I Wasn't Born With Clothes Either . . .

by Lydia Daffenberg

My childhood is filled with memories. Here's one now:

Narrator's Age: 9
Setting: Small Midwest Town
Time: 1979

I had done something bad. In her eyes, that could have been anything from not finding something she sent me to retrieve, to not completely dusting because I had missed a few pictures. Either way, I was bad.

So she kicked me out. "Get out! Get out, you little brat! You can't do anything right! I'm sick of looking at you! Get out!" I went to put my shoes on. "No! You don't get to take those, you weren't born with them!" I sighed.
"Great." I thought to myself, not daring to speak. "I wasn't born with my clothes either--should I strip down?"

Off I went, following the long winding driveway down to a street in our subdivision. I was more scared this time because I was about to be brave. All the other times she had done this to me, my brother would come running after me about 10-15 minutes later, saying I could come home again. But this time was different. I was gonna make a run for it and finally live in the woods like the Indians. I was gonna walk until it was dark, then camp. I picked up my pace--I didn't want my brother to find me this time. A neighbor drove by and could see right through my faked nonchalance that I didn't have shoes on--just socks. They gawked as they turned the corner. I hustled toward my friend's house--a pig farm. I figured I'd hide out there for a bit then keep going after I was sure they weren't on my track.

I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again then entered the screened porch and sat down so that no one could see me from the road. They must have been at the store. I waited and planned my new life as an Indain. I was a Girl Scout, I could handle it. I knew how to fish and what plants to eat without getting poisoned. I could survive. Even better than I had been in this life.

After a while, probably 20 minutes worth of waiting, they came home. Just like the white man, they sold me out. My friend's mother called my mother telling her where I was. I never knew what my mother's excuse was for her horrible child--I could only imagine. Everyone believes a good Christian woman.

My beating was worse that night. Of course, for being bad, and for being obstinate. But it was worth it to me. It was little me not being so helpless. After all, if there's one thing I got from her, it was her strong will.