Straddling the Fence
By Linda Goodman
©Linda Goodman 2012
Recently an
old friend sent me an article on building confidence through
storytelling. As I read it, my mind rewound to my childhood, when my own
crisis of confidence was reaching a boiling point.
In 1958, my
daddy accepted a job at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard and moved our
family from the ultra-rural Appalachian Mountains of Wise County, Virginia to Williams Court, an urban slum in Portsmouth, Virginia. Many
of the Mountaineers who had migrated to the Tidewater area of
Virginia settled in Williams Court, so we were among our own kind, for
the most part.
I thought
that Williams Court was grand! The apartments had running water, which meant
that outhouses and long walks to springs (to fill water buckets) were no longer
necessary. Because we were no longer living in isolation, I had lots of other
kids to play with. I learned to excel at kickball and hopscotch. I decided that city living was paradise.
School,
however, changed that idyllic metaphor. I heard other kids in my class talk
about how they were not allowed to go to Williams Court. When I asked why, they
said that Williams Court was always in the newspaper, in the crime section.
Their parents had read them articles on murders, robberies, and “nasty stuff”
that went on there. Parents followed the article readings with a stern warning:
“Unless you want to end up dead or worse, stay away from Williams Court!” They
made Williams Court sound like Dodge City, from the television show Gunsmoke, where you were just as likely to get shot as to get
your supper.
I decided
to keep where I lived a secret. When my classmates asked where I lived, I
either evaded the question or lied about living out in the country, where my
rich daddy had a butler who drove me back and forth to school every day. I
pretended not to know the kids who were my neighbors.
Like most
secrets, mine was eventually exposed. During my third grade year, when a triple
homicide in my apartment building made the front page of the Virginia Pilot, the article was accompanied by a photo of my apartment building
with what was clearly my face, eyes staring out into the explosion of light
that shattered the dark night, pressed against a front window.
I was
screwed. The friends that I had made in school had no use for me now, except to
ask morbid questions to get details of that awful night from me. For about a
week, I was a celebrity. After that week, I was a pariah. I felt like one of
the lepers I had studied in Sunday School.
My life at
home was not much better. The friends who had once good naturedly challenged me
to a game of hopscotch resented the way I had “put on airs” as I wooed
“stuck-up” kids in school to be my social brethren. I was a pariah to them as well.
My brothers
thought I had gotten what was coming to me. My sister felt sorry for me. My
momma said, “This, too, shall pass.” Daddy told me this experience would make
me stronger and smarter.
I did not
feel stronger or smarter. I was straddling the fence between two worlds,
neither of which wanted me as a citizen. The only time I felt like I belonged
anywhere was when my third teacher discovered that I had a knack for
storytelling and began to ask me to tell stories to the class during those rare
times that she ran out of work for us. I told stories that I had heard my daddy
tell, as well as fairy tales and myths that I had read. I always made the kids
laugh, and for the rest of the day I would feel like I had added something
special to our dreary classroom. I was careful, however, to keep my secrets
close.
Years
later, when I was chosen Valedictorian of my high school class, I had the
opportunity to speak about serious matters during the graduation ceremony.
Instead of a speech, I shared a story that began with that awful shooting that
took place during my third grade year. As painful as my school years were, I
concluded, I had grown stronger and smarter because of that pain, just as my
father had predicted so many years earlier.
After my
story had ended, my teachers and my classmates, both inside and outside my
neighborhood, surrounded me. Some shook my hand; some held me tight; most just
shouted hurrah!
Through
storytelling, I had shared my shame and had been applauded for it. I sat on the
fence no longer. I was whole.
