My grandmother Nonnie was an incredible woman who happened to be deaf and mute. When I was ages 9-14 I lived with her to be her “ears” and some company at night. My parents and sibs were just down the hill and I was there for much of the time. But evenings, nights and early mornings were spent with Nonnie. My bachelor uncle George came for the weekends but the rest of the time it was Nonnie and me. I am grateful I had that arrangement, but that is another story. This is about the hole in my closet.
Behind the hanging clothes there was a hole about 8 inches wide in the back wall of my closet. I never questioned why it was there; I just knew it would be a great hiding place. The ledge right inside the hole became the secret repository for writings and drawings documenting my early adolescence.
As my body began the transition from girl to young woman, I came face to face with what my culture said a girl should be. It was the early 60’s, the era of the blonde, ponytailed cheerleader, the homecoming queen and Sandra Dee. And we were to all grow up to be the perennially cheerful Donna Reid, cleaning house clad in an ironed shirtwaist dress, wearing pearls and married to a doctor.
This was a far cry from anything I was or could be but my fantasies gave it a whirl. I would write little stories about me wherein I was popular and pretty. I was sought after by the cutest boys and had a wardrobe of the perfect clothes. My mother generally made all my clothes but in my writings they were procured from the finest department stores. I even drew pictures of these fabulous outfits, designed for slim, perky cheerleader to illustrate the life I thought I should have. In my stories I was always going to dances and parties and even got discovered as a movie star.
One Sunday I was returning to Nonnie’s as George was leaving. I hung my clothes in the closet and noticed with horror that the hole was gone. Patched, painted over, gone. George came into my room holding a shoe box filled with my writings. He handed me the box with no comment, just a smile. I was too embarrassed to ask if he had read them but at that point I ceased writing down my make-believe stories. Perhaps it coincided for me with the reality that I was who I was or maybe it was because I didn’t have a secret place anymore. Nonetheless the writing served a purpose as I began the journey to womanhood. It was an outlet for expression and fantasy.
As a woman I have written off and on through the years, but I continue to feel a deep kinship with the chubby, brown haired girl who was a bit quirky, funny, child-like and out of step with cultural stereotypes. Only now I wouldn’t put her in a closet and pretend, even in my writings, to be someone else. I really like her.
Our stories help us see ourselves and gain perspective on this ongoing journey we call life. What stories do you remember that reflect on your journey?
As my body began the transition from girl to young woman, I came face to face with what my culture said a girl should be. It was the early 60’s, the era of the blonde, ponytailed cheerleader, the homecoming queen and Sandra Dee. And we were to all grow up to be the perennially cheerful Donna Reid, cleaning house clad in an ironed shirtwaist dress, wearing pearls and married to a doctor.
This was a far cry from anything I was or could be but my fantasies gave it a whirl. I would write little stories about me wherein I was popular and pretty. I was sought after by the cutest boys and had a wardrobe of the perfect clothes. My mother generally made all my clothes but in my writings they were procured from the finest department stores. I even drew pictures of these fabulous outfits, designed for slim, perky cheerleader to illustrate the life I thought I should have. In my stories I was always going to dances and parties and even got discovered as a movie star.
One Sunday I was returning to Nonnie’s as George was leaving. I hung my clothes in the closet and noticed with horror that the hole was gone. Patched, painted over, gone. George came into my room holding a shoe box filled with my writings. He handed me the box with no comment, just a smile. I was too embarrassed to ask if he had read them but at that point I ceased writing down my make-believe stories. Perhaps it coincided for me with the reality that I was who I was or maybe it was because I didn’t have a secret place anymore. Nonetheless the writing served a purpose as I began the journey to womanhood. It was an outlet for expression and fantasy.
As a woman I have written off and on through the years, but I continue to feel a deep kinship with the chubby, brown haired girl who was a bit quirky, funny, child-like and out of step with cultural stereotypes. Only now I wouldn’t put her in a closet and pretend, even in my writings, to be someone else. I really like her.
Our stories help us see ourselves and gain perspective on this ongoing journey we call life. What stories do you remember that reflect on your journey?
I could relate to the story writing you did. I took to pen also as a youngster but usually in the form of rants about a sibling or fantasies about Roy Rogers.
ReplyDeleteI can appreciate your way of directing your life on paper.
Please do write about how it was like living with your grandmother. Would love to read it.
Lovely story, Allison! I liked writing, too, when I was young. Diaries are what I was given. So charming with the little locks on them and the excitement of secrets! I still date my journal entries every day now and that is a habit from those old diary entries.
ReplyDeleteI look forward to hearing about Nonnie, too.