I Had Enough!

I’m a rule follower. I always have been. I only break the rules if I believe there is a good reason to break them. Otherwise, I’m a “by the book” person. I did not get in trouble in school. I was always shy and quiet. I kept to myself.  I was always reading a book or writing a story. I definitely did not do anything to get sent to the principal’s office. So, it was a surprise to everyone when I got in trouble had to visit the principal in seventh grade.

The incident happened on the bus ramp after school. I know that Nana had already died, so it was after October, but I didn’t have my braces on yet, so it was before May. There was a boy who picked on me every day. He would only see me on the bus ramp, while we waited to be picked up and shuttled home. He would talk about how ugly I was and how my teeth were terrible (I clearly needed the braces I got in May). Every day he called me names. Every day I silently ignored him. He clearly rattled me, but I was not witty enough to have a come back. I just tried to keep walking and get away from him.

After Nana died, there were a lot of feelings inside. Plus there was build up from this boy being mean to me everyday. One afternoon, I’d had all I could take, and I blew up. I pushed him and told him to leave me alone. If I had just yelled at him, it would have not been as bad, but I put my hands on him. I was so angry inside. I was tired of being called ugly. I was tired of being teased.

A teacher took our names down. I probably cried (I don’t remember, but I cry at just about everything). I went home on the bus. I do not think I said anything to my parents about it. They wouldn’t understand. 

The walk from my classroom to the principal’s office the next day was terrible. I was scared of being in trouble. I never broke rules. I was not a mean kid who pushed kids around. I didn’t even call kids names.  I planned to tell the principal the whole truth; I was going to tell her how this boy picked on me everyday and I had enough. I was hoping she would believe me.

I sat in a chair in front of her desk. The boy sat in a chair next to me. This made me scared. How could I tell her how he teased me all the time with him sitting there? the principal asked what happened. He told her that I pushed him. I summoned the courage to tell her that I did push him after he called me ugly. And that he called me ugly and other names every day on the bus ramp. I told her I should not have pushed him, but that I could not take the name calling anymore. He tried to deny it at first. She wanted to know why I never told on him before. I shrugged. I did not know what telling would have done. I had to apologize, but was not given another consequence. He had to apologize too and was told to leave me alone. He was not given another consequence either, but was warned there would be one in the future if he continued to bother me.

I went to my locker after leaving her office to get the books I needed for my next class. I felt relieved that I was not sent to detention or in school suspension. I was happy she listened to me. I was also happy the bus ramp was a safer place to be after that day.

Lessons from Grandpa

When asked who I admired most and why, I always answered, “My grandpa because he built a business from nothing.” When he passed away, I found out just how famous he was in the music world. I did not realize prior to his funeral just how many lives he had touched. He was just my grandpa, the man who led our family. Going to visit Grandpa at the office was a big deal. So was a chance to go to his house. I have fond memories of holidays at his house.

One of my favorite moments with my grandpa was when he would gather the “grand girls” (me, my sister, and two cousins) on his bed to share a story with us. We would giggle with excitement until his serious tone would signal to us it was time to settle down and listen.  Most of his stories dealt with not drinking and getting an education. These were what he valued.

My favorite story is “The Bridge Story” which was always told when Grandpa drove the family down to Galveston to have lunch at Gaido’s. When driving from Houston to Galveston, there is an overpass called the causeway.  It’s really tall and allows for people to get on and off the island while boats can drive underneath in the bay. The original bridge is one that goes up and down so boats could pass. It’s still there, almost always raised up.

As we would drive over the causeway, Grandpa would tell us about a guy who got behind the wheel of his car after drinking too much. He was driving across the bridge and did not realize the bridge was being raised for a passing boat.  As his story goes, the guy drove off the bridge and drowned. My grandpa always ended the story by adding that the car drowned too. We would silently look out into the bay and imagine a guy and his car drowning because he drank too much and drove his car.

I’m not sure if this is a true story. I think the make, model, and color of the car was different over the years. He wanted us to not drink and drive. I think out of all the “grand girls”, this story stuck with me the most. I cannot say I never drove after drinking, but I can say that I’m terrified of bridges. I do my best to avoid them, especially suspension bridges and those like the one in Galveston that goes up and down.

I always have to tell “The Bridge Story” as I drive over the causeway, no matter who is in the car with me. It’s tradition. I’ve even been travelog with people who were talking and I couldn’t share the story aloud, so I told it to myself in my head. I wish I had recordings of my grandpa telling his stories. 

Drug Rehab

My mom got high in her closet every night. My sister and I would be sitting on her bedroom floor because back then we watched TV as a family, and she'd go into her closet and snort cocaine. I knew she was doing something bad in there, but when I was young, I was not sure what it was. I never went in her closet. I knew it was off limits, and I am a rule follower.

She went into rehab when I was in sixth grade. We lived in Alief, still on Huntington Field. I was ashamed to have a mom in drug rehab. I told one friend about it at school. We were changing in the girl's locker room and she kept asking about my mom. Another time, I was next door on my friend's swing set. I remember the warm sun in my face as my her mom asked a lot of questions about where my mom was. I did not lie back then either. I tried to answer her without lying or mentioning drug rehab. I do not remember how I satisfied her curiosity, but I remember the relief of her being satisfied with my answer and going back inside her house and me getting to swing with my friend and be a kid.

My dad was good to us while my mom was getting help. Monday nights we went to Pistol Pete's Pizza which was kind of like Chuck E Cheese. We'd eat dinner and get to play games. It was during this time that I perfected my skeeball game. My dad taught me to aim for the forty instead of the fifty. It was easier to sink the ball in the forty over and over and still get a high score. A high score equaled lots of tickets which meant lots of prizes.  Monday nights at Pistol Pete's continued ever after my mom came home because AA meetings were on Monday nights.

Rehab and AA for my mom meant therapy for us. We would go to therapy at the hospital. The kids, my sister and me along with the other children who had parents battling addictions, would meet in the small room with a male counselor. He wore glasses, had brown hair, and asked a lot of silly questions. I learned early on not to give silly answers because he would probe deeper trying to find the dark reason for my response when all it really was a silly answer from an eleven yer old girl who wanted to be home playing Barbie instead of in this room with him and these other kids.

West Oaks Hospital would have "family days" which were supposed to resemble BBQs and carefree times. I guess these days were created for patients to feel like they were having normal family time. To keep them connected to the family they left at home so they could get clean.  These never felt real to me in the sterile beige rooms with plastic blue furniture. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't home.

After rehab, my mom was more physically present. Less nights were spent in the closet. She watched full tv shows and movies with us. We could depend on her to pick us up after school if we needed her to. Drugs still took my mom from me. She was not part of the early years like she should have been.