Fifth Grade
During the latter half of fifth grade, I decided to keep a diary. Entries were, at best, sparse and infrequent throughout the school year. Upon the arrival of summer, they subsided altogether. While the entries persisted, however, the content consisted merely of the days events, amassed in broken sentences and one word implications. I also made certain that major events did not pass without notice.
Jan. 19, 1973… Gerbil's tail fell off today. He was going out on the carpet and so I grabbed onto his tail. Guess what? This much (one inch) of his tail fell off. It's in a bag.
Yes, I even saved the tail.
Jan. 20, 1973… Made a bet with Dad about snow. Church, Rainy, wet day outside. Popcorn at night. 2 bottles of pop. Got the hiccups. Played with gerbil.
I was painfully concise.
Mar. 13, 1973… I stayed home and am sick. I barfed in the sink and then watched T.V.
My diary also reminded me of the double standard that exists between parents and their children. Many battles ensue due to the fact that parents can do that which a child is not permitted to do; initially, this would include such privileges as touching objects in stores and staying up after 10:00 p.m. Arguments increase as the child seeks maturity. My exposure to the double standard involved not so much the things I could not do, but rather, the things which Mom had never done, yet forced me to do. Admittedly, I would never have ventured from the house had it not been for Mom's insistent prodding, for I liked it there. Through her dictation, I attended swimming lessons, piano lessons, and Girl Scouts. By this age, I liked swimming a great deal, and it was no longer a source of resentment. Piano lessons required that I practice a half-hour each day; after walking stiff-legged to the piano and playing several notes, I relaxed my limbs and, on good days, tried to conceal my musical enjoyment from Mom. Girl Scouts, however, was a continual menace. Through my affiliation with the organization, I had to wear an ill-fitting green dress to school on the day of the meeting. Each year I bore the humiliation of refusal which came with selling Girl Scout cookies. On one of our field trips to a local beauty school, I was placed under the hair drier (which was on "high") and promptly forgotten.
It was no surprise, then, that when the Girl Scouts offered roller skating lessons, Mom applauded the idea. I cringed, knowing that a protest would have been futile despite her history of roller-rink nervousness. (Her arms hurt from thrashing.) At any rate, the lessons began and I learned that I was not meant to travel on wheels. It was completely different from ice skating. Being confined to the rink created the probability of multiple pile-ups. Already feeling hopelessly out of control, I was horrified at the thought of turning by lifting one skate over the other; skating was hard enough with both skates planted on the floor. Stopping consisted of rolling around in circles until I lost momentum, or slammed into a wall. Performing figure eights and skating backward were feats which bordered suicidal nightmares.
After the lessons ceased, I was quite relieved and, for the most part, as much an amateur at roller skating as I had been at the beginning. However, I had relinquished the wall for the rubber "brakes" and no longer became traumatized when the announcement to "change directions" resounded through the skating rink. I had not failed utterly and completely.