January 1967
“Grade 2‘s go to your spots.
Time for handwriting practice,” Teacher says.
I walk to the side blackboard.
Clutch a chalk stick.
Stare straight ahead.
Boy stands beside me.
Whispers my way.
“Karen,” he says.
His words pull like a magnet.
I turn my head to the right.
His fingers are perched above his head.
Pressed against the board.
He waits. Grins.
I squeeze my eyelids.
Press my palms against ears.
He drags fingernails down. Slowly.
A screech penetrates. Drills deep
into my head. Rips up and down my spine.
Like a knife stripping the protective plastic of wire.
I wince. Groan.
Boy giggles. Pleasure from my pain.
No one notices. But me.
Boy plants his nails at the top
begins again.
His smile grows wider.
I shake my head.
Say, “No. Stop.”
Another flash of lightening ripples up and down my spine.
Torture.
I wish I could make him stop.
Could pick him up
Like Pippi
Walk outside the classroom portable.
Hang him over a high branch
in the huge Maple tree
that stares down at the school.
“That is a very unkind thing to do
to the smallest girl in the class.”
I would say. “Never.
Never do that again!”
I want to make him stop.
And Father stop. And Mother stop.
But I am Annika. Much afraid.
I say nothing. I do nothing.
I am silent.
So the pain does not stop.
********
March 1967
“…Amen,” Sister and I say.
“Now go to sleep,” Mother says.
Her feet march down the hallway.
Around the corner. Out of sight.
Door open an inch. Hall light shines
a beam across my face. Like sunshine
it warms. Comforts. Assures.
Sister pounds her pillow
with her head.
Up and down. Again and again.
“Ouch,” I say to myself.
Sister’s pounding keeps me
awake.
Repeating like Father hitting
nails into wood.
I listen. Eyes wide.
Alert.
Like a sentinel. Watching.
Waiting.
A cat growls. Another cat shrieks.
Two cats
tear at each other.
Trees groan beaten by the wind.
A cupboard slams in the kitchen.
Television mumbles in the living room.
Sister is quiet now. Asleep.
I pull my legs closer.
Hug my pillow harder.
Tug my blanket tighter
over my head.
A bubble of warm breath. Hidden.
Night time noises startle.
Night time noises frighten.
Scared to be lost in night
forever.
********
My shoes scuff
against the pavement.
My legs heavy like the sack of potatoes
that sits in the dark pantry
downstairs.
Grey tights sag. Eyelids sag.
Clouds exhale
flap my pigtails.
Cool air scurries across my cheeks.
Pinches them pink.
Fingers wiggle inside mitts.
Up the hill. Across Marine Drive.
One potato, two potato, three potato. Four
long blocks.
I step up to John King’s door.
Five, six, seven potato more.
Another steep hill
before we arrive
at our schoolroom door.
********
I rest my elbows on my desk.
My head sinks into my arms.
Soft like a pillow.
I look out the window. Teacher’s voice
marches forward.
Steady. My mind drifts
to birds sitting on a branch
in a tree outside.
Green leaves applaud their song.
Call me to join them. One robin jumps free
sails through the air. And is gone.
“Karen? Your turn to read,” Teacher says.
********
Teacher reads a story
about a magic carpet.
I close my eyes. Her words drift over me.
Soon I sit on a magic carpet
float above the streets thick with people
cars and animals.
I float on waves of air and fragrant spices
high above the city.
I fly with the birds. On drifts of wind.
Teacher snaps her book shut.
My eyes pop open. Startled.
I drop back in my desk with a bang.
My magic carpet ride gone.
Popped like a bubble in bathwater.
Shoulder to shoulder
in the cloakroom. Coats zip.
Monte and I head home.
Legs flop like jello against the sidewalk.
Tired. We cross the street.
Endless blocks stretch before us.
Our street a distant dot.
Leaves. Strong. Thick. Shiny leaves.
Like the ones on the hedge
outside my bedroom window.
I stop. Pick a handful.
Drop them on the sidewalk.
“These will work,” I say.
One shoe on top of each.
Monte does the same.
I hold Monte’s hand in mine.
“Close your eyes,” I say.
“Picture a magic carpet.” Hopeful.
Determined. We squeeze eyelids and fingers.
I fly through the air. On my magic carpet.
A car zooms by. Engine noise.
Spoils the magic.
Vanishes.
I look down at my feet. Green leaves
peek out from under shoes.
Sidewalk all around.
Same street.
Same spot.
No closer to home.
“It didn’t work,” I say.
Heads dip low.
Hands let go.
Feet lift. Heavy.
Each step like wading
through thick mud.
No magic carpet ride home. Not today.
********
Today we are almost a family.
Mother sits on her picnic blanket
beside other ladies
at the annual Sunday School
Spring Family Picnic.
Edie Barter charges by.
Brother, Sister, and I jump up.
Run to touch the candy covered coat
that Edie Barter wears.
Children tall and small swarm after him.
Like he is the Pied Piper.
Edie dips into his bag
throws handfuls of laughter
and colourful treats
high into the air.
Laughter. Sunshine. Sweet candy.
Spill into the air. Speckle the grass.
I crouch to pick up the Mojos. My favourite.
Races over. I turn to sit down.
Wait for the Barbecue Salmon.
Mother says, “Time to go.”
“But I’m having fun,” I say.
We hop in the convertible.
Mother drives along Marine. Home.
I chew another Mojo. Sweet white toffee.
Mother has no friends. No one comes for tea.
No one phones.
The neighbourhood ladies are rude.
My friend’s moms have their noses in the air.
The church ladies think they are superior
Mother never comes to the picnic again.
********
I shiver. Teeth chatter. Inside
the house. The furnace blasts out heat.
I walk to the white wall
behind my bedroom door. Close my eyes.
Lean in. The wall holds
my shoulders firm. I rest my head
my cheek resting on stillness.
I exhale. Like a balloon letting go.
I give back Mother’s rage.
My feet on solid ground.
My body stops shaking.
My world stops collapsing.
All is solid.
********
May 1967
I clench my bike handlebars.
Mother unscrews my training wheels.
Mother says I am ready to try.
Mother holds my bike seat.
“Don’t let go,” I say.
Mother holds my bike seat.
I begin to pedal
down the street.
“Don’t let go,” I say.
My handlebars zig zag
twist sideways.
I squeeze tight.
Mother holds my bike seat.
She pushes me from behind.
We walk up the street for another ride down.
Mother says nothing.
I say nothing.
Mother holds my bike seat.
I climb on.
I begin to pedal again.
“Don’t let go!” I say again.
I squeeze my handle bars.
I keep very still. No pedaling.
My bike bounces up and down
past Sidney’s house,
past my house.
My bike wheels stop turning
in front of Mr. Johnson’s driveway.
Mother is walking nearby.
“Did you hold on?”
“No,” Mother says.
“I rode all on my own?”
Mother nods.
I look for a smile. But Mother
is already walking up the street.
********
September 1967
Father builds a Go Cart for Brother.
Four wheels, a plank, a rope.
I watch. And hope.
Father does not build me a Go Cart.
Mother says, “What do you want a cart for?
You are a girl. Not a boy.”
I hope Brother gives me a ride.
I sit behind him and hold on tight.
My hair jumps up around my face.
We whiz past our house.
My bum bounces up and bumps down.
The wheels stop turning
in front of Mr. Johnson’s driveway.
We run up the street for another ride down.
I watch. Joel hop on.
I watch Brother and Joel
whiz down the street.
And laugh.
I watch. And wait.
For Brother to give me another turn.
I want my own cart.
With my own wheels, board, and rope.
But I am a girl.
*********
December 1967
It is winter. School is closed
for Christmas holidays.
I look out my bedroom window.
Grey rooftops and sky are gone.
All is white. And quiet. Inside and out.
Icicles hang down. From the roof.
Mother makes breakfast.
Hot oatmeal, brown sugar, and milk.
No one talks. Father is sitting at the table.
Mother takes our empty bowls.
Gives us plates of bacon, fried eggs, and toast.
No one talks.
Sister sits across from me.
I am careful
not to look at Sister.
She always gets me in trouble.
I do not want to be sent to my room today.
With a beating.
I look at my food.
Mother bought a white space age table
and chairs with lime green cushions.
No four legs to wrap my legs around.
My feet stick out. I try to keep them close.
But they drop down.
Sister kicks me hard.
I make a noise. I groan.
Father says, “Go to your room.
I will deal with you later.”
Later
Father enters.
Sister follows. Sits on her bed. Smiles.
Father stands over me. I step back.
Father steps closer.
He points his finger between my eyes.
Fire blazes from his fingertip.
Pushes anger at my eyes.
Father yells for a long time.
Mother calls it the Third Degree.
I blink. “Look at me when I am talking to you!”
I open my eyes wide. And stare straight ahead.
His finger shakes at me like a slug wiggling in my face.
“Turn around. Bend over,” Father says.
He pulls my panties down. I hold my breath.
His hand hits high. On my back.
He hits again. And again.
Father stops. He walks out. I pull up my panties.
Sister grins like the Cheshire Cat.
Big and wide.
It hurts. To move.
I cannot walk. Or sit down. My back and bum throb.
I cannot run. Nowhere to go.
Mother says, “I will report you if you hit her again.”
The new neighbours soon move away.
No one lives in the house next door
for very long.
Father hits me again.
Mother never calls.
********
December 1967
I love snow. The soft breezy kind.
The crunch beneath your boots kind.
The roll it into a snowman kind.
The swish it into an angel kind.
The stick to your knitted woolen mittens kind.
The pack it into a fort kind.
Sweaters and tights
pants and coat
hat and mittens.
Too much clothing.
I move stiffly like a robot.
I am careful on the icy back porch steps.
I look up at the flakes.
catch some on my tongue.
I reach up snap an icicle that hangs down.
I suck on it like an orange popsicle.
The snow is piled high.
My boots sink in and disappear.
Brother and I push the snow aside.
We walk to the front yard.
Snow covers all driveways up Highbury Street.
Brother has a plan to make lots of money.
He takes one shovel from our
basement. I lift the other.
It is big and heavy. I lift it onto my shoulder.
I push myself to shovel snow
as fast
and long
and hard as Brother.
We shovel driveways all morning.
I am strong like my Brother. Like Pippi.
We shovel a long driveway for two old sisters.
They are happy.
Our pockets are full of money.
I stomp the snow from my boots. I am smiling.
when I step into the kitchen. Mother frowns.
She says I must not shovel anymore snow.
“You will strain yourself.”
Her words melt away my strength.
Vacuum up my happiness.
I feel like a balloon without air. Deflated.
Mother spoons out bowls of steaming
Campbell’s Tomato Soup
with “cheese grilled” sandwiches.
Brother leaves to shovel more driveways. I stay home.
I am scared to strain myself. Much afraid.
********
Brother plays a Christmas record in the living room.
“He knows if you’ve been bad or good
so be good for goodness sake.”
I plug my ears with my fingers.
Hum to block out the words.
The words burn
a hole. Let fear inside.
I pray.
“God. Help me be good.
So Mother won’t hit me. So Father won’t hit me.
So Santa won’t give my coal
So some one will love me.
Amen.”
********
If Santa Claus gives Pippi a lump of coal
I hear Pippi say, “Thanks, Santa!” and
make a fire to roast marshmallows.
********
QUOTES: Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren
“‘I wonder if it is hard to fly,’ said Pippi and looked dreamily over the edge of the rock. The rock sloped down very steeply below them, and it was a long way to the ground.
“‘Down at least one ought to be able to learn to fly,’ she continued. ‘It must be harder to fly up. But you could begin with the easiest way. I do think I will try.’” (p. 81).
“‘Oh, no, that’s not sunny enough for my freckles,’ said Pippi, ‘and I do think freckles are so attractive’”(p. 80).
“With trembling legs Annika climbed up in the tree again, and Pippi helped her with the last hard bit. She drew back a little when she saw how dark it was in the tree trunk, but Pippi held her hand and kept encouraging her” (p. 73).
“Way out at the end of a tiny little town was an old overgrown garden and in the garden was an old house, and in the house lived Pippi Longstocking. She was nine years old, and she lived there all alone. She had no mother and no father…there was no one to tell her to go to bed just when she was having the most fun, and no one who could make her take cod liver oil when she much preferred caramel candy” (p. 12).
“Pippi was indeed a remarkable child. The most remarkable thing about her was that she was so strong. She was so very strong that in the whole wide world there was not a single police officer as strong as she. Why, she could lift a whole horse is she wanted to! And she wanted to. She had a horse…living on the porch. When Pippi wanted to drink her afternoon coffee there, she simply lifted him down into the garden” (pp. 13-14).
“Her hair, the color of a carrot, was braided in two tight braids that stuck straight out. Her nose…was dotted all over with freckles…Her dress was rather unusual. Pippi herself had made it. She had meant it to be blue, but there wasn’t quite enough blue cloth, so Pippi had sewed little red pieces on it here and there. On her long thin legs she wore a pair of long stockings, one brown and the other black, and she had on a pair of black shoes that were exactly twice as long as her feet” (pp. 15-16).
“While she was speaking Pippi had neatly picked the eggshells out of the bowl with her fingers. Now she took a bath brush that hung on the wall and began to beat the pancake batter so hard that it splashed all over the walls” (p. 22).
‘“Say, Pippi,” said Tommy respectfully, ‘why do you wear such big shoes?’
‘So I can wiggle my toes, of course,’ she answered.
Then she crept into bed. She always slept with her feet on the pillow and her head way down under the quilt” (p. 35).
“…all five began to punch and hit him. [Willie] cried and held his arms in front of his face to protect himself.
‘Give it to him! Give it to him!’ cried the oldest and strongest of the boys….
Pippi went up to the boys and tapped Bengt on the back with her forefinger. ‘Hello, there,’ she said. ‘What’s the idea? Are you trying to make hash out of little Willie…?’
Bengt turned around and saw a little girl he had never seen before: a wild-looking little stranger who dared to touch him…all five boys joined hands around Pippi, jumping up and down and screaming, ‘Redhead! Redhead!’
Pippi stood in the middle of the ring and smiled in the friendliest way. Bengt had hoped she would get mad and begin to cry. At least she ought to have looked scared. When nothing happened he gave her a push.
‘I don’t think you have a very nice way with ladies,’ said Pippi. And she lifted him in her strong arms–high in the air–and carried him to a birch tree and hung him over a branch. Then she took the next boy and hung him over another branch...and the next she threw right over a fence so that he landed in a flower bed…The boys were absolutely speechless with fright…to Bengt, who sat up in the tree and didn’t dare to stir, she said, ‘Is there anything else you have to say about my hair or my shoes? If so, you’d better say it now before I go home.’
But Bengt had nothing more to say about Pippi’s shoes or about her hair either” (pp. 31-33).
“‘Oh, isn’t it glorious to be alive!’ said Pippi, stretching out her legs as far as they could reach” (p. 39).
“‘Policemen are the very best things I know. Next to rhubarb pudding’” (p. 39).
“But then one of the policemen said that Pippi certainly didn’t need to think she could do just as she pleased. She must come to the children’s home and immediately. He went up to her and took hold of her arm but Pippi freed herself quickly, touched him lightly, and said, ‘Tag!’
Before he could wink an eye she had climbed up on the porch railing and from there onto the balcony above the porch…At first they were very angry at Pippi, who stood on the ground looking up at them, and they told her in no uncertain terms to get the ladder and be quick about it, or she would soon get something she wasn’t looking for.
‘Why are you so cross at me?’ asked Pippi reproachfully. ‘We’re just playing tag, aren’t we?’
The policeman thought a while… ‘Oh, come on, won’t you be a good girl and put the ladder back so that we can get down?’
‘Of course I will,’ said Pippi and put the ladder back instantly…But the policemen were certainly tricky, because the minute they were down on the ground again they pounced on Pippi and cried, ‘Now you’ll get it, you little brat!’
‘Oh, no, I’m sorry. I haven’t time to play any longer,’ said Pippi. ‘But it was fun.’
Then she took hold of the policemen by their belts and carried them down the garden path, out through the gate, and onto the street. There she set them down….
‘Wait a minute,’ she cried and ran into the kitchen and came back with two cookie hearts. ‘Would you like a taste?’ she asked” (pp. 41-44).
“A few feet above the ground the oak divided into two branches, and right there was a place just like a little room. Before long all three children were sitting there. Over their heads the oak spread out its crown like a great green roof (p. 68)”.
‘“A coffee party! Me!’ cried Pippi, and she was so excited that she began to water Tommy instead of the rosebush she intended to sprinkle” (p. 117).
“‘Oh, I am so nervous. What if I can’t behave myself?…I have noticed several times that people don’t think I know how to behave even when I’m trying as hard as I can…I promise that I’ll take special pains today so you won’t be ashamed of me’” (p. 117).
‘“Knees bend!’ she shrieked and curtsied prettily. Then she smiled at Mrs. Settergren and said in her ordinary voice, ‘You see, I am really very shy, so if I didn’t give myself some commands I’d just stand in the hall and not dare to come in’” (p. 120).
“Pippi stretched her legs out in front of her and placed the plate of cakes between her toes. Then she merrily dunked cakes in her coffee cup and stuffed so many in her mouth at once that she couldn’t have uttered a word no matter how hard she tried” (p. 121).
‘“Don’t you suppose you’d cry yourself if you were up there and couldn’t get down?’
‘I never cry,’ said Pippi. ‘But if they want to get down, why doesn’t somebody help them?’
‘Because it isn’t possible’, said the stout gentleman…” (p. 137).
“The fire burned. The children in the window screamed. The people in the square cried” (pp. 138).
“Quickly and nimbly [Pippi] climbed up the trunk, and the people stopped crying in astonishment” (p. 139).
“[Pippi] had embroidered the cloth herself with flowers that certainly looked most remarkable, but Pippi declared that such flowers grew in the Farthest India, so of course that made them all right” (p. 148).
“But suddenly she remembered something. ‘Oh, my goodness, you must have your birthday presents too!’ she said.
‘But it isn’t our birthday,’ said Tommy and Annika.
Pippi stared in amazement. ‘No, but it’s my birthday, isn’t it? And so I can give birthday presents too, can’t I?’…
‘Oh, of course it’s possible,’ said Tommy. ‘It isn’t customary. But for my part, I’d be very glad to have a present’” (pp. 148-149).