New Love, Powerlessness of the Past, and Baloney

I wrote this back in 2017, a different inroad to my Juvenile Records Remain Sealed memoir series (shared drafts on this blog). That series still calls to me for completion. My past doesn't dominate me, but the wisps reach forward at times. They're choppy and feel like a rough draft, both the writing and the vining tendrils of my past. They serve to remind me of my strength, though, and work as fuel to keep me living and growing into my best life in the now. 

Today I woke up in a dreamy space. It's Tuesday, which is my Saturday. No alarm needed. My agenda was light and creative. Writing class. Writing. Maybe biking or walking. Hopefully love making. The morning brought mist. My lover next to me had a breath of relaxation. Not only had we both slept well, but we'd also crossed the 3-month threshold. Yes, it makes a difference. It's the line crossing into relationship. A next level of commitment. Yet there's still an air of sweetness that hopefully never dissipates. We don't know everything about each other and hopefully never will.

As we discussed the lack of sausage for breakfast in The Lodge, the sweet trailer I called home, nestled between trees with a far-reaching meadow and pond that attracted wildlife, we also spoke of our love for bacon. There really is nothing like it. As he shared with me his love for BLTs — the perfect sandwich in his mind — he mentioned his dislike for Clubs and other heavy, imbalanced sandwiches. Neither of us like deli meat. He told me what kind of cook his mom was — she would throw a piece of baloney on bread and hand it to him.

All air left that moment as I struggled with a gut punch.

I took a deep breath as I was transported back to when? 13? 14? It must've been 14. I had run away from home and was in the midst of a crime spree with John and Jimmy. Jimmy lived in a trailer with his dad. This is trailer park living. There's drinking. Drama. Old cars. Unfinished projects. Men, boys and tough women if there were any women at all. Sinks full of unwashed dishes, bellies full of anger and cheap beer, minds numb to the idea that there had ever been hopes or dreams because this was the only world ever known.

Once it was late enough that everyone was asleep or passed out, I was snuck in to this world, shoved behind the seat of a car. The guys hoisted me through Jimmy's bedroom window. Jimmy and John went through the front door in case Jimmy's dad woke, he'd hear the familiar noise of gangly teenage best friends stumbling in late at night.

Jimmy's dad had a nose and a suspicious mind. I had to stay hidden at all costs. No neighbors could see me. No one could know I existed. Who knows how long this lasted — 4 days? a week? We were doing all the petty crime we could to gather up enough money to get all three of us to Florida — the place of oranges and fresh starts when you're not living your dreams in North Carolina.

Jimmy had an extra mattress, at least a double if not a queen, standing upright in his bedroom, wedged between the foot of his bed and the wall. It was squishy enough that I could wiggle my way along the wall and not be seen, heard or discovered. His dad still smelled me. His knowing sent me deeper into the corner, shoved me flatter against the wall. My desire to escape my life was so great that I was willing to spend 10 hours a day vertically wedged between an old mattress and the wall of a trailer. That's where I stayed until Jimmy's dad went to work. Only then could I emerge, crawling along the floor and into the bathroom to avoid windows. At night when the fights yielded to snores, I'd climb back out the window and we'd resume our crime spree.

The biggest challenge came in the form of my monthly cycle, which started as a spreading pool of wetness one morning before Jimmy's dad went to work. I wiggled to the edge of the mattress to get Jimmy's attention and desperately mouthed my problem under the tones of the TV running nonstop in the living room. With hours before a bathroom break was possible, Jimmy's only thought was to hand me several pairs of his underwear. We truly weren't prepared. I'd forgotten this was a possibility. A reality. I had no extra clothes and certainly no feminine products. All my logistics were in use for crime, avoiding the cops and getting to Florida. Once there we could pause and regroup. Once there I might remember that I was a girl.

Whenever I was hungry, I'd try to find a way to let Jimmy know. Sometimes he'd check on me or assume and an arm would slide along the wall grasping a sandwich. The sandwiches were the same every time — soft white bread, cold ketchup and one slice of baloney straight from the fridge. Baloney. Up until then, my diet consisted of lots of thin wheat bread, peanut butter, and all manner of middle class food, including convenience items like Betty Crocker Scalloped Potatoes, Sunsweet Raisins and Little Debbie treats. There was also always lettuce, grapefruit, peaches, home grown tomatoes, eggs, juice and broccoli. So many colors and textures. So many choices.

I hadn't realized until this morning that I can't acknowledge baloney in the grocery store. I want to erase it from the planet. It's not food. I hate baloney. It's part of my snooty-ness. My preference to shop at Co-ops and other high-end health food stores shields me from Oscar Meyer and Wonder Bread. By ignoring their existence, I disarm them and take their triggering power away. They represent defeat and hopelessness. There's nothing vital about them.

Luckily, oh so luckily, there was nothing sexual between the three of us. I remember having a little girl crush on John. He looked so much like James Dean that I can't watch any of those movies anymore. It's interesting to acknowledge that my triggers are James Dean and baloney.

This time in my life is so confused. As we wrapped up our crime spree and were finally making the bold move to hit the road and leave this fucking shit hole of an existence, we got caught. We moved locations, and I had one night finally of sleeping while lying down. Waking up for the first time in years with a feeling of hopefulness was trounced by having a gun held to my head. Time slowed down enough for me to know that I didn't want to die even though I was doing everything to get out. I didn't want all the way out. Then time sped up. We were cuffed, taken to different places because those guys were older. I remember going to Juvee and being checked in. It requires stripping and being scrubbed, much like what's shown in prison movies and popular TV shows like "Orange is the new Black." The wardens had to witness me peel off at least an inch-thick layer of tighty whities that were glued together with dried blood. I removed the t-shirt that had a huge skull and said Fuck You on it. My hair was greasily limp under a camo cap. I smelled.

There was no compassion. Only disgust as they deloused me. I felt the jeering inside jokes. I didn't understand them. I was raging on the inside yet shutdown with defeat on the outside. One woman said to me — See, I told you you would be back. I knew you weren't done. I had seen her the month before. My defiance then had me determined not to return to juvee, but she knew. She knew I wasn't done raging. I wasn't done running. I hated her for this. I hated being a predictable pattern. Her words weren't an olive branch of knowing — they were the satisfied hat tip of being right. She would never help anyone to deny herself that gold star. I wouldn't give her the comfort of seeing my rage, my true emotions. I bottled them up stoically.

When I was called to court a week later, the weight of understanding the jokes on the night of my admittance fell on me. All my clothes were returned to me in their original state. I'd been cleaned; they had not been. I couldn't wear my uniform to court. I couldn't leave anything behind. As I picked up the crusty pile of underwear, the humiliation tightened my jaw — but still I wouldn't break. They slid into place like armor and I pulled on the boy's jeans I came in with. I had nothing to lose at this point, so I donned the shirt emblazoned with Fuck You across it rather than heeding the advice to turn it inside out. When you look around and realize you have no one on your team, you don't do anything to help get someone on your team. You push them all away with defenses because the rejection of the other would be worse.

Court didn't go well. I pled guilty. My mom stood up and disowned me. The woman who would rescue broken-winged birds, abandoned baby bunnies and scruffy dogs with mange didn't see any hope in me. There was nothing worth saving.

The State of North Carolina now owned me and had custody of me for a year, at which point I'd reappear in court and my case would be re-evaluated. Back to juvee I went while they figured out what to do with me. My arrival back had a resigned sadness for me. A different warden received me. There was now a fatalism to my case. They all knew I'd be there at least a month — whatever the maximum allowable time would be.

I shed my clothes again, a brief moment of gratitude crossed my mind in knowing I'd receive a clean uniform. I didn't want the burden of those clothes, of Jimmy's clothes, but they were technically mine now. Literally my only possessions walking into this new parent-less life. Feeling this, the warden asked, Do you want to wash your underwear?

The shock of this kindness momentarily paused me. I was afraid to answer, wondering if it was a taunt. Something to be offered then cruelly pulled away at the last moment. My feral nature wanted to lash out, but slowly I was breaking. I wasn't stupid. I didn't know when I'd be putting those underwear on again, but to know they'd be cleaner and softer felt amazingly generous, so I accepted the offer with a nod. And the offer was real.

When I found my voice, I asked if I could keep only one pair. She was willing to throw out the rest for me. Sitting on a cold floor, I soaked bloody men's underwear in a toilet bowl until the water loosened them enough that I could peel off the outer pair, the least stained and most likely to get clean again. I scrubbed and adjusted to a new reality. This is what kindness, guardianship and safety look like now. No longer did I have the power to look ahead and dream. I didn't know when I would leave juvee or what that would mean or even look like. There was no place for me except a solitary cell, no room to run, no visitors. And when that time was up I'd put on these underwear and go where the state decided to put me. In a year I'd find out if I could be a daughter again.