I was sweating in my fancy taffeta skirt and white shirt. It was 1962 and that's the way my mother dressed me even though we were at the circus. The War Memorial smelled of popcorn and old shoes. We took four seats high up in the bleachers. Mom and Dad and me and my older brother Chris had almost a birds eye view of the proceedings. The noise bothered me, my clothes chocked me ,and when the riders came out bouncing on top of the elephants back, I was at the height of discomfort. Everything had built up to the moment where a whip comes down to make the elephant raise up and do tricks. I heard the slapping of hide, and the cheer of the crowds. I saw the tricks.
Suddenly I couldn't take more. I grasped my mothers hand. ( good thing she was right next to me.)
I began to cry, "Momma, the elephant is so sad! Why do they hit him?"
My mother bent down and smoothed my face with her hand and she was smiling.| "Now, sweetheart, that's how they train them! It doesn't hurt them." I looked again as they continued the whipping and I silenced my tears. I was too small to explain to myself why I was so sad at the circus. My mother wiped my face. It seemed like hours before the show was over.
We went down to the lobby where there was a concession and gift stand. My mother said I could get anything I saw that was small. I looked at the little elephant statues , the shirts with the circus logo on them, the balloons and the candy. But I was not looking for anything for me. Nothing appealed to me but a small set of pen knives that were held in a beaded sheath with an Indian Nation symbol sewn on. They would be an offering to my brother. He liked to draw and whittle and work with clay. Now I thought he might change his mind and let me hang out with him they way we did when we were younger. I could learn how to draw, and work with the knives.
When I pointed to my choice my mother was puzzled. "This is what you want?!" I had her bend down so I could whisper in her ear. "They're for Chris!" I announced. A smile returned to her face as she paid for the knives and then had them wrapped and placed in a small bag. I held my hand out, but she just shook her head and bent down to whisper into my ear." These are too sharp for you to hold.. I will hand show these to him on the way home, and tell him they are from you!".
I envied my brother. He looked so much more comfortable in his clothes. I wished I could be just like him. I was hoping for friendship forged by two pen knives. I sat in the back seat, strapped into a seat belt next to him but we might as well have been miles apart. He chattered and laughed about
the circus experience, and never looked in my direction. My mother announced that I had got him a present . His eyes grew wide and she displayed the knives. I did hear him say ,"Neat, thanks!"
And I got one look, and there he was holding the knives that were too dangerous for me.
I should have been jumping for joy, getting out of my dressy hot skirt and shirt at home. But when I slipped into play clothes, I would be alone again. Chris had made some friends down the block, and there was no room as usual for his sister. He was already gone by the time I went on the swings in the backyard, after warnings from my mother that I shouldn't go out of her sight.
I was nine ,and I had made no friends of my own . I was a tomboy trapped in a little
girls 1962 wardrobe. Most other kids couldn't wait to get to the circus and had a hard time leaving. Other girls might have selected clothing, or some doll as a souvenir.
I have carried that need to be who I am with me every day since. Accepting solitude as a reward, not a punishment to fully acknowledge my uniqueness. Along the way I have found people who can lead, encourage and inspire me. My brother left me everything he had when he died. All his art, and a whole lot of notes and letters and physical stories from my parents and memories from our later years. This is a great return on a couple of pen knives bought at a circus.
And I am still that tomboy who has no desire to see elephants hurt.
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