundaries were quite important to us. I wonder if kids, or people in general, use those terms these days. I have been astonished by how large the “middle class” band has become, per what’s been described in the presidential debates.
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Just a brief response, thanks so much for your thoughts and encouragement. I just read through the interview with Natalie, and am reinforced in intention to continue writing practice. I was amazed that what I thought I would only have shallow remembrances about – my dull suburban childhood / pubescence – yielded deep interconnected imagery and surprising acceptance. Thanks for all you do.
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