Windy City Times, The Voice of Chicago's Gay and Lesbian Community, Oct. 25, 2000Copyright © 2000 Lambda Publications Inc. All rights reserved. |
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by Alix dobkin
MRS. C'S FOURTH GRADE CLASS - (part 2)
1950; PS 9, Manhattan, NYC, class 4-5 with Lucille Collin, one of the four greatest teachers in my life: Serious, strict, confident, capable and loving, she treated us all the same, wisely calming our relentless energy with intelligent, steady governance of our school-day.
We wrote poetry. I wrote about a black cat I had for a few weeks. One night she was sick, the next morning rigid in her box where I found her. Fortunately for me we had experienced too little time together for deep bonding. Her life had ended but where had it gone? Unable to express my deeper question, I posed another, simpler one in my poem:
I have a little kittenShe's looking up at me
I wonder what she's thinking
When she's quiet as can be
I had been stumped for a last line so Pop supplied it. That's the only poem I ever remember writing. Mom and Pop always helped with homework when I asked them, catching me in half-measures with, "You can do better.' They were interested in my work and my life, reminding me that I could do anything I set out to do.
Never strong on looks, I developed compensations for my plainness early on. My parents, especially Grandma, seemed satisfied with my face so I was indifferent to my reflection in the hall mirror on my way out the door. Nor did I spend time thinking, let alone worrying about, much less trying to improve, my image. Every morning I'd braid my pigtails, wild hairs sticking out all over. Maybe I'd check out the freckle situation, (Mom called me "freckle-face," following bright summers) the overbite (from sucking my thumb?), and that was about it for the rest of the day. I knew I'd be prettier with a smaller nose, like Jane Powell, perhaps, but my appearance did not yet concern me. Lots of adults frequently commented on my dark brown eyes and beautiful long eyelashes. Sometimes they'd inquire if I was getting enough sleep prompted by the dark circles underscoring my best feature.
By fourth grade I had my feet planted firmly in two separate social worlds, straddling two genders. As the only girl who could play ball with the boys as an equal, my position was unique, and it counted. Mike, extremely popular with everyone, was my best friend, a social advantage for sure. More important, I was one of Karen's best friends who was also best friends with Michaele, second only to Nancy at the top of the class popularity chart. Not a social leader but well positioned, I maintained the place I had established in Brownies.
I wished my other friend Karen had been at school more, and felt sorry that she had been forced to miss months of our beloved class each year. When staying in the City she had lived in the fanciest residence I've ever been in short of a castle. The Apthorp Building on 79th and Broadway looks like a palace with imposing wrought iron gates opening onto a fountain in the middle of a circular driveway within a huge courtyard.
Her father owned the world-famous Club 21, and when I visited her we would lounge on her bed and we'd pore over her scrapbook, the best one I ever saw or have seen since. I was impressed with my friend's access to celebrities who wrote, "To Karen," with real signatures, unlike my generic MGM Jane Powell publicity shot. There were signed photos of big stars like Sonja Henie and Robert Taylor. Something had provoked a vague unease as I leafed through her book, bad feeling connected to Robert Taylor. He had recently testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee in which he had declared, "If I had my way, (communists would) all be sent back to Russia or some other unpleasant place."
After catching up on Karen's latest bounty we'd go into the livingroom where a uniformed maid served us milk, sandwiches and cookies and we'd watch Howdy Doody. Karen's was the first TV I remember watching. I thought Howdy and Buffalo Bob strange and unsavory, and Clarabell scared me, but I loved television. Visiting Karen felt like a special privilege. She was very sweet and not at all stuck up, but her frequent and prolonged absences from school meant that she also missed the Girls' Club. The Girls' Club is a column in itself, so catch me next month, and I'll tell you some of those stories and more.
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