A Memoir - continued

Climbing to the top of a small hill, I was starting to walk across the paved portion surrounding the football field. Always carrying something in my hands, I was not in the best of spirits. A pressing thought was crying out within. "No one understands me. I am all alone." 

I was around 11 years old.

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My cousin, exactly 3 months my junior, was the wise one. She decided to initiate me into becoming a "lady" desirable to other boys. She demonstrated the art of descending stairs in a sensual way, singing in a sweet way, and sitting in some other enticing way. It was clear I wasn't meant to be a sexy queen. I could only run down the stairs, could not see the point of "making eyes," and walking with a hip swing was out of the question. I did excel at sprinting away from the chasing boys with my skinny and pre-hormonal body being faster than any of theirs, laughing uncontrollably, and dancing like no one was watching - everything opposite of sophistication. 

And I weeded, arranged, and planted a garden patch full of flowers. 

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My goal was to finish The Diary of Anne Frank before the car arrived. Everything was packed, and the drivers were to arrive shortly. I tried reading as fast as I could. The woman who had no heart, my grandmother, refused to give me permission to see my best friend prior to our leaving. I anxiously hoped I would receive a phone call from her. I could not call out. Her family did not have a phone. It finally came but the good-bye lacked the power that a hug and a kiss could provide.  The conversation seemed superficial and mostly unreal. A few hours later, my head on my grandmother's chest, we were crammed into a small car to complete the first leg of our long journey to the unknown land of America.

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Playing chess was not my game of choice but watching my dad was definitely fun. The young and beautiful boy named Arthur appeared in the building filled with immigrants with nothing to do but wait for the powers that be to grant permission to continue the journey started several weeks back. Arthur had my attention. He was beating my dad. Watching the two men play was my education during the month of waiting. 

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In a room full of cigarette smoke, all adults were discussing one thing or another. Some studied English, one word per day, some philosophized. Mostly, everyone spoke, as the lack of food was evident and, at this point in time, no one has worked for over two months. The little money allowed to be taken out of the country was quickly running out, and mom was scrambling to feed her two growing daughters. 

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The smell of cat urine was intense. Someone found us this place for its low price in a neighborhood that seemed safe. My allergic symptoms went through the roof. The only treatment medical science offered was steroids. 

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I was the best student in the 8th grade despite the fact that I hardly spoke any English, used a dictionary to translate and answer homework questions, and did not have any friends. I was the weird kid to be avoided with weird hair and weird clothes. 

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My lifelong inexplicable illness that would render me fatigued, irritable, angry, itchy, unable to eat or sleep did not want to go away. It became my identity. I was already different enough. This added to the sense of separateness. No one really did understand or could relate or had any explanation.

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Belt around my nightgown, I stood on top of my bed, emulating the dancing girls I saw on MTV. As far as I was concerned, my purpose in life was to become one of them. 

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She was what would be the equivalent of "a brother from another mother." Dark, extensions in her hair, a gentle beauty, Josephine was my Jamaican sister. We met while I was waiting for my date who, fortunately, stood me up. I "waited" for two hours while laughing with my newly found soul sister. We became inseparable. 

It was a regular thing that we did: we opened and closed the dance floor of some night club every Friday night. Running in our mini-skirts through the winter snow from our car parked blocks away, we refused to pay for parking. Earning $5.35 per hour doing other people's laundry or wiping other people's behinds, my and Jo's respective college jobs, did not earn you the right to enter an enclosed garage. Never taking any intoxicants, we were high on the rhythms, melody, and unmistakable joy.