Hi, writers,
It was such a privilege for me to hear your pieces tonight. Thank you so much for sharing your talent. You have enriched my life. When I grow up, I'm going to be a writer, too. I admire you all so much.
Dawn and Lynn, I do hope that you will post your pieces. I'm really looking forward to reading both of them.
Warmly,
Kathie
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Not Quite Layla by Becky R.
It was 1966, a regular day at school on the Air Force Base in Seoul Korea. I had stopped by the base Teen Center on the way home from school. Open to middle school and high school students, it was the gathering spot for base kids. The intent was to keep us out of trouble. We shot pool, ate greasy French fries, listened to loud rock and roll, and watched mating rituals of the older kids. We even made feeble attempts of our own. In the Teen Center bathroom I hid in a stall to put on my bra before I walked home for dinner. At the start of the school year Mom came to me privately to proclaim that I needed to start wearing one. She handed me a stretchy slightly quilted contraption called a Training Bra. What, exactly does this train breasts to do? She gave me a disgusted look, turned and left the room. “Just wear it,” she told me over her retreating shoulder. In my bathroom mirror my buds of breasts looked like barely noticeable mounds of fat. A bra just seemed to call unwarranted attention to them. Last summer I had noticed that the boys of our neighborhood gang seemed to treat me differently. At our almost nightly street soccer games, they didn’t block me quite as hard as I was used to. When I caught an elbow to the chest, I’d get an averted-eye apology. I hadn’t made the connection. I still wasn't convinced there was one.
So every morning I walked to school dutifully wearing my training bra. As soon as I got there, I went into the bathroom, took it off, and stuffed it in the bottom of my locker under my gym clothes. My secret was significantly secured since the day, a few weeks before, that I had caught my younger sister sneaking a bra into her purse before she left for school. She was a year and a half younger than me, and flat as a pancake. But she recognized the social status of wearing a bra. So at the same time that I snuck to school and took mine off, she snuck to school and put hers on. That pretty much summed up the differences in our personalities.
Like any other regular day, I got home changed out of my school clothes, and stacked my record player with 45’s of Beatles, Kinks, and The Who. I laid on my bed, and stared at the walls of my half of the room I shared with my younger sister. My walls were covered with Beatles bubble gum cards. They were taped individually with scotch tape in a way that placed pictures with George Harrison in them closest to the head of my bed. Paul was too cute; silly really. John thought he was too smart. He was just conceited. And Ringo was, well, Ringo. George was The Quiet One, not classically good looking, but wise and compassionate. We are kindred spirits. He is eleven years older than me: no problem. Lots of couples have large age differences, and I am mature for my age. He lived on another continent: no problem. He toured a lot, and we moved a lot. It was only a matter of time before we would bump into each other. He was a famous musician, and I was, well, not. No problem. He just hadn’t met me yet. When we meet, he will recognize me as the love of his life, and we’ll tour happily together for the rest of our lives.
That night after dinner, our family watched the evening news. “It was reported today that Beatles member George Harrison married model Patti Boyd in a private ceremony.” What? This can’t be right! I barely kept my composure to get back to my bedroom. News from the U.S. travels slowly to Korea. The T.V. shows are weeks behind. The news must be wrong. I pulled out my transistor radio and listened for confirmation. When it came, I sobbed into my pillow for hours. How could he do this? She doesn’t love him like I do. She just wants his fame and fortune. She’s a hussy. If he’d only waited another year, or two, he’d have met me, somehow.
The next morning my walls had blank 2” X 3” rectangles, missing chips of paint at the tops. My trash can was full of finely torn bits of cardboard. I moped through school and soccer games for weeks. I didn’t even bother to take off my training bra when I got to school. My heart broke, not only for the loss of the love of my life, but for the loss of a fantasy world that was more comforting to me than true life. It wasn’t the only fantasy life I would have. Before I outgrew adolescence I would be a sidekick of Davy Crockett’s, a renowned mountain scout, Pippy Longstocking’s best friend, and have at least one other fantasy boyfriend. But I wasn’t a total idiot. Davy Crockett had been dead for one hundred years. Pippy Longstocking was a fictional character. I was born at least one hundred years after there was a need for mountain scouts, and I was fully aware that my fantasy boyfriend was a way to “try on” having a boyfriend without the risk of actually having one. I may not have been a total idiot, but I was close: Somehow I had convinced myself that marriage to George Harrison was potentially real. I’m still humiliated about it.
Recently I saw that Patti Boyd wrote a book about her life with George Harrison and Eric Clapton. She’s still trying to cash in on his fame, I see. I knew she was a hussy. If only George had med me first.
So every morning I walked to school dutifully wearing my training bra. As soon as I got there, I went into the bathroom, took it off, and stuffed it in the bottom of my locker under my gym clothes. My secret was significantly secured since the day, a few weeks before, that I had caught my younger sister sneaking a bra into her purse before she left for school. She was a year and a half younger than me, and flat as a pancake. But she recognized the social status of wearing a bra. So at the same time that I snuck to school and took mine off, she snuck to school and put hers on. That pretty much summed up the differences in our personalities.
Like any other regular day, I got home changed out of my school clothes, and stacked my record player with 45’s of Beatles, Kinks, and The Who. I laid on my bed, and stared at the walls of my half of the room I shared with my younger sister. My walls were covered with Beatles bubble gum cards. They were taped individually with scotch tape in a way that placed pictures with George Harrison in them closest to the head of my bed. Paul was too cute; silly really. John thought he was too smart. He was just conceited. And Ringo was, well, Ringo. George was The Quiet One, not classically good looking, but wise and compassionate. We are kindred spirits. He is eleven years older than me: no problem. Lots of couples have large age differences, and I am mature for my age. He lived on another continent: no problem. He toured a lot, and we moved a lot. It was only a matter of time before we would bump into each other. He was a famous musician, and I was, well, not. No problem. He just hadn’t met me yet. When we meet, he will recognize me as the love of his life, and we’ll tour happily together for the rest of our lives.
That night after dinner, our family watched the evening news. “It was reported today that Beatles member George Harrison married model Patti Boyd in a private ceremony.” What? This can’t be right! I barely kept my composure to get back to my bedroom. News from the U.S. travels slowly to Korea. The T.V. shows are weeks behind. The news must be wrong. I pulled out my transistor radio and listened for confirmation. When it came, I sobbed into my pillow for hours. How could he do this? She doesn’t love him like I do. She just wants his fame and fortune. She’s a hussy. If he’d only waited another year, or two, he’d have met me, somehow.
The next morning my walls had blank 2” X 3” rectangles, missing chips of paint at the tops. My trash can was full of finely torn bits of cardboard. I moped through school and soccer games for weeks. I didn’t even bother to take off my training bra when I got to school. My heart broke, not only for the loss of the love of my life, but for the loss of a fantasy world that was more comforting to me than true life. It wasn’t the only fantasy life I would have. Before I outgrew adolescence I would be a sidekick of Davy Crockett’s, a renowned mountain scout, Pippy Longstocking’s best friend, and have at least one other fantasy boyfriend. But I wasn’t a total idiot. Davy Crockett had been dead for one hundred years. Pippy Longstocking was a fictional character. I was born at least one hundred years after there was a need for mountain scouts, and I was fully aware that my fantasy boyfriend was a way to “try on” having a boyfriend without the risk of actually having one. I may not have been a total idiot, but I was close: Somehow I had convinced myself that marriage to George Harrison was potentially real. I’m still humiliated about it.
Recently I saw that Patti Boyd wrote a book about her life with George Harrison and Eric Clapton. She’s still trying to cash in on his fame, I see. I knew she was a hussy. If only George had med me first.
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