by Sandy Penny (Formerly Sandra DuBoise)
I was seven years old when we moved to the Venice Homes government housing project from Granite City, Illinois. The house we had lived in was condemned, torn down and turned into a parking lot. In that house, I had to share a room with all my sisters, but at our new apartment, I only had to share with my sister, Patty. I felt like it was a mansion. And we had a playground with monkey bars, swings and a merry-go-round. I missed living across the street from the church we attended, Mt. Zion General Baptist, where I would go to Wednesday night potluck and have a feast. And I didn’t know if I’d still be able to go to Sunday School, which I loved. And I lived across the street from my first elementary school, where my brother was a patrol boy, and I had proudly crossed the street with his protection. I would miss those things at our new home, but I was always up for a move.
School was about to begin in the fall, and I was excited but a little bit afraid as well. My family had my two brothers go to school the first day and see what it was like. They didn’t know if it was a rough neighborhood, and they wanted to be sure I was going to be safe before letting me go. My brothers, Bob, four years older, and Curt, two years older, gave their stamp of approval, and I was allowed to go a couple of days later. All that fear seems so odd to me now. I wonder what they would have done if it had been a dangerous place.
We lived about 10 blocks from the school, and I walked with my brothers in the morning, but in the afternoon, they got out later than I did. That seems strange to me now, but it was the case at the time. Since I was new to town, and the distance to my house was just short of the bus route, the teacher felt that I needed someone to walk me home for a few days until I was confident of finding my way. Billy Crump, who also lived in the “Homes” was assigned that task. He seemed amenable to it, and was polite to the teacher. Ms. Ulfers was our teacher, and she was aptly nicknamed Ms. Ulcers. She was tense and controlling and would walk along the lines of children yelling, “Get back in line and stand up straight.” I was not used to that tone of voice, so I was scared out of my wits and did exactly as she said.
That first day at school, I felt very grown up as I thought about walking home, and I couldn’t get lost because the teacher told Billy Crump to show me the way. He lived in the Venice Homes, like me. As soon as we got off the school grounds, however, Billy took off running, turning around to laugh and point at me, then run off faster than I could go. I was shocked that he would disobey Ms. Ulfers like that, but I was mad too. I had never really known any boys except my brothers, and they would never have done that, well, not to me, anyway. I felt like crying, but I was so mad, I wouldn’t allow myself to act like a baby. I remember saying as I stomped along, “I don’t need no stupid boy to show me the way home. I can find it on my own.” And I did, I retraced in my mind the way my brothers and I had walked that morning, and I arrived safely at home, proud of myself for being so grown up. That day began a lack of trust for boys though, and I’m not sure if that was a good or bad thing in those days, but later in life, my extreme independence has haunted my relationships. Funny how one event like that can affect your whole life.
My mother was not too happy when I told her what happened, but now she was confident that I could get home without my brothers. Besides, there were lots of other kids walking home at the same time. All I had to do was stick with them, even if I didn’t know them yet, and I’d be safe. Life was simpler then, safer, more trusting, except of course, for me and Billy Crump.
I was seven years old when we moved to the Venice Homes government housing project from Granite City, Illinois. The house we had lived in was condemned, torn down and turned into a parking lot. In that house, I had to share a room with all my sisters, but at our new apartment, I only had to share with my sister, Patty. I felt like it was a mansion. And we had a playground with monkey bars, swings and a merry-go-round. I missed living across the street from the church we attended, Mt. Zion General Baptist, where I would go to Wednesday night potluck and have a feast. And I didn’t know if I’d still be able to go to Sunday School, which I loved. And I lived across the street from my first elementary school, where my brother was a patrol boy, and I had proudly crossed the street with his protection. I would miss those things at our new home, but I was always up for a move.
School was about to begin in the fall, and I was excited but a little bit afraid as well. My family had my two brothers go to school the first day and see what it was like. They didn’t know if it was a rough neighborhood, and they wanted to be sure I was going to be safe before letting me go. My brothers, Bob, four years older, and Curt, two years older, gave their stamp of approval, and I was allowed to go a couple of days later. All that fear seems so odd to me now. I wonder what they would have done if it had been a dangerous place.
We lived about 10 blocks from the school, and I walked with my brothers in the morning, but in the afternoon, they got out later than I did. That seems strange to me now, but it was the case at the time. Since I was new to town, and the distance to my house was just short of the bus route, the teacher felt that I needed someone to walk me home for a few days until I was confident of finding my way. Billy Crump, who also lived in the “Homes” was assigned that task. He seemed amenable to it, and was polite to the teacher. Ms. Ulfers was our teacher, and she was aptly nicknamed Ms. Ulcers. She was tense and controlling and would walk along the lines of children yelling, “Get back in line and stand up straight.” I was not used to that tone of voice, so I was scared out of my wits and did exactly as she said.
That first day at school, I felt very grown up as I thought about walking home, and I couldn’t get lost because the teacher told Billy Crump to show me the way. He lived in the Venice Homes, like me. As soon as we got off the school grounds, however, Billy took off running, turning around to laugh and point at me, then run off faster than I could go. I was shocked that he would disobey Ms. Ulfers like that, but I was mad too. I had never really known any boys except my brothers, and they would never have done that, well, not to me, anyway. I felt like crying, but I was so mad, I wouldn’t allow myself to act like a baby. I remember saying as I stomped along, “I don’t need no stupid boy to show me the way home. I can find it on my own.” And I did, I retraced in my mind the way my brothers and I had walked that morning, and I arrived safely at home, proud of myself for being so grown up. That day began a lack of trust for boys though, and I’m not sure if that was a good or bad thing in those days, but later in life, my extreme independence has haunted my relationships. Funny how one event like that can affect your whole life.
My mother was not too happy when I told her what happened, but now she was confident that I could get home without my brothers. Besides, there were lots of other kids walking home at the same time. All I had to do was stick with them, even if I didn’t know them yet, and I’d be safe. Life was simpler then, safer, more trusting, except of course, for me and Billy Crump.
No comments:
Post a Comment