Childhood
French Lessons
French Lessons By E.H.Kupinsky My Mother has a friend who married a French man. She has two kids that can speak French. My Mother insists I take French lessons the Summer I turn 7. No one in my family speaks French. My Mother will drop me off three days a week, early in the morning, on the lawn leading to a bungalow on the California State University Northridge Campus. When I was in Kindergarten I convinced my new Best friend that our school Sucked, that our Teacher was Stupid, and we belonged in College. I swiped two Three ringed binders so we would look like College kids and together we ditched class to make our way to the University Art department where I felt certain I belonged. My Mother was still angry two years later. We stared at each other before I exited the car, her smiling, me silently annoyed at our unspoken inside joke about Kindergarten. She says, hand casually gesturing to all that awaits outside the car, “Go on, you like it here,remember?” I say nothing as I exit the car and walk myself to the bungalow as she drives away. I knock even though I know I have arrived too early. I sit on the lawn all alone feeling very small and tickle the palms of my hands on the grass waiting. I come to understand as I watch all the other kids arrive for this class, I am the youngest and the smallest. I hope for the millionth time, that my size will not make me a target for any bullies and my mouth will not get me into trouble. I am surprised to find that I like French and find it musical in my mouth. It’s incredibly satisfying to boldly mimic the Teacher’s accent loud and dramatically. After class, I watch my new cool older friends get picked up by loving parents. A week ago, my Mother took me to a Sandwich shop 3 blocks away from the CSUN campus on Reseda Boulevard and let me pick a sandwich. She spoke while I ate, informing me of her intentions and made me repeat her instructions back to confirm my understanding. It is to this sandwich shop that I must return, as it is now my new designated pick up point. She has given me exactly the amount of money required to eat the same sandwich while I wait for her for an incredibly long time. I don’t mind. I enjoy people watching and making up stories in my head: That old man is a widow and never stutters except when he admits to loving Soup and then produces a very large ornate spoon from his breast pocket. That tired lady keeps chickens like my Uncle but only for the eggs. She has named them all with funny German names and last night she walked outside barefoot to sing with them in the moonlight. I can’t help being the weird little kid high up on a barstool, legs dangling, staring at everyone while they eat. I have decided to like French almost as much as I like Roast beef sandwiches. One day, weeks later, the nice man who makes my beloved Roast beef sandwiches leans over the counter, sighs and says, “ I know what your Mother is doing and it’s not ok. You tell her I said so.”My heart sinks. I know he isn’t my babysitter and he resents my Mother trying to turn him into one. I eat what remains of my sandwich silently crying knowing I will probably never have the privilege of eating here again and going over the least offensive speech I will deliver to my Mother who will no doubt be furious. She yelled at me the whole way home, as usual, saying I must have done something wrong for him to so rudely ban me from returning. She had a way of seeing hidden meaning in everything. All of it resulting in me disappointing her along with the world conspiring against her. When it was finally time to show me off to her friend, She lied and said I was fluent in French. This friend of my Mother, kneeling in front of me, proceeded to ask a series of questions in French. I answered what my name was, where I lived, and who with. She spoke a bit faster and I found myself confused and unable to respond so I cried, offending and embarrassing my Mother. Slowly now, she repeated her question while I struggled to answer. My mother threw her hands up saying “I give up! There goes more money down the drain!”She stormed out of the room when I finally responded in French quietly, still crying, “I don’t understand because I only speak French a little bit.”
By Emily Kupinsky5 years ago in Confessions
Good Hands
I was supposed to be a ballerina. I was dancing at four. Seriously. As a backup my mother enrolled me in art lessons, also at four, also serious. I was, then, an only child. I was never very good with the pirouettes, but I loved drawing Humpty Dumpties. By the time I was eight I was pushing back on ballet class, but was happily drawing chalk designs on the sidewalk. At about this same time my maternal grandmother taught me to sew. We spent hours together sitting at her black Singer sewing machine, designing and stitching clothing for Madam Alexander and Tony dolls. (I am old.) At sixteen I reached the height of my ballet success as a Snowflake "understudy" in the Ballet West production of The Nutcracker. Yep, an understudy, after years and years of "under achievement" and self-inflicted foot pain. I neglected to mention that I am "thick" of body...not lithe, thin, willowly...or any of those words used to describe those who made up the actual Snowflake Corps de Ballet. I was an awkward cygnet who would not transform into a dancing swan ever. Anyway, at that same time, I was loving my high school art classes. OK, so here is what happened. I quit ballet. As it turned out, my hands worked so much better than my feet. If we had just figured that out earlier. I loved art. I loved craft.
By Vicki Bluth5 years ago in Confessions
Laughter is the best medicine.
Ever since I was a little girl. People would say. " You're funny." So I made it my mission to delight people with jokes, singing, laughter dance. I was enrolled in every dance class morning, noon and night. I had such a hard time in school paying attention. And it was not until my third grade teacher read my short comedic story about someone trying to finish a race and falling face first in the mud infront of the class that I realized I delighted in making others laugh. I knew that it was my calling. Finally I had done something right. Every since then I have delighted in the idea of writing a sketch comedy show. Every chance I get I work on it and I mention it to everyone in passing. I have not had a chance to create it in full just bits here and there. But when I write I am always surprised to see what comes out. I had heard that Beethoven channeled his music though dreams. I channel my improv through pretending to be characters with friends. And long walks to funk music. I am now twenty six. I have attended theatre school, sang at broadway workshops ( Shaking in my boots) I must add infront of broadway singers during the Newsies and Matilda tour, done Shakespeare and musicals, toured schools. But still I have not created my own show.
By Milan Shultz5 years ago in Confessions
Sprouted in Old Barrels
In between my room and the back veranda where I spent most of my time, was a tiny 6x8 room used to iron clothes. The room was always dark as the only natural light that made its way in was filtered through an insubstantial window whose purpose I never truly understood. Permeating the room was the scent of the old ironing board, crispy yet warm after years of use. The room always had clothes newly pressed or just about to be, hung up in the makeshift closet or strewn around on top of the barrels that were pushed up against the longest wall. When no one was around and I got tired of climbing the grill that enclosed the veranda I’d always sneak into the little room to search through the barrels.
By Kerry Cooper5 years ago in Confessions
Sprouted in old Barrels
In between my room and the back veranda where I spent most of my time, was a tiny 6x8 room used to iron clothes. The room was always dark as the only natural light that made its way in was filtered through an insubstantial window whose purpose I never truly understood. Permeating the room was the scent of the old ironing board, crispy yet warm after years of use. The room always had clothes newly pressed or just about to be, hung up in the make shift closet or strewn around on top of the barrels that were pushed up against the longest wall. When no one was around and I got tired of climbing the grill that enclosed the veranda I’d always sneak into the little room to search through the barrels.
By Kerry-Ann Cooper5 years ago in Confessions
Only Her Parents' Death Could Teach Her This Simple Truth
Let us be acquainted with my childhood friend Marta. She is my noble and generous friend. Noble not by birth but by her personal qualities, virtues of the heart. Our strange friendship started in the first grade and ended in the 8th… to be renewed with the boldness, freedom, and maturity of womanhood.
By Olya Aman5 years ago in Confessions
Boobies on the Blackboard
I have always considered myself the class clown. Well, at least to me, my jokes were funny. On my tombstone, I was told, they were going to write, “He thought, he was funny.” You see, my comedy started way back in the first grade. The thought of making other people laugh was so satisfying to me. I loved being a stand up comedian. On show and tell days, I never brought anything to show, but boy, could I tell. I would talk about the weekend escapades at my house or make up some fantasy story about how Big Foot came to my window last night. The other kids ate it up. I would have them leaning forward in their tiny little chairs wanting more. It was just harmless fun. Fake spiders on desks. Making milk come out my nose. Putting chocolate cookies on bread to make my famous, cookie sandwich. Throwing up in a bowl of jelly beans at a Christmas school party. Wait, that wasn't on purpose, but that's another story. Anyway, it was all to make a person laugh. But, in every comic's life, there comes his big break. You see, that was back in the days when the bathroom was in the classroom by the door. I always dreamed about what I would do, if the teacher ever took a restroom break during class. You see, that was rare. They always waited until recess or lunch time. But they never, ever, left kids alone in the classroom for an extended amount of time. I realize now, it was probably because of kids like me. Hmmm, an awakening. Anyway, I don't know what Ms. Bondry, (name changed to protect the innocent), ate the night before, but by the way she kept grabbing her stomach, you could tell she was not feeling well that morning. Then, the unthinkable happened. "Kids, you all finish writing the alphabet. I will be right back." OMG! She went to the restroom. Slam! The bathroom door closed. I jumped out of my seat. I looked at the other kids in the room. A look of anticipation dawned on their bright little faces. I was in the spotlight. I was stunned, but then it hit me. What did I love more then Ironman? Boobies! I quickly ran to the blackboard, and began to draw the biggest pair of boobies I could. From top to bottom. From side to side. Big. Round. Huge. Boobies. You get the point. The class was in an uproar. A flush sound was heard, as I placed the chalk back on the tray underneath the blackboard, and began to fight my way through the chairs back to my desk. As I turned to sit down, my eyes met Ms. Bondry's eyes coming out of the bathroom for a split second. I sat down and the class became quiet. a few mumbles were heard as she approached the blackboard. She stood for what seemed like an hour looking at my masterpiece. My mind raced. Did she see me? Dead silence filled the air. She turned around and scanned the classroom. She passed me. Whoa! I was safe. Yippee! She scanned back in my direction. Oh no. Was I caught? "Bobby, (please do not ever call me that now or we will have a problem) did you do this?" My mouth dropped. I had no response. All of the sarcastic words, I had come to learn in my young mind had left me. But... I still had my three secret weapons to get out of any bad situation. You see, I always had a stutter. That was number one go-to plan. I began to stutter furiously, to try and get sympathy. "Kids, sit quietly. Bobby come with me." My second go-to plan was deployed. I cried like a newborn baby. There is just something about children's tears that pull at the heart strings of adults. It failed. She was really mad. I began combining one and two, but that didn't even work. If they called and told my mom what I did, I knew, I would never make it to second grade. Vergie didn't play that! I figured right then I had to go where no kid has gone before. Number three! As we approached the principle's office door. I vomited on the door, in the hallway and on Ms. Bondry. I fell to the floor like a sniper hit me. Finally, it worked. They took me to the nurse's office, and the boobies on the blackboard incident, as it was later to be called, was never spoke about again. Until now.
By Robby Robb Lewis5 years ago in Confessions
"To Planet Earth and Back"
"It's a UFO!" My mother's face would awash with an inaccessibly distant, childlike glow when she made these revelations. She would only be pointing to an airplane or shooting star, but I would never risk losing the mysticism on her face by telling her that. Those moments watching her observe the stars were the most fond to me, the most likely to cause choked tears to slide down my face upon recollection. I can't articulate what that look meant to me without breaking down into a sobbing mess, my computer screen turning into a spaghettio-soup of jumbled letters, like the kind she used to feed me when we were flat broke. Anyone who was lucky enough to see her expression while looking at the stars knows what I'm talking about - the strong woman that's allowed herself to be vulnerable only to the stars. Her ability to (or perhaps her need to) get so excited over unknowable things in the face of her own 'unknown'.
By Emily Jackson5 years ago in Confessions
Tough Love
“She is faking sleep. She does this all the time,” I hear my mother say to my stepdad at the time. Admittedly, I had been reading by the dull glow of my nightlight a few moments before I had heard their creeping. I had thrown the contraband book under my bed behind the strategic clutter and dove under my covers. I willed my breath to be even and steady and tried with all my might not to crack my lids as listened to their tactical approach.
By E. J. Strange5 years ago in Confessions
Mums the word.
The illness of being dead, was persuasion in the end, no different from a derogatory voice, madness did set in, thunder in my life, strikes my mind a smell of old, without a heart, waiting low to strike, that voice a hidden truth, not me just, but a bitter symphony.
By Jennifer orr5 years ago in Confessions
