(In my post Calling All Questions, both Jennifer and Colby asked for more about my life prior to Elias. Here’s the short version of my life so far….)
I was born in Waterbury CT, on January 16th 1973, the night the mall across the street from the hospital burned down.
I came home to my parents, Susan and Oliver Everett, and a two-year-old brother Andrew, who I would eventually follow around for years saying, literally and figuratively: "Me too...me too...me too..."
I
spent my first seventeen years in faculty housing at the Taft school, a
private boarding school where my parents taught, with one exception: my
father took a sabbatical when I was five and we lived outside Dublin,
in Blanchardstown, as the only Americans and the only non-Catholics on
the block.
I learned Gaelic in Kindergarten from nuns who hit
our hands with rulers when we made mistakes or pulled you by the ear to
the office if you misbehaved. And I somehow mastered enough reading and
writing skills to skip first grade when I returned to Connecticut.
(I can still sing happy birthday in Gaelic but I’ve lost the rest of those lyrical words I once knew.)
As
a faculty child on a school campus, you have the roam of the school
with the perfect mix of freedom and boundaries that kids need. My
backyard sloped into the soccer fields which connected to the football
field, bordered by the woods and the cemetery behind it which led to
North Street where a number of my other “faculty brat” friends lived.
So in elementary school we could walk to each others’ houses… “all by
ourselves.”
Or we could meet to play kick the can in the castle:
If I could I'd stop the story here. Freeze time. And keep the little girl from entering junior high…
We could just skip those two years. Pretend they never happened. That I didn’t lose my voice. That I didn’t fall.
The
only thing I’ll say, for now, about those years, is that I tried out
for the boy’s soccer team in eighth grade and earned a starting
position on the team. And this saved me from a much deeper fall.
The
summer after eighth grade, I fought my parents to go to the public high
school in town and lost-- since faculty children could attend Taft
tuition-free there was really no argument. I yelled, “What about my
friends?!?” My parents calmly responded with, “This is for your
education.”
By my second week at Taft, I stopped feathering my
hair and matching my eye shadow to my shirts. (It was the eighties
after all.) I parted my hair on the side, wore Indian print skirts,
and embraced my new life as a prep school kid, even if I was a “day
bat” and not quite as cool as the boarding students.
Despite
playing varsity soccer, ice hockey, and track, I brought some of the
bad habits I learned in junior high with me, learned a few more, and
spent many of my high school weekends too drunk to remember them on
Sunday. I also made friends for life—the kind of friends you can not
talk to for years but the second you see them again you fall right back
into that familiarity that only comes from growing up together away
from parents’ watchful eyes.
When it came time to pick a
college, I chose the University of Vermont, mainly because it had a
reputation as a great party school and because I had false hopes of
playing Division One soccer.
Which as I told you in this post didn’t turn out quite as planned.
Though
I did transfer to Colby College after one year, I’ll always be glad I
spent my first year of college in Burlington. The huge frat parties
scared me into controlling my binge drinking. It was one thing to black
out at a party where I knew everyone—or so I thought-- but I didn’t
want to wake up in a stranger’s bed. I didn’t want to be that girl.
During
my three years at Colby, I rediscovered the love of learning I’d lost
at Swift Junior High. And so though I still prioritized sports and
parties over the library, I found myself staying up late to study and
seeking out professors just to talk about social issues. I majored in
American Studies, played varsity soccer and ice hockey, and danced at
parties instead of refilling my red plastic cup until I forgot.
I wanted to remember.
By
senior year, I knew I enjoyed writing, that I wanted to change the way
the media portrayed women, that I wanted to make the world safer for
girls, and that I had no idea what I wanted to do for a “job” after
graduating.
So I returned to what I knew best.
I applied to boarding schools to teach, coach, and live in the dorm.
I was 21.
--Excerpted from Following Elias, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.
Siddamom wrote:
Hey, you may have fell in Junior high--so many girls lose themselves then--but you recovered so young.
That shows a tremendous sense of self.
Can't wait for more!
4/21/2008 9:37 AM CDT
Following Elias wrote:
When I first read Reviving Ophelia, i kept thinking hey, "she's writing a book about me." Its true that so many girls lose their power around age eleven...we have a lot to learn from those who don't. And thanks Siddamom for seeing the positive, especially in a post that I write with some feelings of shame. You have a knack for saying the right thing at the right time. thank you.
4/21/2008 7:00 PM CDT
Siddamom wrote:
I bought that book, Reviving Ophelia, for my girls. I don't even totally remember the conclusions drawn, but I held onto my innocence/childhood persona, somewhat, for a long time (to much ridicule), but lost it in a big, drunken, druggie way in college.
Much more dangerous then, I think.....freedom, no street savvy.....I'm sure I made your screw ups look like successes, my dear!
I love your story, all of it.
4/21/2008 9:42 PM CDT
JenniferIB wrote:
Beautiful -- true courage is that which comes from hard work, and here's the kicker -- all of the best "stuff" we can have around, our families, children, dreams realized, come from hard work and prove how courageous we really are, especially when we try to hide from it. Sharing childhood shame does not lessen who you are -- sharing how you grew from it has only made my esteem of you grow.
4/21/2008 11:36 PM CDT
Following Elias wrote:
Jennifer, you made me cry, good tears, after a day of feeling "like a bad girl,".... Old feelings that still surprise me now and again. Thank you.
And Siddamom, your screwups line made me laugh out loud. I think it would be hard to turn some of them into successes...I mean, i know it would... but I know what you mean about the lethal mix of freedom without street savvy as I watched it happen to a lot of college girls who arrived far more innocent than me... Thanks for sharing again.
4/22/2008 12:16 AM CDT
ColbyCo wrote:
Bonne Histoire, m'aimee!
Comment about Reviving Ophelia - Uh oh ... learning from someone who has not lost her power - it's not so good on the other side. Women try to correct my friends and I for being outspoken; older generations tell us to be silent, while others critique "personality flaws," they way my friends dress, and how we need to sit down and "shut-up."
I am sure, you get the picture. It's not just men who keep women powerless; women really work hard to keep us powerless, too.
Love the personal history - so much I never learned!
All for now - Colby
4/22/2008 5:20 PM CDT
Following Elias wrote:
So true Colby, women can stomp just as hard as men, and even if its in the back it hurts just as much. thanks for the reminder and also for holding onto your power for all these years despite it all.
4/23/2008 1:04 AM CDT
Posted by: Christy | 09/27/2009 at 12:25 PM