Trauma Core CH 8

Second Grade Stands Alone

Welcome To Surviving With Panache!

Lessons in survival for inspiration and hope in an unsteady world. We have lived through every hard day so far! Carpe' diem! 🌻🌻🌻

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I wasn't going back. In fact, I would be changing schools for second grade. I wouldn't see Vince ever again. Nor would I ever see the rest of my friends that had been by my side for 3 yrs.

NO warning. No indication. We had moved into the new house before school let out and after school care with him hadn’t changed.

I often wonder if the adults in our lives decided to "just make a clean break of it” and not to give us fair warning that our bond would be ripped asunder leaving a jagged hole within our souls that would never be restored?

Having a new pool, in a new neighborhood with new friends knocking on my door daily, I didn't notice the change to my routine right away. So, one morning I asked my mother,

"When am I going back to Candy Cane College and Vincy?"

The response was firm and flat. I would not be returning since I was already enrolled in the new, closer school over the hill from our house, Parkview. I could walk each day with the other kids and one of their moms had agreed to my after-school care.

Great, even Mrs. Coffman knew before I did.

I sulked and cried in my pink room, staring absently out the window down at the pool. I spent some time coloring in the color books that were so popular at the time. Then I turned to my little record player. I put on the Osmond Brothers loud and sang along. Belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. The music soothed my battered and broken heart. It still does today.

Sure enough, the school year started, and I walked to school often with the neighbor kids. That came to a halt , however, when both of my parents began leaving for work earlier. Mother insisted that I could not be home alone, but that I could walk to school by myself to wait half an hour or more at my classroom door.

I carried my metal Partridge Family lunch box with matching thermos. When I got close to my classroom door, I flung that lunch box like I was on the pitcher’s mound straight into the corner of the doorframe. Strong box is more accurate. It didn’t even get that banged up until the year was nearly over. Then it showed signs of being more than just a cute lunch box.

2nd Grade.

This school was some new concept in the county. An open floor plan. One could see all the classrooms from any angle. I was observed by an older boy, who began following me home after school. For a while, he stayed on the main street going down the opposite branch in the neighborhood. Then he cut over to my side and caught up. He began pushing me, hitting me, knocking me down. He could smell a weaker soul, as if the pain was enveloping my whole aura.  I walked faster, but to no avail. I was so tired and lonely that I did not have the wherewithal to fight back. Finally, I would arrive at Mrs. Coffman’s, battered and crabby. She was always crabby. I didn’t like her very much at all. To her, I was a little extra cash flow. Every minute felt like an hour at her house until mother called. For a few moments walking home, I was free. I could breathe. Even skip a bit.

True to the stereotypical bully, the boy started the show on the way to school also. I would try to trick him by not leaving the house at the exact same time each day, but he was always lurking at the bypass on the hill. Same thing. Yelling at me, calling me names, hitting me. I would walk as quickly as I could manage. Oh, “walk” you ask?  In those days most girls wore dresses to school, and it was unladylike to sprint in our dresses and patent leather shoes. The white ones would get horribly scuffed. So, yes, I walked as quickly as I could, to no avail while telling him to stop it.

One evening mother noticed the bruises on my arms and chins when I was getting out of the tub and asked about them. I let it out that I was being followed to and from school by a kid who wanted to hurt me. Mother was livid. She wasted no time in figuring out who he was (Check.) She had his parents come to our house for a meeting. When they arrived, kid in tow, I agreed it was him and stood behind her. We invited them into our foyer but no further and closed the door behind them. Bruce standing 6’ 4” next to my fuming barely 5’ ft mother, they had no choice but to listen to what she had to say. Without raising her voice, only the fire in her eyes hinted at what was coming. She outed him with no shame! Also, criticized their parental abilities.

(I mean, the Pot calling the Kettle “Black”, much?)

They acted surprised to learn what their son had been up to and apologized profusely. The boy remained silent. He did not return eye contact. This ramped my mother to another level of “mama bear”! I am talkin’ Pure Nurse Ratchett, ok? She bent down to get into his face and ear.  She told him if he ever came near me again that he would receive worse treatment by her. Did he understand? She insisted he look her in the eye and say it. She included a further statement that he better not be trying this out on anyone else, either! He quietly said,

“Ok! I’m sorry.” They all slipped out the door. It was over.

Life was creeping along.

Around Valentines Day that year, dinner was unusually tense. Partly because I spilled my full glass of milk while animatedly sharing something that was clearly no big deal since I do not remember that detail. Huge mistake! You would think that I had put sugar in the vehicle gas tank or had done something equally unforgiveable.

This started an argument, that went on long after I had watched the Brady Bunch and gone to bed.

I was awakened to my mother shouting, “Melanie, wake up! I need you to call the police! Now!  

I peeked out my bedroom door to see Bruce chasing her down the stairs with a gun in his hand. He pushed her as she reached the turn of the stairs. She was still calling out to me and trying to escape his grip. Frantically crying, I ran down the hall to use the phone in her room. When I got the operator, she could not help me. I literally forgot my address and phone number. She coaxed me calmly for what felt like forever. Asking me what school I attended, what other streets were nearby, other family names. Her kind patience paid off.

I finally did remember my address, I pleaded with her to call the police.

Which she did.

When they arrived, they confiscated Bruce’s gun and forced him to take his camper and not return for 48 hours. Mother had a cracked rib.

At last, I could go back to sleep.  Mother did not. She had made a decision.

To put it into action , she dared not waste time on sleep.