I don’t pretend to have a harder childhood than most, but I don’t exaggerate in offering praise to my mom, who overcame English as a second language, racism, teen pregnancy and one of the worst beatings any 4 year old has ever witnessed to get us where we are today.
Growing up in central Texas, after fleeing Tennessee and Arkansas, I can look back now after the relative trauma and reflect upon the little moments that define me. One of those memories involves the public swimming pool in McGregor. I hesitate to share this, because every time I relate this story out loud, I get odd, disgusted looks, and people deleting my number from their cell phones. I guess you take that chance when you open up.
I guess poor people just have different levels of tolerance and of viewing how to repay the world in little, passive-aggressive ways. Or probably, I over-think these things, compensating from the insecurity of no longer being poor.
Here’s the story, and it’s not very long.
I walked to my mother across the hot concrete to where she was sunning herself and reading a book. I don’t really remember what book, because I was only 5, but I can almost guaran-goddamn-ty it was Robert Frost. Other than her nursing textbooks, that old paper copy of Frost was the only book I remember in our house (and when I say ‘house’, I mean the one-bedroom at Rachel Arms apartments for those on welfare).
“I have to pee.” My mother looked around. The dirty public toilet was a walk away which would result in each of the following:
- She would lose her chair (In fact, several other moms lying on towels eyed her plastic recliner longingly as I approached…)
- She would have to fight with me to enter the ladies restroom with her, since I was far too much of a little macho pocho to use anything but the MENS ROOM.
- She would have to interrupt her daydreaming about a better life, and, of course, I know this sounds clichéd, but taking the road that made all the difference.
“Just go in the pool,” she whispered.
Okay, don’t judge, all right. I was a little child. Children pee in the pool all the time. Urine is antiseptic. Little bladders don’t hold that much anyway.
Fine, go ahead and judge, because I’m embarrassed, too. For both of us.
But it gets worse.
You have to understand how a 5 year old mind works. Everything is cut and dry. There are few nuances. She told me to go in the pool. I understood this literally.
I took the road less traveled.
I approached the edge of the pool, right in front of her, and without jumping in, dropped my shorts.
Okay, go slow-motion with me now. Every head turns. Splashed water droplets freeze in mid-air like high speed photographs, open mouths gasp in half-tempo yelling unintelligible, bass ‘NOOOOOS!’.
I release the razor thin ribbon of clear urine from my five year old mushroom cap. Can I get an ‘Amen’ from those still here who can attest to how far children can shoot their stream? It’s godlike. I’m talking twelve feet on a clear day.
I part the crowded swimmers like Moses with my all-too-literal-ability to follow instructions (a trait which I’ve since lost). Slow-motion returns to normal and now quickens to 40 frames per second. The swimmers reach the far ends of the pool like little wet versions of Benny Hill, my mother with one hand pulls my shorts up, and lifts me off the ground in one motion, and rushes me out of there before the angry mob can regroup to gather their pitchforks and hoes.
The cracked vinyl seat of the Maverick burns like hell when I’m thrown into the car, and I’m able to convince her that this is why I’m crying.
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