Moving on: ONE, TWO, THREE

It is time to get up. Mother has been telling me for a long time that I’m getting to be a big girl and will soon start kindergarten. ‘Soon, what’s soon, Mama?’  She holds up her hands and together we count her fingers. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six.’ I close my eyes real tight and almost cry. ‘I forget, Mama.’ ‘Seven, Honey, seven comes next. Think about heaven and you’ll remember seven.’ I tell her I can’t do that. ‘Mama, I don’t know what heaven is like so how can I think about it?’ We start over at one and get to ten without stopping. Mama keeps going, ‘What’s next, Suzy. What’s after ten?’ I am mad and stamp my foot. She makes a very ugly face at me and I laugh. ‘I gave you a word to remind you what comes after six. What is it?’ ‘Let me alone. I don’t remember.’ Her face get uglier. She looks like she is going to hit me. ‘Heaven, heaven, Child. After six comes seven, after ten comes eleven- seven, and eleven both sound like heaven, don’t they?’ It is my turn to make an ugly face. I do and tell her to let me alone. Then I ask, ‘May I go out and play with Marjorie?’

Before my kindergarten is to begin, Daddy and Mama take me across the street to get a haircut. The barber and I don’t like each other but I sit still while he puts a board across the big chair so he can reach me. He pumps my chair high and lets it go down slowly. ‘Do it again, Mr. Brock,’ I whine. He has to pump me up and there I stay, hollering and kicking. My Daddy  holds  my legs and my mother grabs my hands while Mr. Brock cuts and cuts my long red hair. Pieces of it fall on the striped sheet he uses to cover my play suit. I can still feel the hatred I had for him doing that.

When he is almost finished, he takes a big white brush, puts powder on it, and tickles my neck.  I don’t want to laugh but I do. He hands  me a mirror that has a wide black frame. It is heavy but I hold it tight, look at myself and think, Is that me, Mama?  ‘Mama, Daddy. I’m pretty.’

It is strange how this has all come back so clearly. My Lisa starts junior high next week and now that I am the mother, a movie rolls in my head. I am not going to do what my mother did to me to my daughter. No, Siree! 

‘Lisa, the bus is coming down the street. The bus is coming. Come on, Lisa. The driver isn’t going to wait for you. Hurry up. Is your lap top shut down? Do you have your homework in your back pack? Do you need a few dollars?’

Lisa gets to the curb as the driver pulls up. She boards the bus and doesn’t even turn to wave to me.