January 9, 2004
I Have Been Here Before, In Another Life

There was a point in time when my brother played baseball. Actually, he plays softball now at school, but that's irrelevant. When he was maybe 12, making me 7, he played Little League, and I had to attend the games.

At first he played at the field across the street from North, the one that is now closed and used as a parking lot for juniors and has some sort of pentagonal structure being built near homeplate. It was also the same field that on snowy days Dad and I would bring Jordan to and let her run around. This once resulted in her bolting right past Dad, who guarded the gate, and we had to get her out of the woods by using bologna and hotdogs. We always carried hotdogs with us when we took her out of the house. I really miss her. I also learned a very valuable lesson at this baseball field: seeing things from someone else's perspective. I stood atop a mound of dirt and gravel and proclaimed, "I'm right-handed."

"Me too," Dad said, turning to face me. He raised his right hand.

"No you're not. That's your left."

He turned his back on me but kept his hand raised. It was now his right. "No," he said. "It's my right."

I've never looked at people the same.

And that's not bullshit either, it's quite true. I remember most specifically being in Marco Island watching Eric and Heather walk by, and wondered what I looked like to them. And how far away I seemed. It's very complicated. Too complicated to explain. Complicated like, how I scrunch my toes everytime I pass a street sign, or right toes on the shadows, left toes in the light. Steph understands but most people don't.

Mom didn't know about the wish-upon-an-eyelash thing you know. I told her about my dream the other night where all my eyelashes fell off and I was mortified. Then I remembered, Matt MacDonald (I think that was his name) pulled out his eyelashes in second grade, because he was trying to get one to make a wish upon. Mom said something about it being a crazy Marion custom, like fairy cakes and aerobics and sewing GIANT pillows that the kids can nap on in the kitchen. It wasn't.

Speaking of those giant pillows, I remember slamming my fist on one very clearly when I was humiliated in kindergarten. Mrs. Zaniboni said something to the extent of, "Spring is coming. And there's a certain bird that tells us when spring is coming. As a matter of fact, one of our parent aids right now has the same name. Do you know who?" Of course, everyone raised their hands. But also of course, she had to choose me, because it only made sense to. Make the kid proud.

"Barbara," I said.

A moment of silence, and then everyone burst out laughing. My cheeks turned red and I glared, especially at Barbara, the parent who was helping out that day. She had said the parent aid right now! And here was Barbara! Isn't that what she was looking for? The name of the parent aid?

"Do you know any bird named Barbara?" Mrs. Zaniboni demanded, still laughing at me.

"No."

"What's your mom's name?"

Okay. I get it. I made a mistake. Leave me alone. "Robin." And we moved on.

Actually, smart guy, my mom's real name is Rosemary. Who's the idiot now? I almost said Rosemary too, just to spit back in her face for laughing at me. That afternoon, lying on one of Marion's giant pillows, I punched and punched, so mad at myself for giving such a stupid answer. Barbara?! My mom's name is Robin for crying out loud! She tricked me! I can't imagine ever having such contempt for such a wonderful kindergarten teacher now. But that was my first really embarrassing moment in life.

That's not what I meant to write about though. I was going somewhere with the baseball field. I tend to write down every memory I can conjure though, so bear with me.

Then, my brother played baseball at. CRAP. Where was that place? Oh my God, I can see it in my head. I want to say Nelson Park but... it was a little different from that... I wish I knew. Shoot. Well, he played at another field where I would always chase the ice cream truck and eat Snoopy's or Woodstock's faces, or that weird Baseball Head, or those gross red white and blue popsicles. I got really into Choco Tacos when my dad brought us to baseball games in Wareham where he used to play. I loved those. That was also where I learned what a "raffle ticket" was. And the first time I watched a car hood get dented when a pop fly hit it. Cool.

I don't remember where the next field was. I do know that in fifth grade, I went to one of Courtney's soccer games, and realized--I HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE, IN ANOTHER LIFE. And I do know that I used to have basketball practices there.

Courtney's parents didn't stand with me while she played. Actually, I think they made it a point to get away from me. So as I watched all my friends play soccer, feeling very lonely and tired, my gaze landed on a baseball field. With one of those big metal chain link cages behind the plate. And just beyond that, a playground. It was terribly small. But it was surrounded by large rocks. Ones that would have previously served as shelter. Because I was not safe there. There were bad people there.

Incidentally, back at Nelson Park, I owned the playground, so to speak. I just went wherever I wanted. I didn't boss people around, I didn't force them out of the tube slide, but I didn't have to sacrifice the best swing either.

But now I was in dangerous waters, in this new foreign baseball place. I didn't know the kids. I didn't care to know them either. All I knew was that there was cool equipment and I wanted to check it out.

Who was that awful boy? The one whose gang picked me out as the new girl and pushed me around? Was he older than me? I can't properly see his face in my mind anymore. But I remember feeling very different towards him. Not so much contempt as it was fear. Not timid fear. I just wasn't used to being pushed around. I still am not used to it, because I push other people around. Once, at Grammy's, she asked me what was wrong when I was crying in the basement.

"Nothing, I just want to be alone."

She insisted I tell her. I felt stupid saying what I said, but she wouldn't leave me alone. "I just... Amanda is so much stronger than me, and I'm not used to people being stronger than me, so it just makes me feel bad, okay?"

She stifled one of her hmhm! laughs and left. DON'T LAUGH AT ME, I'M INSECURE, I screamed in my head.

But that was the same outlook I had had nearly five years earlier on this playground. This awful, awful bully pushed me around. It wasn't stupid little kid teasing. It was vicious, to the point that I wanted to break his nose or something, but couldn't. He threw gravel at my eyes, or knocked me off a balance beam thing. He chased me up the ladder! Over the rope bridge! Down the scorching metal slide! Up some tires! Down a fire pole! I ran to the rocks, wanting to scream at him, LEAVE ME ALONE, but that would draw attention from parents. A playground bully, that's what he was. They exist.

I hid behind rocks, drawing circles in the dirt until my brother's game ended, and we'd go get Papa Gino's or something. Or if the evil boy found me there, I'd run to my mom, and he'd yell, "Hiding behind your mommy? Hiding behind your mommy?"

If I knew who that boy was today, I would kick off his kneecaps and tell him to fuck. off.

- Molly{8:33 pm}

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