When You Remember Who You Are

“This is my long, luxurious blonde hair. Ain't it pretty? I could put it in a ponytail.” The Blonde Girl was on stage; a blonde-colored coat adorned her head, completely hiding a mass of kinky black hair. “Wanna see?”

She half-turned away from the audience, playing with her “hair”. The actress on stage was a young Whoopi Goldberg starring in her one-woman show called the Whoopi Monologues. The monologues featured five distinct human portraits revealing deep and diverse slices of life. Recently on The View, Whoopi explained that she kept those characters in her head and drew inspiration from people she saw. There was something about the way she said it that caught my attention. The monologues show us a diverse mix of humanity and "reflects the audience and the world in a beautiful way because this one brilliant woman made a pathway for us all." (See link to The View, 4:33-4:45) I wondered if I had characters rattling around in my head, and if I did, what might they reveal? I certainly had something to say about Little Miss Perfect. This notion of perfection dogged me for most of my life.

Being born into a preacher's family meant God was a constant presence in our home. God's book was sometimes scary and hard to understand, which was a problem. Would I be smitten if I didn't know all the rules? Honor your mother and father, and remember the Sabbath to keep it holy, and do not kill.

Killing differed from smiting, I was told. We weren't supposed to kill, but God could smite. In my mind, a list of things that might make the Sabbath holy and honor my mother and father–which meant to obey them–would include wearing my best dress and coat, gloves, polished shoes, and a hat to Sunday morning church. I figured I got extra points because I always shined my father's shoes, too. Maybe there were other rules; I wasn't sure. Hopefully, I wouldn't get smitten. I was seven, so I tried my very best to be little Miss Perfect.

One Sunday, we must have been in a hurry. I remember going through my list: best dress and coat, shined shoes, gloves, and hat. Check. Before the first hymn, I dropped my offering envelope on the floor and bent over to pick it up. Gasps escaped from pursed lips around me.

My mother's do-it-now-or-else voice pierced my consciousness, “ALICE, stand up.”

I jerked back up thinking That's it, I'm going to be smitten. I'd forgotten to put my underwear on before I put on my dress. Nobody ever discussed the faux pas again and I didn't die that day, but little Miss Perfect did. Shame crept inside as I realized I wasn't perfect, even with a list.

“Batter up!” The boy with the bat stepped up to the plate. I turned my baseball cap around so I could see and crouched behind home plate, waiting for the pitch. The pitcher dropped his pitching arm to his side.

“What's up?”

“Better put on a helmet.”

At nine years old, I knew what I was doing. “No, I can't see properly with that thing on. I'll be all right.”

I should have listened, but I was too busy being one of the boys. They chose me to be the back catcher, knowing I was a skilled baseball player. I could run fast, and my tall frame and lanky arms and legs could stretch if I had to catch a wayward ball. My nickname was “Reach” or “Stretch”. Those names were badges of honor.

The pitcher tossed his ball purposefully into his mitt, raised his right foot, and let it fly. I knew exactly where that ball would land and was ready. I didn't count on the batter being able to hit the ball. It tipped off the top of his bat straight into my right eye.

“FOUL BALL!”

In slow-motion, I stood up, stunned; my hands flew to my eye. Blood was dripping, and a pulsing sensation began in my head.

Thank goodness the boys grabbed me by both arms and guided me home. “Oh no, her mom's gonna be so pissed.”

“It was my fault. She won't be mad 'cause I refused to put the mask on.” Turning to the pitcher, “You told me to, and I didn't listen.”

I was aware of the shocked and contrite emotions from the boys. They were really worried, but I was still riding high from being allowed to play with them. Reality stepped in at that moment, and I knew I wouldn't be playing with the boys ever again. Growing up was so hard.

There were many characters floating around in my head. The last one in this post took place at a music festival. My mom was the resident music teacher in our small town. Naturally, she also taught my two sisters and me piano and voice. While I sucked at playing piano, I had a pleasant voice honed by years singing in church choirs. I was about eleven years old.

This festival was a big one. My mom chose a song for me to sing based on an old English traditional song. Cecil J. Sharp recorded it and included in his English folk songs from the Southern Appalachians.1 Lots of variations were around in the 1960s.

“Old woman, old woman, will you do my darning?”

“Speak a little louder, sir. I'm very hard of hearing.”

“Old woman, old woman, are you fond of weaving?”

“Speak a little louder, sir. I'm very hard of hearing.”

The song has about five verses, but these are all the lyrics I can remember. I also remember changing my voice to imitate the old man and the old woman. Each time the old woman's high voice requested the old man speak a little louder, the old man's lower voice got consecutively louder. At the end of the song, the old man, suspecting the old woman's hearing was just fine, asked in a barely audible voice, 

“Old woman, old woman, do you want to marry me?”

She replies and belts out as loud as she can, “Lord, have mercy on my soul. I hear you very clearly.”

Every time I sang that song, my mom told me to aim my sound at the back row of the audience. When I performed it, the entire audience jumped at the last line, and the judges awarded me the highest mark in the festival. I even got a trophy, but it wasn't the trophy or the high mark I cherished.

 Somehow, I loved becoming a different person on stage; I loved being one of the boys, and I learned over many years that being little Miss Perfect was not a character I could or wanted to sustain throughout my life. Each of these characters in my head helped me cope with life as I grew up.

Coping with life meant the real me, the empathic-sensitive-imaginative-studious-serious-athletic-daydreamer-voracious reader me, needed to hide. The characters in my head seemed to be more acceptable to others growing up than my real self. Over time, I realized how destructive that was and devoted a good amount of time remembering. The first book in my Hole to Whole Memoir series is the story of how I realized I had been hiding and what happened as I recovered my authentic self. Today I can say with certainty that when you remember who you are, you learn you are more than enough just as you are.

1. Sharp, Cecil J., English Folk Songs from the Southern Appalachians. Maud Karpeles, ed. London: Oxford University Press, 1932. Reprint, 1973. II: 252.)