-Flung around, a doll, taken place to place, against ones will, pawned off onto others, sold to babysitters and Grandparents, inhibitions strategically transfused, conquered, scrubbed, misunderstood, perceived as sub-human, an inconvenience in a world where that which doesn’t fit into our quixotic schedules is stretched, crushed, manipulated and abused until it can exist, often without any semblance of it’s true self, in our ongoing, ever-changing, ego-centric, calendar we call life-
That should be the definition of childhood. Perhaps, the only thing that separates a child from a doll is it’s less than ideal need to be fed, bathed and clothed.
Of course, to a child, clothing is optional as nothing is as thrilling as the world caressing a bare body. Besides, clothing is often a representation of the parents or guardian’s socio-economic status and not the personality of the wearer.
One can leave their toys naked on a summer day, but the moment a small, pale, white body passes through a front yard in sheer natural bliss, the neighbors complain.
“You know, you really should pay more attention to your daughter,” Sherry said, dragging me naked, polka dotted and gleeful into the front yard of my small, Kentucky home. My mother, delighting in the irony of our next-door neighbor’s comment, as calling Sherry a “neglectful parent” was generous, nodded her head and guided me inside. Her hand felt warm and comforting on my bare back and only helped reinforce my five-year old self’s goal of becoming a nudist.
My mother closed the door and dropped onto the couch, slumping, slug like, into the cushions.
“Hannah, Hannah come here,” her southern drawl in combination with her emotional exhaustion made her words humid and slow. I walked towards the couch and ran my tiny fingers against the mustard-yellow, velvet cushions that play became my mountains and caves.
She picked me up and placed me in her lap, my off-brand-marker painted body staining her hands.
“Mommy is very upset with you. Clothing is to be worn at all times unless in the backyard. You are going over to your Uncles. Get dressed.”
At least, that is how I wish the conversation had gone. In reality, it was a scene where the frustrations of single parenting over-came my mother and her emotions came rolling out of her, monstrous and overwhelming.
After much yelling, crying and hurt feelings by the both of us, I reached my uncle’s house, fully dressed and scowling.
Like a scene from a Friday night corner in Vegas, my mother pulled up, I exited the vehicle and she drove away, fast. I walked to the middle of the yard and her brother bent down to read a message that had been pinned to my shirt, “I owe you. How does twenty bucks sound?”
I had been reverse-pimped; an inconveniently timed messenger pigeon.
My uncle, an understanding and warm college student, showed only kindness to me upon my arrival, and when my aunt returned home from work, they did the only thing they knew to do with a child, they fed me.
Entertaining me with tales of Vampires and dragons, the 20 year old, Wiccan, vegetarians, loaded me into their van and transported me to a restaurant that smelled of rotting carrots and cardboard.
My Aunt and Uncle hurried me through the parking lot, tense and overwhelmed at the responsibility of a life and only relaxed when the waiter led us to a small, wooden table in the middle of the room.
Upon noticing that I could not see over the top of the table, the waiter suggested to the young couple that phone books be brought to boost my height. Relieved to release any child rearing responsibilities, they agreed and let the waiter place me on a precarious pile of names and digits. I fiddled with the pages beneath me and ignored all questions regarding what I would like to eat.
As the menu had no pictures, I had no interest in it and so it was decided that I would be brought what they called, a “hotdog.”
I should have caught on. The term “hotdog,” followed by a knowing wink with the serving staff, or anyone for that matter, is not a hotdog. It is something else. Something that in their hearts, the giver knows will not please the receiver. Perhaps the horrible smell of beta keratin and organic deodorant had killed my appetite, but I shared none of the enthusiasm my caretakers had upon noticing the arrival of our food. The waiter swooped before me, flourishing his hands like a stereotypical, French, maître d. I sat up straighter and looked down into my plate, immediately upset. I shook my head, as I knew that what lay in front of me, the color and texture of a flaccid penis, was not a hot dog.
“No,” I said, and pushed the plate towards the center of the table.
“Yes,” my uncle responded and pushed the plate towards me. “Just try it, it’s a soy dog.”
The admiration I held for my Uncle softened my position and I reluctantly took a bite.
The pungent smell released from the slippery, organic dildo, immediately translated into a bitter, overwhelming flavor and in combination with texture, gave one the impression of biting into a warm, rotting corpse.
I looked straight into the eyes of my Uncle, and vomited.
My mother picked me up from my Uncle’s around 8:00 that evening. I walked to the car with a note pinned to my shirt that read, “Great time! Twenty-Five?” I leaned my head against the plastic lining of the car, the seatbelt scratching against my neck, the faint smell of vomit and soy wafting about. I watched the tops of trees blur together, the only thing visible to my small, still body.
I must have fallen asleep on that ride home because I remember waking up in my bed feeling disoriented, my throat still soar.
I could hear my mother on the phone in the kitchen, talking to her mom, asking for advice, searching for comfort.
In search of my comfort, I slid silently out of my sheets and onto the wooden floor, shimmying my nightgown over my head as I quietly made way towards the door of my bedroom. I reached the porch quickly, with grace, and stepped outside, naked and alone.
Adrenaline rushed through my veins, filling my chest with delight. I was free to take pleasure in all that tactile sensation had to offer, grass against skin, dirt against toes, wind against spine.
I ran through the yard, a fairy in my mind, a moonlit ghost to some, a burden to others, a doll to most.
But to the fog, the dancing leaves, the spirits that existed in the trees, I was
A child. A human child.
-Hannah Wenger, Staff-Writer