Bad Rachel

For today's post in the challenge, I am called to tell a story from my childhood. There is one story that stands out in my mind, and I will do my best to tell it well. Given that it is from childhood, my memory might not be entirely accurate, so the timing (even my age) may be off. But the essence of this story is all true.

Rockin' the peplum and polka dots.

Imagine if you will, it is the late 1980s. I am, if I remember correctly, going on 6 years old, which would place us in 1988. Good year. I lived for Friday night sleepovers with my neighbor friends watching TGIF while we snuggled up in our sleeping bags (mine was Minnie Mouse) with our dolls (my favorite dirty red-haired Cabbage Patch kid, Katie). My family lived in Bullville, New York, in a nice little cul-de-sac with 3 other homes.

I was in first grade, and my first grade teacher's name is the only elementary school teacher's name I can't recall. The only thing I remember about her, besides her high-waisted, pleated, mom-white, belted trousers, is that one time I accidentally called her mom and I felt really embarrassed about it.

Every morning, I would wait for the bus at the end of our little cul-de-sac. Sometimes I would visit the pony that lived across the street (I loved ponies and wanted one so bad- a dream that eventually came true). I would board the bus with my super-cool bright pink Barbie lunch box (I think that was the year I had Barbie and the Rockers as my lunch box).

I had my first experience of feeling ashamed about my appearance at that age. It was all about my hair. Hair was big in the 80s and I wanted mine to look like Stephanie's on Full House. My mom would put Sun-In in my hair every Summer to lighten it. For some reason, when I was 6 years old she chopped off my beautiful long locks and I had short hair for the first time since I was a toddler. I hated it. The kids at school hated it. Every day, we would line up in the classroom for lunch, girls in one line, boys in the other. We would parade on down to the cafeteria and the boys would sit on one side of the table while the girls sat opposite them. During this short hair phase, maybe it was the first day of my short hair, the girls made me sit on the boys side of the table. I learned then just how cruel girls could be toward one another.

But that is not the story I am telling today. No, I simply wanted to set the stage. Picture is you will, a crisp October morning. Little Rachel boards the school bus and heads for her place in the back, with the cool kids where we like to play hand-clapping games with each other or the back of the seat in front of us. I don't know what I did wrong that day, but Betty, the bus driver, made me sit at the front of the bus instead. I was pouty and upset. At one of the next stops, we pick up Tony (I think that was his name), who is a year younger than me. He's a cute little boy with dark eyes and thick, black hair- his parents were probably of Italian descent. He has a crush on me. Naturally, I hate him.

I cannot tell you what exactly happened between the time he sat don next to me and the time we arrived at the school, because I may have blocked it from my memory. What I do remember is reaching for his hair and pulling a fistful of those thick, dark locks right out of his head. I am pretty sure I left him with a bald spot. As soon as we arrived at school, I was taken to the Vice Principal's office and assigned detention at recess for a month (that might be an exaggeration, but that is at least what it felt like).

Go Rachel, it's your birthday!

For some reason, my parents must not have been contacted about this incident. The next Saturday I had my birthday party. I'm an end of October baby, so my birthday parties were always Halloween-themed when I was growing up. My mom sewed me a Mini-Mouse costume, and my little brother was Robing Hood. We had cake, ice cream, presents. Michelle gave me pajamas. After the party, I slipped into my new pajamas and took a nap on the couch. During this nap, I hear someone knock on the door. I remain "asleep." Tony's mom has come over to explain to my mom the horrible thing that I did to her son. I try to stay asleep forever, knowing I'm in some deep shit now. But we all know little girls can't sleep forever because Sleeping Beauty isn't real. So when I woke up, my mom talked to me about what happened. And I came up with the best lies possible, because any lie was worth more than the shame that my mother would surely lay on me. I had a reputation as the brat of the family, so I had to lie to get out of having more guilt slathered upon me.

You'll be happy to know I'm not that mean little girl any more. I honestly believe I didn't do it out of meanness. I'm a sensitive person, so whatever guilt another person lays upon me, I am laying upon myself times ten on my own. I now know that I suffer from anxiety, so I think a lot of my bad behaviors came from not knowing how to cope with my anxiety, especially when it came to people (I have social anxiety). Now I know that if a boy I don't like is bugging me, I can either ignore him or ask him to leave me alone, no hair-pulling needed.

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