Questions: How do I frame the story? How do I get out of the story? Resolution: an epiphany to uncover an emotional truth. Plot your strategy.
Setting: Lagunitas school, eighth grade. Wanting revenge, she used her tactics, and was a good mimic, and that way she was able to fly under the radar to avoid ostracism and unwelcome attention. But there were times when she could not avoid conflict with her classmates. Backstory, she was bullied one time too many. Her motivation. Her crime: she embellished upon a story she overheard, and then told it to to someone she thought she could trust, a friend. But she miscalculated the malevolent power of gossip or slander, and the cost of defending one’s honor. A lesson learned. The moral breakdown and disappointment are central to the story. She didn’t see the the flaw in her thinking versus outcome. But she was already feeling marginalized and overwhelmed, having been relentlessly bullied during the past couple of years in school. Yes, she wouldn’t have done such a thing if she had really thought about the consequences. If anything, it made the whole problem worse and made her even more of an outcast. Going to high school took some of the sting out of the disenfranchised hell she had created for herself.
Fist fight
I saw them at recess, a gang of girls, whispering dark secrets to each other, pointing at us, then laughing in that cruel way of young girls. My cheeks burned with rage because I knew they were talking about us. I don’t know what we ever did to deserve this ostracism, but it was palpable.
I remember overhearing a piece of gossip, so, thinking that I had struck gold, I whispered what I thought I had heard to Judy who sat in front of me. I thought Judy was a friend. I was wrong. This is not the first time my naivety had caught up with me.
Recently, Tay Bostwick had beaten me up on the playground during recess for some imagined crime. She was massive and towered over me by at least a foot. I was so tiny, that the best I could do was to slug her in the boobs. That stopped the fight. She shoved her glasses up her nose with her middle finger, and laughed, and that was the end of it. I don’t know why she had chosen me. It probably had more to do with establishing a social pecking order than anything else. A jockeying for position.
With that, I knew that I was third from the bottom rung of school pariahs. Poor Phoebe, with her hairlip and cleft palette, was at the very bottom of the slag heap for something that she had no control over. Next came Eva, who was a raggedy self-raised welfare child. And I was third. Ironically, Taydie was number four on that list. Barnyard politics.
Like Carolyn, my friend Judy lived in San Geronimo, which was a de facto buffer zone between the disparate groups, where the dividing lines were drawn by poverty, ethnic background, and also by religious affiliation. It was a case of us versus them in the valley. So we were all considered outcasts from the rest of Marin County, there were still a pecking order in the valley. When I got to high school, I later learned that we were called Valley Rats by the Townies.
Forest Knolls and Lagunitas clearly belonged to the Catholic camp while those who lived in Woodacre were from the Protestant ascendancy. It was a clique of DAR and Bluebirds. It didn’t matter that I was chosen to be Queen of the May. Folks who didn’t want to be burdened by the misfortunes of those they considered inferior, went out of their way to shun, or actively disparage them.
In the 1950s, the middle class ideal that everyone strived towards seemed obtainable to those who already had plenty. They blamed those who had little to show for, for their lack of resolve, or lack of drive, or even their ethnic background. People were measured by things outside of their control, as if they were personally responsible for their own poverty, and the circuitous arrival of their own personal social circumstances. Certainly alcoholism played a large role in the downfall of many a family.
Like Carolyn, my friend Judy lived in San Geronimo, which was a de facto buffer zone between the disparate groups, where the dividing lines were drawn by poverty, ethnic background, and also by religious affiliation. It was a case of us versus them in the valley. So we were all considered outcasts from the rest of Marin County, there were still a pecking order in the valley. When I got to high school, I later learned that we were called Valley Rats by the Townies.
Forest Knolls and Lagunitas clearly belonged to the Catholic camp while those who lived in Woodacre were from the Protestant ascendancy. It was a clique of DAR and Bluebirds. It didn’t matter that I was chosen to be Queen of the May. Folks who didn’t want to be burdened by the misfortunes of those they considered inferior, went out of their way to shun, or actively disparage them.
In the 1950s, the middle class ideal that everyone strived towards seemed obtainable to those who already had plenty. They blamed those who had little to show for, for their lack of resolve, or lack of drive, or even their ethnic background. People were measured by things outside of their control, as if they were personally responsible for their own poverty, and the circuitous arrival of their own personal social circumstances. Certainly alcoholism played a large role in the downfall of many a family.
When I was in fifth grade, my aunt who waitressed at the Rancho Nicasio, brought me a huge box of clothing from the Lucchesis, I was thrilled with my newfound wealth. But when I wore one of my new-to-me gingham dresses to school, someone pointed out who it belonged to, I was humiliated. How they even found out was a mystery since Josie attended a different school, but it illustrates the far-reaching power of gossip in a small community.
Now, the San Geronimo Valley had more than its fair share of single mothers raising children alone. Very few kids had two parents. I was like Taydie, raised by my grandmother, which was even more of a stigma, but ironically, Billy Joe Bianchi was also raised by his grandmother as well as Julie Swizer, so there was certainly a precedence for grandmothers acting as sole parent in the valley.
Now, the San Geronimo Valley had more than its fair share of single mothers raising children alone. Very few kids had two parents. I was like Taydie, raised by my grandmother, which was even more of a stigma, but ironically, Billy Joe Bianchi was also raised by his grandmother as well as Julie Swizer, so there was certainly a precedence for grandmothers acting as sole parent in the valley.
What was missing from the valley were the menfolk. So much for Leave it to Beaver that the rest of America was striving towards. Besides, few of us owned televisions, and there was no reception in the valley. This was before the days of the cable TV. And a fair amount of the men who were around, were practicing part-time alcoholics. A lot of women drank too. Drinking was a cultural pastime.
Every hamlet and crossroad from Woodacre to Lagunitas had its own bar that was a prime watering hole for gossip—whether it was Frances’s shack in Woodacre where you could drive up and buy off-sale liquor without leaving your car, the Lucchesi Inn and whorehouse in San Geronimo, the Forest Knolls Lodge, the Lagunitas Lodge, and then there was Nicasio.
What I whispered to Judy in all confidence, was misheard and embellished upon, and when she whispered it to Carolyn who sat in front of her, who whispered it to another girl in front of her, until the distorted story circled the classroom and got back to Kathy, the girl in question…
Kathy was one of those popular girls and so her clique drew in ranks, supporting her against the slander I had let loose into the world. Understand that I did not make the story up. I merely repeated it. Perhaps embellished it. Such as the way of gossip. It takes on a life of its own.
What I whispered to Judy in all confidence, was misheard and embellished upon, and when she whispered it to Carolyn who sat in front of her, who whispered it to another girl in front of her, until the distorted story circled the classroom and got back to Kathy, the girl in question…
Kathy was one of those popular girls and so her clique drew in ranks, supporting her against the slander I had let loose into the world. Understand that I did not make the story up. I merely repeated it. Perhaps embellished it. Such as the way of gossip. It takes on a life of its own.
I am sure that whatever I had said in confidence to Judy, by the time it got to Kathy, was completely out of proportion, but that is neither here nor there. I could also be ameliorating a past truth. I realized later that I shouldn’t have started the chain reaction. But I was trying to fit in, to be part of the gang. I had already been rejected by the Bluebirds and the Brownies. Finally, I had a nugget that would make me important in their eyes. A nugget of information that backfired.
I don’t remember exactly what I had heard, or who I heard it from, probably an older girl, but it had to do with how far Kathy went with an older boy who was in high school. I imagine that the story had to do with how far Kathy went, somewhere between second and third base, perhaps even a home run. No matter how you cut it, the bases were loaded.
I don’t remember exactly what I had heard, or who I heard it from, probably an older girl, but it had to do with how far Kathy went with an older boy who was in high school. I imagine that the story had to do with how far Kathy went, somewhere between second and third base, perhaps even a home run. No matter how you cut it, the bases were loaded.
In those days before birth control, too many girls got pregnant at an early age, hiding it from the world, sometimes passing off their children as siblings. Poor simple Sally, the bus driver’s daughter, who lived in Lagunitas, dropped out of eighth grade to hide the child. They said one of her brothers did it.
But, back to my story. What I said, and what Kathy heard were two different things. The gossip that exponentially grew distorted as it circulated among the girls, was like a bad game of telephone. Kathy, defending her honor, and rightfully so, as her good name had been besmirched, so she called me out. I never even heard of such a term before. I never had been invited to a fist fight before either, it was just like a rumble in the movies. Somewhere between Rebel Without a Cause and West Side Story. Only the music wasn’t as good.
A time and a time and place was named. Our classroom at lunchtime. Word spread through the school like wildfire. All the girls at the school were packed the classroom like sardines to witness, and get in on the action. I was already humiliated enough as it was by the public output. There was no way out. I had to fight her. How did I even get here? We stood in the front of the classroom by the teacher’s desk. Kathy began pummeling me with her fists, her arms flailing windmill fashion.
At first, I just stood there, shocked, as her fists bounced off my face. I thought she would hit me a few times and then give up. But she didn’t. She was relentless. She wanted her pound of flesh. So I stood there, trying the passive approach, thinking she would eventually tire of the concept. But the other girls began screaming and egging her on. They were out for blood. And she obliged.
There was no referee. No rules of engagement. It was a free-for-all. I didn’t see the end in sight. I just wanted the recess bell to ring. But we were a long way from the end of recess. At that point, I think I was looking for divine intervention. But I realized the teacher was not going to come back anytime soon, so there would be no chance of an adult intervention. And God was out of a question. And the recess bell was a long way off.
None of the girls stepped in to help me, no one tried to break up the fight. They were all out for blood. The vicarious thrill of witnessing violence. No one was going to come to my aid, or to rescue me. I was going to have to rescue myself. Story of my life.
I began to fight back hesitantly at first and then warming to the idea, I began to swing at her with my fists, blocking her windmill blows. Then I began the offense dance with arm guard, and I delivered a few blows to the stomach. The soft underbelly of the beast. I had seen enough boxing matches on television, and though I had never been in a fist fight, I knew what to do. I knew how to pack a punch.
One of my friends began to egg me on to fight back. I don’t remember who it was, probably Taydie, because, ironically, we had become good friends after I fought her back. Apparently that’s all she wanted, was me to fight back. I couldn’t quite put my head around that concept. If someone meant you harm, how could they be your friend? Somehow, I knew this fight was not going to end the same way. There would be no winners.
A couple of well-placed hits, and Kathy crumbled, her honor defended. But something was broken that day. And I realized I could not rely upon anyone, and none of those girls, not one of them, were truly my friends. And none of them stepped forth to break up the fight, or to say stop, enough already. Not Danette, not Jan, not Gail, and certainly not Melva, who was among the most of vociferous of them all. With that, Kathy retreated. The bell rang.
Meanwhile, my face was raw, my cheekbones bruised, and my swollen nose was out of commission. I could not bear the surreptitious glances from everyone during the afternoon class, there was no escape. Clearly, the story had spread well beyond the classroom. No place to hide, no place to run to. I assessed the damage, I had worse things happen to me. No one spoke to me about it. Kathy and I, we never spoke to each other again, enemies to the end. Graduation was around the corner and with that, new vistas opened.
I began to fight back hesitantly at first and then warming to the idea, I began to swing at her with my fists, blocking her windmill blows. Then I began the offense dance with arm guard, and I delivered a few blows to the stomach. The soft underbelly of the beast. I had seen enough boxing matches on television, and though I had never been in a fist fight, I knew what to do. I knew how to pack a punch.
One of my friends began to egg me on to fight back. I don’t remember who it was, probably Taydie, because, ironically, we had become good friends after I fought her back. Apparently that’s all she wanted, was me to fight back. I couldn’t quite put my head around that concept. If someone meant you harm, how could they be your friend? Somehow, I knew this fight was not going to end the same way. There would be no winners.
A couple of well-placed hits, and Kathy crumbled, her honor defended. But something was broken that day. And I realized I could not rely upon anyone, and none of those girls, not one of them, were truly my friends. And none of them stepped forth to break up the fight, or to say stop, enough already. Not Danette, not Jan, not Gail, and certainly not Melva, who was among the most of vociferous of them all. With that, Kathy retreated. The bell rang.
Meanwhile, my face was raw, my cheekbones bruised, and my swollen nose was out of commission. I could not bear the surreptitious glances from everyone during the afternoon class, there was no escape. Clearly, the story had spread well beyond the classroom. No place to hide, no place to run to. I assessed the damage, I had worse things happen to me. No one spoke to me about it. Kathy and I, we never spoke to each other again, enemies to the end. Graduation was around the corner and with that, new vistas opened.
Lately, there has been talk about having a school reunion, and I think, 60 years later, what I would say to these old women who have probably completely forgotten about that event, to ask why they allowed others to be bullied, and why they did not step up to the plate.
Ironically, because of this blog, because I have written about snippets of my past growing up in the San Geronimo Valley, I have been dubbed the Valley Historian. But this is only one story among many. And each one of us carries a different memory of those days growing up in the wilds of West Marin.
1/5/23 Mill Valley Library non-fiction workshop with Sarah Broderick
1/5/23 Mill Valley Library non-fiction workshop with Sarah Broderick
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