BE MINE

I was an awkward girl. Dorky would be a better word.  I was told by many that I was “funny” and yet I wasn’t trying to be funny.  With sun kissed freckles, crooked teeth, two hearing aids to help me hear, a deaf nasal accent and with legs so long and skinny, I resembled a baby giraffe more than an adolescent 5^th grade girl. I was never able to touch my toes no matter how many gymnastics classes my mother paid for.  No one bothered to tell me that most successful gymnasts are quite short.  But I kept at it and eventually mastered the splits, a front handspring and a back walkover. I was no Mary Lou Retton.  I was Mary Lou Awkward.    The only part about gymnastics that I liked was the sweet smell of Jim’s donuts drifting into Ms. Gloria’s Gymnastics class as we tumbled on the mats.  The two businesses were adjoined and so it was pretty common to enjoy a donut and a small carton of cold milk after class.   At least that was the reward for my perceived suffering.

Ms. Gloria made it quite clear that if we wanted to be a cheerleader we had to “stand up straight, be a good role model and master the back handspring.”  I didn’t want to be a cheerleader.  I had no interest in it whatsoever and I certainly wasn’t ready to master the back handspring when I couldn’t even touch my toes.  But I knew that I wanted to be popular and to be popular I had to be a cheerleader and to be a cheerleader I had to master the back handspring.  It’s what we call a 5^th grade conundrum clusterf*ck.   No matter how much I hated it, I was going to tumble my way right into popularity.   That was my plan.  And if I could be popular then I could surely win the affections of the cutest boy in the class.  Or so I thought.  Yep, I was going to use my awkward gymnastics skills to win love.

Fast forward to February 14, 1978. Stonequarry Elementary was holding their annual Valentine’s Day Party.  Mrs. Dorothy Birchfield welcomed us with her typical quirky morning greeting that still plays in my head some 40 years later. She referred to us as “worms.”  We were either a “can of worms” or a “bunch of worms” but the word “worms” was never far from her lips.  Perhaps she spent too many years inhaling formaldehyde while we dissected worms.  On this particular day she said “this class is a can of worms.” Not even Valentine’s day was going to make her stop talking about worms.

I entered her room holding a small shoebox covered with cellophane wrap and decorated with red, construction paper hearts.  Like most girls in my grade – I was ready to give and receive beautiful Valentines.  Who would be mine today?    We ate cupcakes, played pin the arrow on the heart and learned how to sign “I love you” which I found incredibly awkward because everyone assumed, I knew sign language.  I tried to explain to my classmates how I could read their lips from across the room – that was my deaf super power.  They weren’t impressed.

Finally, we distributed our valentines – going desk to desk and dropping them into the little slits we had cut into our colorful shoe boxes. During the last period of the day we were given permission to open our shoe boxes and quietly read our valentines. 

A cute boy in our class leaned towards my desk and said “how many did you receive?” I smiled and counted my cards, “23” I whispered.   “I got 25” he replied.  And then with a smirk that only a 5^th grade boy can deliver with a snarky sucker punch he said “So that means two people don’t like you, but they like me.”  

 I recounted my cards.  Still 23. Head scratch. Deep thoughts.  I didn’t recognize it at the time but Mr. Snarky was most likely autistic. Social skills mastery wasn’t exactly his forte. For all I know, he could have been flirting with me. Doubtful though. Instead I took it as a Valentine’s Day throw down.  This little shit was going to soon make Valentine’s day my most dreaded day of the year.  On the bus ride home, I began obsessing over those two less cards I didn’t receive.  Who the hell didn’t like me?   Who didn’t give me a Valentine’s day card? Once at home, I counted my cards a second time.  Yep, just 23.   My older brother patted my shoulder in attempts to awkwardly comfort me or perhaps mock me.  Either way, I was ready to rumble.   Or should I say tumble.  I spent the evening in our small living room, doing back bends and attempting the ever-elusive back handspring.  Being popular was going to be hard work.  Being loved even harder. If I could just make the cheerleading squad, the sting of rejection would cease to exist.  25 cards was the goal.

A year soon passed and Ms. Gloria was right about two things….I had to stand up straight and I had to be a good role model but I never mastered the back handspring and yet I still made the 1979 – 6^th grade cheerleading squad.  I even earned co-captain and I wore a purple star on my sleeve to prove it.  My mother said what I lacked in gymnastics ability I made up for with “pep” as she called it.  So I was the loudest and peppiest girl on the squad.  Which is basically just a nice sentence for “most annoying.” 

You might be wondering…..did becoming a cheerleader make me popular and loved?  Not even close.  But 1979 was a banner year by 6^th grade standards.  It was the year I received my first kiss and a solid 25 Valentine cards.  I still hated gymnastics.  I still loved donuts.  My legs were still long but my upper body was slowly catching up and filling out.  I was less awkward but still pretty darn awkward. I got braces. Braces which I would wear for five long years.  I learned to hide my hearing aids with the Farrah Fawcett feathered cut and I found out that some boys really did like funny girls just as much as cute ones.   

Fast forward to 1988. Age 20. T-Minus 1 day until Valentines Day. The most dreaded day of the year thanks to some 5th grade asshole.  Braces are off.  Still can’t touch my toes.  Less awkward. Still deaf. Can sign “I love you” and “f*ck you” but that’s about it.  Still get excited about donuts and a carton of cold milk.  Still using humor unintentionally and inappropriately.  

“Let’s just skip Valentine’s day.” I told my on again/ off again boyfriend Spanky (his endearing nickname).  

“It’s such a fake f*cking holiday” I told him while doing a back bend in front of him wearing only my panties and bra.  It just dawned upon me that I finally mastered the art of using my awkward gymnastics skills to win affection (Thank you, Ms. Gloria).

“Don’t you dare buy me a card, candy or flowers” I told Spanky.  “Why do you have to be so annoying?” he asked. 

“Because Valentine’s day is the most idiotic day of the year…its superficial and reminds me of how stupid men really are. What I want – I doubt you can ever give me.” 

And “what is that?” he asked.

“Well it isn’t flowers, chocolate, or kisses.”  I replied.

 “Darn it. Then what is it?” he asked.

“Oh, just forget it…if you have to ask then you don’t understand me at all.”

Fast forward 1988. Just one day later.  Valentine’s Day.  The most idiotic day of the year. I climbed into my little red Chevette to head to class.  I noticed resting on the passenger’s seat was a small gift wrapped in red heart paper.  Damn him. I told him I didn’t want anything!  Sigh.  I opened it up………….

“You stupid, corny idiot of a man” I said outloud as I Laughed and blushed alone in my car. I tossed the gift into my glove compartment and went to class.  We broke up a few months later.

Fast forward. February 14, 2020.  Age 50 something.  Still awkward. Still can’t touch my toes. Can no longer do back bends. Hair is grey. Skin is wrinkled. Still eating Jim’s donuts and drinking cold milk.  It’s once again the most idiotic day of the year.  My kids are grown. The house is empty. Sometimes I am lonely but not enough to want to socialize.  The dogs rest by my side. My husband is asleep and snoring like a freight train but I can’t hear him. Deafness has it’s perks.

No, I didn’t marry Spanky. Thanks for asking. I wish him well wherever he is.

I type into the dark and cold hours of the February night because my aging, awkward heart demands that I do. Every Valentine’s Day I tell this story because someone needs to hear it………

“the best Valentine’s present I ever received was a little black book with this super sweet guy’s name and number in it with a quarter taped inside of it to use for a pay phone call.  He wrote “call me” and then signed his name “Spanky.”  An affectionate nickname I had for him. Corny I know.  But you know what…I still have that little black book with the quarter inside. I’ve had it for almost 30 years. It’s the only Valentine’s day present I ever saved.  It reminds me of a very innocent time.  I guess my point is this…forget the hallmark card. Take a tip from Spanky…do something corny.  Give her a memory.  Give her what she doesn’t even know she needs…..

 Give her something she will save for 30 years to remind her she was loved.”

By Teresa McIntosh-Hall

2/14/2020

Teresa McIntosh-Hall is a writer, blogger, social worker and political activist who wishes you a Happy Valentine’s Day.