digsite

Dennis and I had a discussion about public school uniforms this morning. I’m for it, he’s not. And this got me thinking about my grade school days.

I grew up going to a Catholic school from 1st to 8th grade and we had to wear uniforms the entire time. I didn’t benefit from the fact of it being catholic because I don’t practice any religion today but I did like that all the kids wore the same thing every day. I was picked on a lot those days and if I had to wear my own clothes to school, it would have been a lot worse. Not having a mom or a stepmother who cared much about me or my brother during those years, I rarely got new clothes and when I did get them, the evil stepmother got what she wanted to get. So I’m thankful for the uniforms.

Having put a lot of thought into this today, though, I can’t honestly say that uniforms had much impact on my life one way or the other as much as who was raising me did. My mother died when I was three?and my father decided in all of his wisdom to marry a 14 year old (not a typo, she was fourteen -and pregnant). She was not fit to have the kids that she did soon after that let alone raise someone else’s kids. My brother had his own laundry list of problems and acting out always kept him in trouble and the spotlight off me but what was happening to me silently was still damaging. I wish my dad had the wherewithall enough to notice. But he didn’t. I was being stripped of my self confidence?day by day thanks to this woman (excuse me, child). All of my memories of life with her are bad ones and they fill me with anger even today.

Being bullied at school didn’t help either but I can pinpoint when it started. It was right after my stepmother had my hair cut extremely short. I think I was 8 or 9. That must have been the most evil thing that woman ever did to me and the most traumatic for me ever. I had long hair. Not easy to manage and I had to get it relaxed every few months (lotsa kink and frizzies) but it was my hair and I was OK with it. She took me to the hair salon where I would get my hair relaxed (directly across the street from our house) and she whispered something to the hair lady. I never suspected anything.

After my stepmother left, the beautician washed my hair, relaxed it, and then proceeded to “trim” it. I had no idea that she was cutting it short. She had me so low in that chair that I couldn’t see my reflection in the mirror. Eventually I raised my hand to the top of my head and tried to grab my hair. But I couldn’t! It was too short. I started crying uncontrollably at that point. “What are you doing!? Why are you cutting my hair so short!!!” She told me that’s what my stepmother wanted. I cried through the rest of the cut. I cried through the blow dry. I cried on my way to my dad’s hardware store just a few doors down. When I saw my dad I cried some more. Between tears I said “I hate it I hate it. Look how short it is! Why did she do this!!” I can’t begin to express what a horrible thing this was to have done to me. I can’t remember what the next few days were like. Maybe I blocked it from memory.

I started to be called “medusa” by the kids at school that week. When my hair became frizzy from that day on there was no way to contain it ..to “tie it up”. I had to walk around with a fro until someone could blow dry it again. That was the first of lots of name calling.

Months later during a parents night at school, the evil stepmother went with me and one of the other kids (being the mean little pricks they were) told the evil stepmother that they called me medusa because I didn’t do my homework. Guess who the evil stepmother decided to believe. You guessed it. She never had my back.

My father divorced her for another woman when I was twelve. I knew about the other woman, she didn’t. She even came into my room one night crying about how she didn’t want the divorce. I feined support but I was secretly happy for it. It’s been over 20 years since their divorce and she and I have spoken since. She’s my brother’s and sister’s mom so it’s hard to completely escape it.

She’s a different person today and I realize that. I try my best to think back on those times with a different perspective. I know she was too young to know any better but the anger is hard to escape. It’s hard to forget and forgive those kinds of things. The hair thing was the worst, but definitely not the ONLY thing she ever did to put me down.

For instance, one day she was folding my and my sister’s laundry. When she got to my blood stained pajamas (because I used to get a lot of nose bleeds) she said “eww, these are so nasty”. My sister had the same pair so she found those and said “these are nice, i’ll fold them neat”. Then she took mine and threw them at me and said “here you can fold your own nasty pajamas”. I hate that she did those things in front of my sister. Thankfully despite her bad example my sister grew up looking up to me. I might have her grandparents to thank for that, though.

She never did apologize to me for any of it. Maybe she thinks I’ve forgotten? But no, I haven’t forgotten and it still hurts to think about it.

That’s one thing I will never do to my kids. I’ve already given my kids more love and encouragement than that woman gave me in a full 8 years of hell.

If I die too young my husband better not remarry someone who doesn’t love our kids as much as they deserve. And he better stick up for them every day of their vulnerable lives and teach them how to stick up for themselves.