Objects in Mirror Are Closer than They Appear
A MemoirBy Pauline A.G. JohanseniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Pauline A.G. Johansen
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-7305-3Contents
Chapter One Getting to Know the Virgin............................1Chapter Two What Have You Done For Me Lately?.....................10Chapter Three But Can You Clean?..................................26Chapter Four Jack-of-All-Trades...................................33Chapter Five Once Upon A Time.....................................41Chapter Six You Are What You Eat..................................57Chapter Seven What Doesn't Kill You...............................64Chapter Eight Poor Is A Four Letter Word..........................69Chapter Nine This Way Home........................................74Chapter Ten Just Like Everyone Else...............................87Chapter Eleven Driving Crazy......................................93Chapter Twelve Surprise!..........................................97Chapter Thirteen Gone Cruisin'....................................105Chapter Fourteen It's A Long Way To Tipperary.....................124
Chapter One
Getting to Know the Virgin
Our Lady of Sorrows lived in an alcove on the second floor of my elementary school. Taller than any woman I knew, she wore a long blue gown over a white shift and held baby Jesus in her stiff, unmotherly arms. Her gold-crowned head was slightly tilted, looking down in abject acceptance of her lot. Her tight-lipped smile spoke of all the pain she had suffered. Standing there greeting us every day, her unspoken message was, "You did this; you broke my heart." And everything we heard and were taught every day reminded us we were dirty, filthy little sinners who broke Mary's heart and we could never make it better. But we damn well better try.
Sometimes I used to just stand and stare up at her in her tiny home and wonder what happened at night. Did she put down that chubby old man/baby, stretch her arms high above her head, sit down on the edge of her alcove, dangle her legs back and forth, sigh and wish for a different fate? Did she wish herself away from there? I did, every day—to anywhere else.
I began biting my nails shortly after starting school. I bit hard and often, and none of the usual remedies helped. My mom tried pepper, disgusting clear liquids "guaranteed to stop the urge," socks tied on my hands and the usual round of threats. There were no bribes; our family didn't believe in bribes. I was made of strong stuff, though, and I bit anyway until they bled. I bit the nail and the skin around the nail, and I continued to bite even when there was nothing left to bite.
I had a reason to bite. I had to go to school. This instilled stomach-churning, cramping fear, because I knew that what lay ahead would make me feel stupid and worthless and that there would be no way out.
Home, on the other hand, was loud and confusing and a constant swirl of busyness. Before my school days, I often hid behind a couch or in a cupboard. Even though I was only five, Mom would find me something to do, like holding the bottle in the baby-of-the-moment's mouth, or drying the dishes. But I wanted to talk and sing all day. I danced around in my socks and spun around on the linoleum floor on my bum in my flannel pyjamas. Mostly I sat and did nothing. I got hugged, and yelled at. I got fed and I slept. I didn't know it, but that was as good as it was going to get, because then school began. I was not prepared for what today we might call the lifestyle change.
I started Grade 1 when I was five, but I was more like a three-year-old. In addition to biting my nails I still sucked the two fingers on my right hand at night. I had thick, raised calluses there. The sound drove my sister Anita crazy. I never heard myself, but she told me it was a bit like wet nails on a blackboard. Poor Anita; because she was closest to me in age she always got to sleep with me. My eldest sister, Helena, and Eileen, the youngest girl for the moment, at least slept together. They listened to Anita's complaints with smug smiles.
The anxiety began the moment I woke up and realized I had another school day ahead of me. When you're five years old, one day seems forever, a school year an unimaginable length of time stretching ahead farther than you can see. Like thinking about infinity, it gave me a terrible headache. The one or two moments of grace before I got up in the morning were squandered on a prayer to have a truck run over my thumb. This would be painful, yes—debilitating, even—but not life-threatening. It would guarantee I could stay home.
I pictured my thumb hugely bandaged, throbbing; the pity I would receive and the soup and tea in bed. It would be a terrific way to avoid the yelling, humiliation and fear that came with school. Getting your thumb run over made a lot more sense than, say, your toe. Sure, you would get some sympathy for that, but let's face it: they would still send you to school and you would still be expected to do your work. There would still be the big, fat pencil, the paper so thin it ripped the first time you erased, creating a big hole. No, it had to be the thumb. No other body part would do.
If I was scared I couldn't control my bladder. Most of the time I just wanted to have a nap. But it was true I could read and my mother had other babies around, and so I went to school. Beyond being able to read I had absolutely no school-ready skills. I had no idea how to hold a pencil, use a pair of scissors or any notion at all about what a number was or what you did with it.
Then came Our Lady of Sorrows Parents' Open House. The idea was for parents to accept the nuns' invitation to drop in any time during the day and witness the stellar learning experiences their children were having. For many parents it was probably also a chance to see their kid shine at something. The plan was that when a parent knocked on the door, someone would jump up and invite them in. Then the lesson that was being taught would be used as an excuse to call on the parent's child.
Mom knocked. We were doing math.
"Welcome, Mrs. Go-jev-ik. Pauline, stand up and count backwards from forty-nine," she said sweetly.
I was confused. She didn't talk like that. I stalled. I looked around the room. I opened my eyes wide.
"Me? You mean me?"
I gave a look that was meant to signal surprise and great, good humour. Then I glanced over my shoulder and all around the room, pretending there was another Pauline in the room and another Mrs. Gojevic. I was hoping she would get frustrated or bored and call on someone else. Right.
"Stand up, Pauline. Count backwards from forty-nine," she repeated just a bit more loudly and a bit more in the voice I recognized. I stood up.
What's a forty-nine? We could have been talking quantum physics. I launched into a stream of numbers I did know.
"Uh, seventy-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-one?"
I tried as many numbers as I could, hoping I might just hit on it by accident. I didn't, but she wasn't going to let me off.
"Come on, dear. I know you can try harder than that," she commanded.
"Dear?" Is she talking to me? And, no, I couldn't try harder. The effort was already making me want to throw up.
So I continued. "Fifty, forty-six, eleven?"
I didn't look at the nun or my mom. I stared hard at the floor, hoping for inspiration. My mom put an end to the agony.
"Oh, that's all right, Sister. She can count with me when she gets home."
I looked up at her. She looked like an angel. But she was certainly not a happy one.
"But really, Mrs. Go-je-vik, we should insist; this is very important," the nun said with barely controlled fury.
"Well, we will get to it, I assure you," Mom said in her very best plummy British accent.
She looked so beautiful that day. She had her hat and gloves on, and her red lipstick—the only piece of makeup she owned was perfectly applied. I felt so proud of her, and so ashamed of myself. And then my mother left.
She never mentioned it that night, but I am sure she was thinking, "Well, there goes the cosy retirement."
Obviously, I didn't shine at school, and, next to my eldest brother, Peter, I had the worst reputation for misbehaving. The nun who taught Grade 1 was a caricature of an angry, bitter person. How could anyone always be so frustrated and disappointed? You would think that at least once during the day she would find a moment of happiness and it would be reflected in her eyes, and maybe even in the way she treated a bunch of little kids.
Her face was tanned, and I think she may have been of Mediterranean ancestry. She looked like an evil Mother Theresa and was in fact capable of inflicting harm. She seemed to resent us, and she liked to show it in hands-on ways. I have a memory of her grabbing my ear and pulling at it until it bled. I'm sure I deserved it—no doubt for some transgression like laughing or talking, both of which were forbidden and both of which I could not stop doing.
There were fifty of us in that classroom—fifty crying, pantwetting, totally uninterested noisy kids. To deal with us she devised a scheme worthy of any Third World tin-pot dictator. It worked like this: if you transgressed during the week your name would go up on a board. For every misdemeanour a tick went next to your name. Often only my name and one other child's would be up there. The week went on, the ticks grew. Friday was reckoning day, when you went into the cloakroom at the back of the class and received hits from a long wooden ruler on your hand equal to the number of ticks. It was the perfect punishment, combining day-to-day worry and fear with the culminating beating. I spent a lot of time in that cloakroom. Today, if I catch a whiff of a certain smell that hung over that space—a mingling of musty coats, rotten banana, dust and old cardboard boxes—I am back there with feelings of the same fear and loathing.
Sometimes I managed to convince my mother I was sick on a Friday. This was a real sacrifice on my part; that usually meant she would keep me in bed on Saturday too. It was a tough decision, but the thought of another beating was enough incentive to tolerate a day in my room.
I was clearly a kid in distress. In addition to biting and sucking my fingers, I ate things I shouldn't. At home I ate dirt—not big handfuls of it; it was more dirt that was stuck to other things. At least my mother said I ate dirt. Otherwise, why did I have worms?
"Have you been eating dirt again?" she would ask, watching me absentmindedly scratching at my bum, a telltale sign. Of course I denied it vehemently; I knew the cure.
The usual remedy for worms was to drink something really nasty, which apparently scared the worms and sent them running out your bum like cowards. Then you had to lie over your mother's knee while she pried open your cheeks to look for escapees. Sometimes she showed them to me. They were little and white and wiggly.
I'm surprised that anything still embarrasses me. You would think that having someone root out worms from your bum would make everything else seem like a mere nothing. But I guess, like your nose, which keeps growing until you die, you just never lose the ability to feel the burn of shame. Indeed, I kept embarrassment and shame close at hand as a kid through a series of small and large ridiculous behaviours, either on my part or on the part of others.
There was, for example, that little matter of my eating in school. I ate mostly erasers, paper and glue. I ate a really incredible amount of glue. With that lovely peppermint smell that glue was almost like food. The erasers had a smell, too: a soft, pinky smell just a little bit like strawberry ice cream. In the case of erasers it was more the texture I was after. You could chew and chew and chew one eraser all afternoon. You could break off small pieces and stick them between your teeth and then dig them out and chew. All of this was time-consuming and required commitment to the task. While I was busy chowing down on a Pink Pearl or a sheet of lined foolscap, I wasn't thinking about anything. I was lost in the moment of smell and taste and swallow. I needed those moments of escape.
It could, however, be difficult when you were loaned an eraser and you ate it and the loaner wanted it back. I'd lie and say I gave it to someone else. That "someone" would, of course, deny it, and I'd just shrug. What could you do? Some people were such liars.
So there we were, all of us in the Grade 1 classroom on the first floor of Our Lady of Sorrows School. The desks were nailed to runners, five rows of ten seats. One behind the other we sat and sat and sat.
We sat while she called out names of students to read at random from the Dick and Jane reader. Most often these round-robin reading sessions left me so bored I wanted to claw my eyes out. There was always some poor kid stumbling over "Run, Spot, Run." I wanted to shout at them, "Are you stupid? It says 'Run,' not 'Bun.' Bun, Spot, Bun? Idiots."
It did no good to shoot looks of anger and derision their way; nobody cared, and the readers were immersed in their own private hell. But I was so angry at the wicked waste of my talent. Here was the only thing I was good at and it was turned into torture.
There were moments of glorious release from the grind of school. The rare occasions when we stood beside our desks, swaying every so slightly back and forth while keeping our legs stationary, and sang, "Here we go loop de loo, here we go loop de lie." Those brief moments were transcendental for me. I lost myself as I swayed and sang and sang, a big goofy smile on my face just as if this were a normal school and I were a normal kid.
Most of the time was spent filling in workbook pages or copying lines and lines of nonsense from the blackboard. I sat and endlessly filled in those workbooks with my poorly formed letters. All that sitting can do strange things to a five-year-old, particularly as my bowels were even more unreliable than my bladder, especially when we were doing things that made me nervous—which meant anything but reading. Leaving the room was not allowed, however.
We would be doing math and my gut would be sympathetically churning. I'd ask to go, and then ask to go again, and Sister would repeat through gritted teeth, "You are not leaving this room until I let you, you lazy, lazy girl. You finish your work. You will regret it if you ask me again."
She wasn't completely correct. It was true I didn't want to do the math, but I would have if I'd thought there was a glimmer of a hope I would get any of it right. I knew I wouldn't. I never did. And I knew she meant it when she said not to ask again, so I did the only thing I could do. I did it in my underpants and had to sit on it for the rest of the afternoon. The effect was to create a very dry poo sandwich that stuck both to my bum and my panties. I sat very, very still. It was probably the stillest I have ever been in my life. When it was time to go I waddled home beside my sister Anita.
"Why are you walking like that?"
"I pooped my pants."
Anita, who usually protected me, was clearly in no mood to make me feel better.
"You are in so much trouble."
She was probably worried that somehow she would be blamed for the state I was in. I was beyond caring. I had just sat for two hours on my own poo—how much worse could it get?
When we got home, Anita told Mom. I had imagined the way it would play itself out. Mom would yell. I would go to the bathroom, dump my panties in the toilet, wipe my bum and then go to my room for a very long time.
Life can be surprising. She didn't yell. She just looked at me and didn't say a word. Then the kicker: she told Anita to take me to the bathroom and clean me up.
Mom probably wanted the nun to come and clean me up, but that wasn't going to happen. Mom knew even more than I did that there were some battles you just couldn't win. It didn't matter how many terrible things happened, you had to keep going. To stand up and ask, "What the hell have you done to my child?"—that would be a sign that all was not well; a crack would appear.
Our well-being depended on keeping up the pretense that there was order in all things, that God was good, that nuns and priests were good, and that they wanted only good for us. You couldn't shake too hard and have that whole facade come tumbling down. You might be calling into question what all the sacrifice and hard work were for. Next thing you know, we would stop going to church and confession. Mom and Dad would stop working at bingo. They would fire Dad from his job as janitor at the school, and then—well, you couldn't think about that. Mom knew all things were connected even if I just thought it was about shit.
* * *
What Have You Done for Me Lately?
While singing was rare at school, praying wasn't. We spent the largest part of each day praying. We prayed before school, before recess, after recess, before lunch, after lunch and before we went home. Those were just the everyday prayers. Sometimes when a fire truck went by we leapt to our feet and prayed for the poor souls whose house was burning. Those were my favourite. It was exciting to jump up and feel the blessed relief from sitting silently at a desk. "Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee ..." I shouted in grateful release.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Objects in Mirror Are Closer than They Appearby Pauline A.G. Johansen Copyright © 2010 by Pauline A.G. Johansen. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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