-1-
I never learned how to ride a bicycle. My little sister did; during her Jesus phase Tess earned a rusty third-hander from the Presbyterians because she’d memorized fifty Bible verses. It was the sort of bike you could leave out and not care if it got stolen. Forever on foot, I excelled at heartstopping bolts across busy streets, hopping fences and creating shortcuts; I also developed a mailman’s awareness of Dogs.
“Hey!” a vaguely familiar voice called from behind after I had climbed a fence and was dashing across a yard free of Dog turds.
I glanced back and recognized Lydia the Jehovah’s Witness from school. Her last name was Simmons, but for all she was Lydia the Jehovah’s Witness. She was standing in the doorway on the back porch, slightly obscured in shadows. She was a loner and had enrolled in Charleston elementary at the start of the year. Being new, quiet and a Jehovah’s Witness gave her a lot to overcome.
“I didn’t know you lived here,” I said, stopping at the fence. It was March, and although the weather was calm at the moment I could tell that another brief spring tantrum was about to blow in off Philo Bay and I figured I’d better hurry. Yet there was an odd little hitch in my stomach when I saw her, as though I’d never seen her before. In a way, I hadn’t because she was someone who existed only at school.
“My mother doesn’t want people cutting through. She’s going to plant a garden.”
I made a special show of hopping her fence and turned to face her. “Tell your mom to go to the pound and get a big ol’ brain damaged dog–that’ll keep people out.”
She had followed me to the fence. She was tall and thin, like me. A crooked smile insinuated in her face. Apparently her intelligent pale eyes did not work well. At school she wore a pair of goony granny glasses, but not at that moment. Along with the specs, you always saw her dressed like an old woman with nondescript hair tied back in a bun, even though she was only twelve. Everyone figured Lydia looked like that because that’s what the Jehovah’s Witnesses wanted; she had no siblings for us to compare her to, so that was the consensus. Although clad in an old fashioned frock, her long brown hair hung loose. It was as though I’d interrupted the removal of her Lydia the Jehovah’s Witness costume, and that a real person lay beneath. I even saw a run of hitherto unknown freckles on the bridge of her nose that her glasses normally concealed.
“We have a weenie dog named Roscoe. We clean up after,” she said quietly, as though reading my mind, humor in her voice, the little crooked smile holding steady. She shifted her eyes left and right without moving her head, save for a tiniest between you and me nod, “You’re lucky he’s asleep. I trained him to go for the Achilles–that’s the back of the heel, if you don’t know.”
I laughed. “You look different without glasses–didn’t know Jehovah’s Witnesses were allowed to have freckles.” And I ran away. But I stopped after a few yards up the alley and looked back. She was still there, still maintaining the crooked smile, watching me go. I’d never blushed before; it felt like coming down with something.
-2-
The last day of the 1971-72 school year was my last day ever at Charleston Elementary. I was graduating the sixth grade, which meant that the special hell called junior high school lay ahead. At thirteen, I was a year older and a head taller than most of my classmates; I had to start school late due to a bad case of pneumonia caused by spores in our moldy apartment when I was five.
The spazzier element got sentimental about leaving the auld walls; hugging teachers and other dopey acts consistent with spazdom. Although I had spent half my life enrolled in the school, I had no warm and fuzzy feelings for it. Even now, it’s hit and miss memory-wise. I can recall the good smell of lunch cooking in the kitchen drifting through the halls after first recess as well as the queasy combined reek of apples, mayo-based salads and sweaty bologna emanating from the extremely warm and moist cloak room, where sack lunches were kept and given hours to gestate. Six one way, half dozen the other is the best I can say for the experience.
We didn’t have a graduation ceremony; only institutions that give enough of a damn to at least pretend that they give a damn do that sort of thing. At the end of the pointless final half-day, our teacher, Mrs. Raker, made a speech. Among other things, the old Cow informed us that we should be grateful for our free education. Then she recited the old joke about “everybody passing, but one.” Every damn teacher since first grade had made that crack and yet every year the spazzes got worked up about it and wouldn’t settle down until they heard “just kidding.” Finally, she called us up, one at a time, in alphabetical order, to collect our report cards and to get the hell out of the place.
Lydia sat in front of me. I kicked the bottom of her chair and whispered “Hey, Lindy, ever hear of anyone flunking?” For six months we said nothing to each other, but over the last semester, Lydia was getting used to the kicks under her chair.
She faced me with a droll expression that asked why couldn’t I keep my trap closed for longer than ten minutes, and shook her head no. It was a special look, for me only. A secret thing, like calling her Lindy.
Having Spahr for a surname allowed me to make a final assessment of most of my very soon to be former classmates as they went up to collect their report cards. I’d traveled the same grades with most of them since the beginning; but the two local junior highs were fed by five elementary schools apiece, so this was pretty much the end of our close society. Being stuck with Simmons for her last name guaranteed Lydia the joy of hearing my learned observations on the subject of our peers.
“Tattler…nose-picker…desk-puker…paste-eater…crybaby–that one doesn’t wash after she takes a dump…” It was for her benefit, because this was her first and only year at Charleston Elementary, and we’d only been friends for a couple of months, so I felt it my duty to get her up to speed on the dirt, albeit pretty late in the game. I knew that Mrs. Raker could hear me–actually I made sure of that–but since she hated me as much as I hated her she ignored me; but she did call names a little faster.
Raker finally cracked when David “Flush” Murlow (a missing-link type, whose red hair was bowl-cut, a la Moe in the Three Stooges) was called. Flush used to sneak up behind boys on the playground; he’d lock an apish arm around an unlucky kid’s neck and apply noogie punches with his free hand, all the while bellowing “Flush! Flush! Flush!” No one knew what it meant. The boys were scared shitless of him.
“Wow, even Flush made it–Hooray free education!” I said, plenty loud.
Flush glared at me with insectile eyes; but we both knew I could still kick his ass anytime it needed doing. He snatched his report card and beetled off before someone realized just how hideously irresponsible it was to continue to make him someone else’s problem.
“Is there anything more you’d like to share with the class, Miss Spahr?”
“Nah,” I laughed.
“Are you sure?”
“Nah.”
-3-
Tess caught up with me and Lydia in front of the school. She was toting a large sack of crap that would contribute further to our already cluttered room. Always friendly, Tess was changing from cute to pretty, but never acted the part–this made her universally popular. Classmates often gave her dime store presents and handmade cards on events such as the last day of school.
“Aw Jee-zuz,” I said, faking a grab for the bag, “what’s this about?”
“Can I help it that people like me, Sar-duh?”
“Wanna little sister?” I asked Lydia, who was always amused by Tess. “Two bucks and she’s all yours. I’ll throw in the leash.”
“I don’t have two dollars.”
“You will if you take her off my hands. Or I’ll have to tell Mom she had a tragic accident.” I pretend-shoved Tess toward the street.
“Har dee har har,” Tess said, offering Lydia gum.
“So, how ya’ gonna break it to Mom ‘bout flunking?” I said, snatching the pack from Tess when it became clear she wasn’t going to offer me a piece.
“Got four A’s and a B, smarty pants.”
Only ten, Tess had just completed fifth grade. An IQ test administered at the start of the term allowed her to skip the fourth after only two weeks and moved her one door down the hall. It would’ve been more impressive if three other kids hadn’t been bumped down the hall with her. But there was an unexpected glut of fourth graders and fewer than normal fifth graders. I doubt that it was legal, but since nobody who meant anything said jackshit to the contrary, it didn’t matter.
We rounded the corner and Summer Vacation was officially underway. Talk about an empty box kind of present that was/is for poor, single parent kids like me and Tess. I never was jealous of the kids who got to do that–certainly nothing wrong about having a happy childhood, regardless of what you hear nowadays. Anyway, Mom was hardly in the position to take us to Disneyland on the two-fifty an hour she made working at Howe’s Hardware. And although not having to keep early hours or deal with a bitch like Mrs. Raker (who used to wait to “excuse” Lydia to the library during birthday or holiday parties in front of everyone due to the Witness’ thing about celebrations) were positive, they were soon forgotten and boredom would settle in, which usually led to trouble.
Lydia, however, was going somewhere— provided you consider a 3500-mile round trip by car to visit relatives in Kansas a fun idea. Still, since Tess and I had never been further than twenty miles from home; it sounded as exotic as flying to the moon.
Tess’s ingratiating personality allowed her to ask the nosiest, none-of-your-goddam-buisnessiest questions without causing offense.
“Do you guys believe in hell?” Tess asked Lydia. (She had long since edited Jehovah’s Witnesses to “you guys.”)
Lydia, who had great patience, smiled her crooked smile. “Nope.”
“Bad enough round here without the competition,” I said, stealing the line from Mom’s best friend Nora. I wish I hadn’t said it. Though already experienced in hard times, I was still too young for a crack like that; too much “Look at Me I’m a Big Girl.” At twenty-three Nora had experienced foster homes, divorce, rape and abortion. She was a Country song given life and had earned a tone in her voice that I knew nothing about. The wage of pain is irony, not credibility. So, I quickly remedied the misstep by showing off. “Watch me.”
“Not the walking on your hands trick,” Tess said.
“Better than walking on your face,” I said, automatically tucking in my shirt before I turned the world upside down.
“Where can we go?” Tess wondered aloud.
That was always the question. Our place was out because Mom had a way of popping in on us even during a work day, Howe’s was just two blocks from our apartment. She had no desire to actually check up on us–but early on she discovered that it was a convenient excuse to huff a smoke; she only arrived there to make the timing right. Mom was a dedicated fictionalist, with a keen eye for details–she’d do as much honest work on a falsehood to make it true in only the most technical sense. Mom and I did not get along, and I’m certain she would have gone the extra mile to be a bitch to Lydia on general principle. Plus our place smelled funny no matter how hard we tried to clean it–if we noticed, it was sure that company did.
And although Lydia’s folks weren’t half the freaks I thought they’d be, her mom was always there, all the company manners and language watching was a drag.
But fate stepped in and “what to do, where to go” was no longer a problem. I heard some boy yell “Faggot cunt lickers!” and a stone struck me on the small of the back as I walked on my hands. I flipped onto my feet and saw a shithead named Kenny Bean up the road–who was another triumph of the Charleston school system. He was my age, but was already in Junior High because he started school on time and because the teachers at Charleston hated his guts. Bean was compact, wiry, blond and had sharp features that somehow combined to create an overall dullness of being. I used to wipe the playground with him as well; this time I was going to kill him.
“Faggot cunt lickers!” he repeated. His time at Coontz had done little for his vocabulary.
I was off and picked up a large stone that was lying on the walk; which I planned to introduce to his face.
Lydia and Tess chased me, Tess yelling something about a trap. Lydia sure could run fast for a Jehovah’s Witness. She caught me from behind, not ten yards from where I began, still most of a block from Bean who kept yelling and jogging in reverse, begging for me to follow. With her arms wrapped around my waist, Lydia spun me to the right and yelled “Look!”
Well, I’ll be damned, there was Flush hiding behind a dead apple tree that was only about a quarter of his width, armed with rocks. When a bully’s plan A is exposed they usually run off because they do not have a Plan B. Plus both idiots scattered when Tess yelled “Cops!” as though the thought terrified her. She always had genius in the spot, which often kept me from winding up in either the hospital or the Reformatory.
Although I knew that I’d catch up with the assholes by and by (which I did to my satisfaction) because they weren’t going anywhere, either, I saw something in Lydia’s eyes that told me that my burgeoning Lindy dream was impossible. There comes a moment early on in every relationship that tells of the future. It’s always around, yet hidden below. But the excitement of the moment uncovered how it was to be with me and Lydia. Sorry it said in her eyes.
-4-
Lydia never returned from Kansas. She sent me a letter. Her parents fell in love with the place; I figured that there must be lots of “you guys” out there. Her father was going to come back for their stuff.
But I already knew that it didn’t matter; and was relieved to hear the news. It was like being told about a death that you had already gotten over. And I didn’t get mad as I should have when an envelope addressed to me, without a return address or a note, yet containing a Lawrence Kansas post mark, arrived sometime later. It was filled with “instructional” pamphlets that said stuff like: “Open this page to learn what to do to go to Hell” and the next page would be empty. There was also one about deviant behavior–actually two or three of those.
I was going to toss the shit but Tess asked if she could have them. Born to live and die an artist, she eventually made her first collage of pamphlets, during the winter. So the Lindy experience really wasn’t a complete loss.
-5-
I caught up to Kenny around the Fourth of July. (I had to wait until the school year began to find Flush). He was in a weedy lot lighting off bottle rockets and aiming them at a bird nest because he was a cruel fucker. He usually had an animal’s sense of danger but he was also remarkably stupid and couldn’t concentrate on more than one thing at once.
I hunted him down because he had stolen something from me. Not a real item, but something much more valuable, a dream, one which I could hold up against the dreariness of my third-rate life, even though deep down I knew better. You can’t do that to people. You can’t fuck with their secret dreams; when that happens, some one has to pay. It usually comes due with interest down the line, the tab picked up by an innocent party–the real reason for killing someone or beating the kids. I guess it was for the best that the account would close then and there, between the principals.
“Hi faggot cunt licker,” I said. I had approached from behind, a birch switch in hand. He turned and the sum of pain in the world was redistributed with one fell swoop.
literally stories 
A wonderful start to the week with this. It is total immersive and the pain of honesty is enthralling. A superb example of your skill as a word artist painting a whole world. Excellent – thank you – dd
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Hi Diane
Thank you for the great comment. Currently been chasing fat Cat around the house to give him his pill, to no avail–this helps!
Leila
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Hi Leila
I loved this! The narrator’s voice is compelling, and the world you draw is atmospheric. Brilliantly immersive piece, thank you.
Best wishes,
Leanne
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Thank you Leanne
Your comment is greatly appreciated. You write lovely; it feels good to gain praise from a writer!
Leila
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Hi Leila,
Here comes my uninspired regurgitation!
That makes me think on my old Papa who loved his budgies. (The act of birds, not my Grandfather!! He couldn’t have done that or we would all have choked on Liquorice Allsorts and Bells Whisky ) He was an enigma, a man who worked on farms and at the local Bing in yet he voted conservative. No-one knows where this came from, if I was to guess, I’d say Churchill, but he was never in the war. Anyhoo – He taught his seventh budgie to say ‘I’m a wee blue tory’. And when he and my gran went on holiday, his daughter and son-in-law who was a total bellend, repeated for a fortnight ‘Labour for ever’. The impressive thing was, that wee bird was loyal and would still only say, I’m a wee blue tory.’
No regurgitation yet.
I was looking at the title and it occurred to me. In these times of madness, cry-babies and fuckwits, that word could mean:
Identification / Classification / Acceptance / Insult / Compliment / Description.
I suppose in these times we can see our words diversifying!!!!
And in the name of transparency, you’ve seen this all before!!!!
”’
This is excellent!!!!!
I can’t say well observed even though without a doubt it is. Observation can be a bit cold but not as it has been noticed. This is observational but feels personal and that takes it to a whole other level.
Here are my notes.
– Calling someone (Lydia The Jehovah’s Witness) with what they are or do reminds me of ‘Jimmy The Basket’ who I worked with – He cleared the baskets from the till-points… Cracking wee guy who I had the pleasure of sharing a few haufs with.
– ‘She was someone who only existed at school’ is a brilliant observation on the ‘invisible’.
– ‘Spazzier’ Now there is a non PC word blast from the past!! A wee seventeen year old I worked with was appalled when I told her we used to rattle tins and collect money for ‘The Scottish Spastics’ She couldn’t believe that was a term in the seventies.
– HAH!! You are right – No fridges for packed lunches in those days. I reckon that’s why folks over fifty don’t get botulism, we are fucking immune!!!! We grew our own Penicillin in our pieces!!!!
– ‘But since nobody who meant anything said jackshit to the contrary , it didn’t matter’ Says so much about all aspects of life. I’ve said that in a few different ways but this is as clear as I have read…I know what’s coming and where this is going so I tip my hat to you…One out of three!!!!!
– ‘She was a country song given life.’ ….Number two!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
– ‘Burgeoning’ Whit a word – It says so much!
– ‘There comes a moment early on every relationship that tells of the future.’ WOW!!! That is intense, open to interpretation, thought provoking…And it has to be number three!!!!!!
– Please, please write about the comeuppance that Bean and Flush suffer!!!
How can I say no when there are three of the ‘Most Memorable Lines’ within???
Not only that, when you read this you really are pissed off that there isn’t more!!!!
Brilliant, just brilliant.
All the very best Leila.
Hugh
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Hello Hugh
Thank you so much! I wonder how a Budgie would vote? I recall mannish as an adjective, not necessarily a kind one–located where a girl is getting too old with being called a “tomboy.” Still, I find Budgies more interesting than most people. Would have one except Cats tend to make them nervous.
Thanks again!
Leila
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Another exhilarating jaunt into the wilds of memory, the characters at once familiar & uniquely themselves. Hilariously so in the case of Flush, insectile-eyed missing link that he was; more poignantly so in the case of Lydia, Mom – not forgetting the briefly mentioned Nora, recognisable from an earlier piece. Pointless my listing quotable lines – as it would be as long as the piece itself!
Geraint
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Dear Leila
The VOICE in this piece is beyond amazing; and if this doesn’t conjure up the world of lost childhood to whoever reads it, no matter their race, creed, gender, or socio-economic circumstances, etc., they simply ain’t paying attention!
The voice is amazing. Fluid, colloquial, “everyday,” American, fast, rapid, clear, hilarious, whip-smart intelligent, filled with nuances yet extremely straightforward at the time…that combo of nuance and straightforwardness is something that bears much pondering upon. This protagonist’s intelligence raises her above everyone else in her world on some level (I’m thinking especially of all the idiots in the school, both teachers and students). And yet, she’s also very much immersed in – not to say stuck in – this world too, and that level of character complexity and situational ambiguity is extremely nuanced and profound, while at the same time, the voice remains: clear, open, inviting, accessible to almost anyone who can read (and by “read,” I mean read well, not only read at a third-grade level like the vast mass of Americans are currently able to do according to numerous scientific studies, etc etc).
Harold Bloom had a phrase: “EXTREMELY INTELLIGENT CHILDREN OF ANY AGE.” That phrase reminds me so much of this story, and it does so in multiple ways! The complexity is like a kaleidoscope, while the plain American speech of this voice belongs with Hemingway, even in many ways Dashiell Hammet, Raymond Chandler, if they were writing children’s stories, and by that I mean stories about children. Part of that is because this so much includes mystery.
Very, very, very, few people remember their childhoods with this kind of vividness, yet at the same time everyone does, even if they don’t know they do. Many, many moments in this tale rang bells for me. It truly, truly transported me right back into my own childhood, places I haven’t seen in forty or fifty years suddenly bloomed back up into my consciousness because of this, and I’m not kidding. If that isn’t a profound example of what a master story-teller can do, I do not know what is.
This is like an unknown chapter torn from Huckleberry Finn’s diary from a feminine perspective updated into the 20th and 21st cen’. Holden Caulfield himself is jealous of the way you’ve captured and conjured the VOICE in this!
The title reminds me very much of Muddy Waters’ song “Mannish Boy,” and the opening of said song, wherein Muddy the Narrator tells his hushed and waiting audience, “NOW WHEN I WAS A YOUNG BOY – AT THE AGE OF FIVE – MY MOTHER SAYS I GONNA BE – THE GREATEST MAN ALIVE…” The narrator and main character of your tale is obviously destined for future greatness, just like Muddy was. Even if she doesn’t fully know it quite yet. The archetypal way this story captures the universal figure of the American outsider…amazing and enviable!!
THANK YOU!!
Dale
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Hi Dale
A great comment as always. I will reply to it fully in a bit. This break is cooked!
Leila
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Dale
Ha! Mannish Boy is brilliant. I know I have bragged it up before, but I aw Muddy with Clapton in 1979. 15,000 in a basketball arena, and there was ol Muddy sitting in a rocking chair. It was glorious!
I find it works to treat thirteen very adult intellectually. Emotions are another thing altogether!
As always thank you! Thank you!
Leila
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“Mannish Boy” has always seemed contradictory to me. The singer declares himself a man, and yet the title suggests otherwise.
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That’s true, but I think that the word must have meant something else where Muddy came from.
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Always something kind of fiercely humane in all your stories, essays – fictional or otherwise. I hope I’ve not said that before; I’ve certainly thought it time & again.
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Hi Geraint
Thank you kindly. I truly appreciate it. I so recall “that” school. I found one almanac in our tiny library in which WWII wasn’t over yet.
Leila
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The whole piece shot through with so many quickfire observations – among them your alluding to the near-inviolable importance of people’s (secret) dreams – & how they’re not to be fucked around with. John Cowper Powys, for one, would have agreed – & with force; he never tires of citing what he called each person’s “life-illusion” – which he said “ought to be as sacred as his skin”. In his Autobiogaphy he points out how “No one . . . can possibly realise the shifts, the subterfuges, the evasions, the devices . . . to which I am always resorting, purely and solely to ward off some hurt to (people’s) pride, some blow to their life-illusion . . . and this with practically every person I meet!”
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Thank you Geraint
Yes it is impossible to know who you hurt or even who you are with so many details that can be disturbed by the merest touch.
One thing is certain: if you are a jerk bad things shoot from you and are likely to injured everyone you touch.
Excellent observation!
Leila
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Leila
The narrator’s voice, speaking — “even now” — from a point in the future, brings together a treacherous wisdom with the realness of memory.
It lets you know that by thirteen, you are already you. There’s the ironic matter of adding on the details that pile on in one’s life, but the work has already been done.
Mostly, I read a story once. Sometimes, I’ll read it, then read it again. With “Mannish,” I read it paragraph by paragraph — twice each. Why’s that? For me, the covert message of the words so often rose to the art of literature.
It wasn’t about kids. It was about us. All of us in our mostly untold stories. Maybe I’ll read it again, from the bottom to the top, this time. Twice each, paragraph by paragraph. — Gerry
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Gerry
That’s as high praise as I can ever hope for! And it will be an honor to be appearing in this same week with you.
Leila
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Like Dale, this piece got me thinking about my own childhood – the fragility of friendships, the intermittent arbitrary violence, the rush to grow-up. A very fine piece of work, beats Holden Caulfield by a country mile. Thank you and best wishes for the end of the month.
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Hi Mick
Yes the golden retirement ticket beckons. Somehow I was able to gain enough education to work for about a half century!
Leila
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Opinion – everything beats “Catcher In The Rye”.
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Especially pastrami
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What a great start to the week! Lush in detail and with a good vengeance is sweet kick at the end. Nice one!
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Hello Steven
Thank you for that, ’tis much appreciated!
Leila
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A powerful story. The narrator’s voice is irreverent and authentic. The casual, biting humor and vivid language draw us into the turbulent world. The characters — the MC, Lydia, Tess, Flush and Kenny Bean are vividly drawn through unique details and dialogue. The interplay—both friendly and antagonistic—feels real. Excellent work.
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Thank you David!
You should have seen the real “Flush”–a total jerk who looked like an Orangatang with Alfred E. Newman’s head!
Leila
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Hi Leila
There are so many great moments in your story! “heartstopping bolts across busy streets,” Wow that really brings the character alive! Makes me feel like I’m right there dodging the traffic too.
It sure brought back memories of what we called “Grade School.” Very strong in the senses.. “Pack lunches in the coat room, gestating.”
It’s amazing this complex friendship with Lydia “the Jehovah Witness” and the rough acceptance… When she moved to Kansas. I liked the way you described her…”A line of freckles on her nose under her glasses,” –hair down a bit. As she is “seen” without her costume.
The part about Nora… I thought this was a true observation: “The wage of pain is irony, not credibility.” I think pain comes back like this. You can see it on a person’s face.
I really enjoyed your beautiful story!
Christopher
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Thank you, Christopher
From your own work (though set later down the line), I know you have seen this sort of hardscrabble society. Then again, it was mostly all right. One thing about the human race is always true: Others have it worse. At the same time, Cambodians were doing all they could not to get murdered by Pol Pot, and all the older guys feared the draft. So, it’s all relative.
Thank you again!
Leila
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My take – grade school good. We were mostly on the same level in some sense, unlike the horrendous high school stratification, followed by the more enjoyable college. I am continuously bothered by the intransitive (or is it transitive?) graduate school. One does not graduate a school, the school graduates you (or not).
Perhaps more injurious or painful than my grade school (what we called it then, don’t know why someone decided there should be a junior high to complicate public education), certainly more interesting. I do remember a few fights, friends, and injuries, but no serious enemies.
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Hi Doug
My school had a combination Bomb/Fire/Earthquake Drill at precisely 10:15 on the second Thursday of every month. This involved a tired voice coming over the intercom and all the grades walking slowly out into the playground. Grades 1-6, only. The kindergarten kids always tried to wander off, so they were excused. As long as the end of the world problem didn’t extend to the tether ball poles, we would survive.
Leila
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Pretty harsh environment for a first crush….. gentleness and vulnerability seen as weakness so everyone acts tough, even try and destroy others so they can feel some kind of power, like Flush and Kenny. The look Lydia gives to the protagonist “Sorry” is a flash of genuine communication. Very descriptive of the time and place, the school and social atmosphere.
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Thank you Harrison
Funny thing about when we are kids is we usually do not have another experience to compare own to until much later. So we assume how we live is normal.
Thanks again!
Leila
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Thanks, Leila. What a great way to kick off the week.
Marco
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Leila,
I always find it difficult to reproduce children’s voices authentically. Did we really use the F-bomb? When and where? What did boys and girls say to each other, and when did they truly start talking? Saying like, you know, whatever? Were their dares, their insults, their profanities, their experimental obscenities, the ones we actually used? Or am I imposing my 21st-century experience on kids of half a century ago?
I teach high school, so my contacts are older than the kids in “Mannish,” but I completely understand the challenge in capturing the rhythms — in speech, in action, and in emotion — exactly right.
Alan
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Thank you Alan
This is an excellent comment and addresses a concern for all writers.
The most profane people I have ever known were children, especially those of us who lived in the poor neighborhoods.
Now, of course, that was only amongst ourselves. Even I didn’t cuss in front of my mother. But, really, “fuck” is/was just a word, usually tethered to no real meaning.
I disliked the one kid so much that I didn’t change his name. He swore at teachers and was a violent creep. There was no need to embellish his language; he knew little else. He died in a stupid accident as an adult, so unless we reach in hell, he won’t see it.
I have always believed in “writing” dialogue over verbatim. Because, as you say, all you would get are sentence frags, ums, ya knows and the local slang.
Thank you for your interesting and valid comment. It raises many great points!
Leila
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Hi Leila.
This was wonderfully complex from a character perspective. Mischievous youths and their motivations is a fascinating subject. The sadness of how the narrator considers the mundanity of her environment was really my cup of tea. Thank you
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Thank you Alex
It is a pleasure to be appearing with you this week!
Leila
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So much to love about this, right from the nostalgic essence of it through to the pinpoint descriptions of the characters in it. As I went through it, I admired so many lines and have picked out a few of my favourites:
‘Being new, quiet and a Jehovah’s Witness gave her a lot to overcome.’“Tattler…nose-picker…desk-puker…paste-eater…crybaby–that one doesn’t wash after she takes a dump…”‘which I planned to introduce to his face.’
All the above are wonderful.
Also, and just out of interest, was the character of Lydia Simmons by any means a play on your own name?
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Hi Paul
Thank you for dropping by with such excellent comments!
Ha! I see the similarly in the names now that you mention it. But I confess it was not a deliberate touch.
Thank you!
Leila
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