Response to Writing Exercise

In the picture, I look pretty with my long hair and red ribbon, like I could have been one of the Little House on the Prairie girls. But I also look tired. There are bags under my eyes belying the pretty, kind, posed smile. One arm is draped around Johanna's side--she's tipped over against me--but one is flicking or moving the rattle in her other hand, surreptitiously. My face gives nothing away, as if I am sitting perfectly still simply posing and smiling for the camera as I've been told to do. I don't know what I was trying to do with that rattle. I imagine I was trying to keep Johanna from bringing it up to her face, trying to make sure everything works out perfect for my mom and dad taking the picture.

On Jeff's face is a curious, crowd-pleasing smile, too. For some reason his expression brings back my memories of him being stubborn and making sure to do whatever it was he had set his mind on doing. He would bite you if you didn't let him. I remember that. Perhaps it was his method of preserving his true self against all attempts to civilize him. He has always been like that, I think. Polite and responsible on the outside, determined to be himself and only himself on the inside.

I look at Johanna and remember her only as a passive, grinning, sometimes angry baby. She has the roundest, softest body of the three of us in the picture, though this is because she is the youngest--only half a year old, probably. All of us have some version of the Shreve nose, but I now notice that each of us has slightly different-shaped eyes. Different colors, too. I can't read Johanna's round, blue, wondering eyes. I have never been able to tell what she was thinking. She has been a mystery to me most of her life. For me, that has been a deep source of sadness and confusion. Lately she entrusts me with more information and it makes me feel hopeful for her. Jeff seems so easy to read, on the other hand, that I wonder if I am missing something about him, something big and important and hidden.

Back to me: What do I remember about being six and a half years old? Nothing much. A brick house in a bad neighborhood that I didn't perceive that way. It was simply our house. A house was a good thing. There were people in that neighborhood that made me feel bad and suspicious, but that was the way things were, not bad nor good. One person who made me feel funny was our next door neighbor Nikki, a twelve-year-old who may have been hiding terrible things behind her careful adult demeanor. Her parents screamed and threw dishes at each other and I remember once a police car showed up at their house. I didn't connect her parents' screaming and throwing to that of my own parents because I didn't think about her parents very much. That was her life. I was wholly concerned with my own.

My teacher at the time, Mrs. Musselman, once made me drink spoiled orange juice that had been packed in my lunchbox. I still remember the taste of it--too sweet and too filmy with a strong rancid undertone. I think I cried. Mrs. Musselman was very strict. We learned phonics and the Spanish names of colors and spelling.

I had a crush on John Somebody-or-other at this age. I thought the blue-eyed blonde boy walked on water. Who knows why. The only things I remember him doing are shooting a cap-gun at the ceiling of our classroom during show and tell (against the teacher's orders) and walking across the school parking lot to get in one of the cars and go home.

I don't remember anything else at home. I don't remember much about my younger brother and sister until we were older. I don't know if that's normal for young kids or not. But I do still remember the nightmares I had in which I tried unsuccessfully to save my baby sister. In one, I was in a deserted dark airport in the middle of a big city. A fat Garfield-esque cat was doing terrible things. I tried to stop him but his underling cats tickled me until I had no breath. In another recurring nightmare, two cartoon bears with bright blue flower garlands around their heads took Johanna and threw her down headfirst on our concrete patio leading out to the backyard. I never had these dreams about Jeff. I think he's always had to take care of himself.

What I feel for my siblings is awe for the wonderful people they are, an abiding respect, and an eternal anxiety about their wellbeing. In this picture we all look happy, well-groomed, adorable, even matching in our red and white stripes. When I glance at it (it's up on the wall above my desk) I think about the love that binds us. But I don't ever think we were simply happy.

There have been happiness and joy in my life in greater measure than I expected. I have always acknowledged these gifts and moments of peace and been grateful and guilty for them.

Now is the time to acknowledge all the other feelings.