I am a good girl, a very, very good girl. Give me a rule to follow. Give me a path to adhere to. Give me a list. Give me the avoidances and they shall be avoided. Give me the musts and they will be musted. You got a problem? Yo, I’ll solve it. Want me to stretch myself to unreal expectations? Prepare for a master class in contortionism. Tell me to jump. Watch me clear the stinking Grand Canyon. I am a people pleaser. Here me roar… if you’re ok with a brief roar-like noise, that is. Boy, isn’t that a kick in the pants? May I kick?
I can see it now. It was just outside of Seagoville, 1972. I’m paraphrasing Sophia Petrillo from Golden Girls and her many stories of Sicily. Momma and I were getting our glad rags on to go to town. Such an interesting pairing of words they are, this “go to town” phrase. It was something my mother said quite often. I always thought of the country mouse and the city mouse, one of my Little Golden Books. What does one do once one goes to town? For us, it meant one of a few things. We were either going to Branson’s Grocery Store, Smith’s Pharmacy, Ben Franklin, or in a rare combo move, all of them. I’m approximately 5 in this recollection. My long hair is pulled up on top of my head in the tightest ponytail you’ve ever imagined. Nary a stray hair is waving in the breeze, I assure you. My mom has secured the do with a two ended ponytail holder, the kind with a marble looking ball on either end. “DD, come here.” When I heard my father’s voice, I snapped to attention immediately. He was an imposing figure, not because I feared him but because I already feared disappointing him. I loved that man so much, even at 5. I would stand in front of him just before my mother and I left to run our errands. These were the things we did in the 70s, mind you, especially when your father was born in 1927. He would give me his famous crooked grin, his black hair slicked back and his dark eyes twinkling. “What do you do when you go to town with your mom?” Wanting nothing more than a full smile and an affirming head nod, I would say the words he wanted to hear. “Daddy, little girls are to be seen and not heard.” Both of his eyebrows would lift, as if he were waiting on more info. “Oh, daddy, I forgot. Do not speak until spoken to.” And, it would come, my father’s love. It would rain over me like a sprinkle on the Sahara.
There are so many things in this life I wrestle with regularly. Confrontation tops that list. I would gladly become a recluse in my own home if it meant never risking the need to confront anyone about most anything. I am heck on wheels behind a keyboard, in the politest fashion, but put me face to face with a person of authority in any manner and I will develop sudden onset lisp. Perhaps I will find a tree to hide behind, or a bench to slither under. Coming in a close second is disappointing absolutely anyone. I will bend myself into a human pretzel if it means I can avoid upsetting another person. Late? I would never. Know what I will do? Pre-drive the route the day before so I can analyze the parking options and show up 45 minutes early, mystery novel and crossword puzzle in tow. Wanna ask me to do something extremely difficult and costly to my wallet for free? Odds are, I won’t decline. It’s not in my nature because you might be upset with me. I enjoy seeing other people happy. I want to be the person who makes them happy. I care what you think about me. I cannot fathom being thought of negatively. Pathetic much?
I think I realized, just this past year, that I wasn’t angry at people who were taking advantage of me. I was angry at me, and not because of what you might think. This isn’t a story about girl power or running the world or taking back my mojo or whatever. It’s about me wanting to be a nice person because my father taught me to have manners. He didn’t steal my voice. He taught me that there were times when it was appropriate to frolic and scream bloody murder as children do. But, there are times when you really do need to shut your trap and listen to people without interrupting them. You know what else? I enjoy helping people. I enjoy doing something well and having people fawn about how much they liked whatever I did. I like making people smile. I relish a good routine, a simple route, and uncomplicated parking. I like positive vibes and happy times and laughter. I absolutely LOVE being the person who, occasionally, makes things better, picks up the pieces, or stands in the rain next to you when the bad times can’t be avoided. So, thanks, dad! These days I speak even when you may wish I didn’t. But, you might like what I have to say. That’s how we did it back in Sicily, er Seagoville, anyway.
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