Prompt 7 of The Prompted Memoir: Before there was loss, there was..

 Before there was loss, grief, and heartache, there was music. There was a world of words, there was a pair of black, shiny shoes and a ruffly little hat that tied under my chin on Easter morning. This story is not about those things.

There was also the furious defender that has sat in the center of my being for most of my life. Some people are just born fierce. Don’t fuck with me or mine. That is what this story is about. Although maybe I will someday write about those shoes and that hat. 

When I was six, we went to the high school gym one spring evening to watch a talent show. My big sister Susan was in it and I guess we were excited to see her do whatever it was she was going to be doing. Sitting way up high on the bleachers, I squirmed and wriggled around on the small space of foot room between where my parents sat and the bench row below us. Beyond uncomfortable, I whined and pleaded to be held on one of my parents’ soft laps as I relentlessly tried to make myself comfortable on the hard wood. I didn’t know where Susan was, but she sure as shit was not on the gym floor performing anything, and by god, nothing going on down there was interesting to a six year old. “Talent” is 100% subjective. I had lost all interest in seeing my sister perform. I just wanted to go. 

But wait! At long last, the doors to the gym opened and there stood my beloved sister Susan, all decked in her fancy homecoming dress, escorted by her beau, Tom Cruise (no, not that Tom Cruise, but for real--that was his name). Did I mention that she had been both a cheerleader and homecoming queen, and Tom, also captain of the basketball team, had been prom king? No? Well, yep, they were royalty, the very best of early 1960s stereotypes. I don't remember what he had on--maybe a white tux? But her dress! Oh! Strapless and layers upon layers of baby blue and white stiff gathered tulle floated down past her knees, the skirt so full it was as wide as an opened umbrella. Tom held her hand by her fingertips and regally escorted her around the gym floor. I can only now imagine that Susan was probably hamming it up, maybe waving that homecoming queen wave: fingertips pointing straight up and the forearm swiveling back and forth, a bright and gracious smile pasted on her face. Maybe she nodded ever so slightly to the occasional peon on the bleachers. 

After the promenade, Tom escorted her to the trapeze (remember that all gyms had stuff like basketball nets and gymnastics equipment), which had been lowered close to the ground so that Queen Susan could gracefully be seated. Ankles crossed, her left arm holding on to the vertical rope, her right still waving to her subjects, the trapeze slowly began to rise and Susan began to pump her legs back and forth in that universal gesture of, well, swinging. Higher and higher she rose, and further and further she swayed. In one fell swoop, Susan flipped over, her legs catching the ropes and her beautiful dress turned upside down around her now-dangling head.

OH NO! CATASTROPHE!, I thought. The entire gym erupted in guffaws and shrieking laughter as they realized that the beautiful queen was tricked out in hideously huge, striped knickers. 

I did not get the joke. What I did get was furious. My beautiful and beloved sister who had deigned to share her beauty and amazing swinging skills with this horde of losers was being laughed at. How dare they? I stood to my highest height on top of the bench and demanded, screamed, bellowed for them all to stop laughing at my sister! I can still feel my deeply furrowed forehead, the space between my eyes contracting and scrunching as my lips opened wide commanding all to cease their mocking laughter, to STOP LAUGHING AT MY SISTER! I was relentless, no matter that others around us, and indeed, my parents, were now clearly laughing at me, the isn’t-she-so-cute little sister. No amount of cuddling explanations from my parents served to stop my hollering or put a brake on my tears. I was going to right this deep injustice done to one of my own, even if my parents were not.

Memory fades and I do not remember how that night ended or what, if any, conversation I may have had with my parents or sister that might have assuaged my fury. All that remains so many years later is the burn. Ask around: do not fuck with me or mine.