Oakley, Bosten, Rowan, and the Whoopie cushion.Oakley and Rowan build things.Rowan and Oakley eat a feast at Mom’s.Rowan and Oakley graze at Grandma Helen’s.Oakley checks out Roxy’s fat belly.
Although we lived primarily “up north” until 2017, we also had the house next door to Mom and Dad in Delta. We called it The Desert Beach House. We spent almost every holiday and school break there. Rowan and I spent most of each summer there, and Suzanne would join us for a couple of weeks when work allowed. Suzanne spent most of her time in Delta sleeping and sewing. Rowan spent a lot of his Delta time hanging around with whatever configuration of “the kids” was over at Mom’s. He watched them grow up, even as he grew up himself. They all got along, but as I look back, I think Oakley and Bosten seemed to find themselves trailing Rowan around most often. In the first photo here, you see the three of them in Rowan’s room filling up a Whoopie cushion which they would later place on Mom’s chair on the porch. Mom was a good sport when she sat on on it. She played up her surprise dramatically as she slowly sat down on it, making the fart sounds last an inordinately lengthy time. The kids found ways to slip it under her over and over throughout the day. Mom played along long past her patience with the trick had worn thing. They all enjoyed the Whoopie cushion, but Mom wasn’t upset when Rowan and the kids, for some reason, couldn’t find where I accidentally on purpose lost it for a while.
One day when Oakley was maybe 3 or 4, Rowan and a bunch of the kids had been playing outside between the two yards, when he came into our house and sat down with great exaggeration and accompanying loud sighs of frustration. I asked him what was wrong. He blurted out, “I had to get away!” He continued, “Oakley won’t quit talking! Why does Oakley ask so many questions?” I knew exactly what he meant. But I laughed, because talking incessantly and asking question after question about everything, from morning until night—well, that was a trait Rowan and Oakley shared. Rowan was the talkative pot calling the kettle chatty. I am grateful I had the chance to be the audience for their verbal conversation marathons for so many years.
Here I am, on Oakley’s inaugural 4th of July, reluctantly handing her off to whoever was the next person clamoring to give her loves and spoil her for a while. Over the years, there have been times I couldn’t remember where I had tucked away this or that photo. But I have always known exactly where my Oakley-and-me-at-the-parade photo is, whatever house I’ve had it in.
If you have ever experienced a July 4th in Delta, you know it feels like practically every person who lives in the vicinity of the town—or once lived there, or was born there, or married someone who was born there, or whose car once broke down there—is uptown at the parade. Prime viewing spots are carefully claimed and staked out with groups of empty chairs, days before the big event. Most people in the community are good to unofficially “grandfather in” certain spots for families who have sat in the same viewing spots for literally generations. If you drive east over the overpass during the days before the 4th, and look out to the other end of Main Street, you’ll see empty chairs lining both sides of the street, from one end of the town to the other. You’ll see what looks like a version of the Parting of the Red Sea: imagine waves and walls of chairs instead of water. It’s a vast canyon of beach chairs, lawn chairs, church folding chairs, piano benches, kitchen chairs, and the occasional recliner that lines the street. On the 4th itself, the chairs are full of revelers early, for the the parade and its accompanying festivities.
About now, y’all are wondering what this description of 4th of July chairs has to do with Oakley. I fully intended to use this post to write about some of the Independence Day hi-jinks I saw her pull over the years, but another blade of grief just hit. I cannot write another word right now. That’s the best answer I can give you. Photos prompt too much feeling in us sometimes. I have to stop.
Here are some photos of a small Oakley, in my Delta living room. Her Frida Kahlo eyebrows were already coming in strong. Those rubber balls she just had to have hit the living room walls more times than I can count that day. Seriously, that girl could throw with gusto!
Whenever a new Delta grandniece or grandnephew was born into the family while I still had the house next door to Mom’s in Delta, after holding each of the babies for the first time, a word would come to me about a trait I suspected they harbored somewhere in the core of their spirit. It felt kind of like I got a vibe from the baby’s soul. I have kept a list of each child’s word, but I have not shared them with anyone, not even the kids themselves. The word that came to my mind as I held Oakley Jane Shiner in my arms for the first time was this: WHIP-SMART. As you who knew Oak must already know, my vibe was accurate. Oakley had a keen mind. Always. I think she was working on how to make her whip-smart brain show us something wild and original. It’s a pity we won’t see what brilliance she could brew up for us to see.
Oakley’s funeral will be held at the Delta 1st Ward on Saturday, October 8, at 11 a.m.. Viewings will be held Friday, 5:30 to 7:30 p.m. at the Nickle Mortuary; and at the Delta 1st Ward Saturday, 9:30 to 10:40 a.m., prior to the service.
If you feel inclined to donate funds to assist with Oakley’s funeral and hospital bills, there is an account in her name, Oakley Shiner, at any branch of Zion’s Bank.
TIE O’ THE DAY is in mourning over the loss of my grandniece, Oakley Jane Shiner. She would have been 18 next month, on November 4th. For those of y’all who might not already know, Oakley was a passenger in a horrible car crash in Delta on Saturday. She was first taken to Delta Community Hospital, and then she was taken by Life Flight to Utah Valley Hospital—where she died later that night. She was surrounded by her family, and we adored her. Suzanne and I were blessed to be there. Oakley went peacefully, except for the sound of our crying and our hearts breaking inside her hospital room. Her siblings, Calab and Kenna were with her through the last moments of her life. They will miss their big sister immensely. Oakley’s promising life had barely begun. It would have been a blast to see all the places she would have taken herself in life. We love you, Oakley. And we missed you the moment you left us. By the way, your make-up looked spiffy right up to the end.
I want to do a few more posts about Oakley throughout this week. I found some pictures of Oakley and my Rowan that I wish to share. Also, a secure fund is being set up this morning at one of the local banks. All funds donated to this account will go directly to pay funeral costs and hospital bills. Nobody will be able to access the money for any other purpose. I’m sure I will be able to give you the specifics of where to donate to this fund in my afternoon post today. Oakley’s funeral arrangements have not yet been finalized, and I hope I can give you that information this afternoon, as well. Thank you for the condolences you have already shared with me and the rest of Oakley’s family.
In Oakley’s name, hug your kids and grandkids a little tighter today. 💔💔
Skitter and I made our way to see Mom yesterday, on what was her 92nd birthday. I told her she’s had so many birthdays that she’s starting to go backwards in time: I told her she didn’t look a day over 29. Someone on the staff stuck their head into her room to check on her and Mom informed them she’s 29. When the staff person was gone, Mom winked at me and said, “Do you think they believed me?”
The first thing Mom said to me when I walked in was not “Hi!” Nope. She said, “You just missed Joyce Moody! She gave me this pillow.” And then she showed me the birthday card Joyce gave her, and we laughed about that. Mom clutched her new pillow the entire time I was there.
I brought Mom another stash of snacks. Gummy bears are always a hit with her. I introduced her to pretzel bites filled with peanut butter, which she fell in love with. I also gave her a Fruity Pebbles Birthday Cake candy bar, which she finished off right before the nurse came in to check her blood sugar. Oh, boy! I felt like apologizing to the nurse for Mom’s extra high blood sugar. But the nurse didn’t fuss about it. “I’ll just give her some insulin,” she said. Whew! As far as I’m concerned, when you’re 92 you can eat whatever sugary things your heart desires. When I gave Mom her Hostess Birthday Cupcakes, I decked one out with candles. I explained to Mom that I thought it wise to not attempt to put 92 candles on it, so I just went with the 2 candles—plus the one orange Bow Tie o’ the Day candle at the very front of it. I love Mom’s photo here. Still clutching her birthday pillow, she’s giving the thumbs up. I chose her birthday tiara to sort of match with the purple housecoat I guessed she’d be wearing. And yes, Mom managed to easily blow out all of her candles. We had the best time together yesterday. I love Mom so very much. I can’t wait until next year—when Mom turns 28. 🎂 🎈
The grocery bag Mom is checking out is the stash o’ candy we gave her.Mom and her purple housecoat, earrings, and snowman pin. Again.Suzanne and Mom talked about something serious which they wouldn’t tell me about, so I know they must have been talking about me. I don’t yet know if I’m in trouble with either and/or both of them.
With all due respect to the recently departed Queen Elizabeth, Queen Helen is NOT dead. We made a jaunt down the road to visit with Mom, and she is as alive as can be. In fact, she’s unstoppable. At some point in our lively conversation Mom mentioned she’s “quite content” to spend time in her room. She says she doesn’t “jingle” like she used to. She quickly corrected her mistake, saying she meant to say “mingle.” Then she went off on a rift about how she’s had a good, long life and she has—in her words—”jingled, jangled, and mingled all over the place.” She kept repeating that she had jingled, jangled, and mingled. I said, “Gee, Mother, you make it sound like you were a stripper!” To which she replied, “And your dad loved it!” Talk about wearing your feelings on the sleeve of your purple housecoat! That’s how Queen Helen rolls.
Mom assured us she’s not ready to die just yet, because she knows exactly where she’s going to go when she does: to Hell, of course, according to no one but her. We told her not to worry because we and Skitter will be there, too, so that works out okay. That got us all talking about sitting around and making s’mores over the fires of Hell, and Mom was all for that. Suzanne reminded us that Hell can be hot, but it can also be “as cold as Hell.” Suzanne said this is a good thing, because we can make those s’mores when we’re in the hot part, and we can eat ice cream when we’re in the cold part. Either way, I’m positive it’ll be nothing less than tasty as Hell. 🔥 🍫 ❄️ 🍦
Socks Bow Ties o’ the Day and I were trying very hard to think of a way to wrap up my posts about my preoccupation with books. But we quickly realized I can never completely wrap up said book-y posts. I will never run out of book stories or my praise for books and reading, so think of this as the end of official book-related posts, but for only a limited time. Let’s consider this an intermission of sorts. Book posts and references will no doubt show up in posts from time to time—until I eventually declare it to be time for another series o’ posts about my printed and paged friends.
When I was in the 1st and 2nd grades at Delta Elementary School, there was a silly rule that girls had to wear dresses. This was a stoopid rule, and I don’t even think it was officially written down anywhere. It was just the way it was. I cannot begin to tell you how much the “rule” curtailed the girls’ playground actvities. Even if you wore shorts under your dress, hanging upside down on the monkey bars was only for the bravest of girls who were willing to risk getting in trouble for what gravity does to a dress when you hang upside down from the monkey bars. Heck, even hanging right-side-up on the monkey bars created a problem—especially if you were up high. Boys seemed to like looking up at what could be seen of girls simply playing on the monkey bars, but that was just a creepy things girls had to endure if they wanted to climb the monkey bars. The slide, the merry-go-round, and the swings had different, but very much the same, dress perils.
When wearing dresses during those early elementary years, I always wore white knee socks. Occasionally, I got a beige pair of knee-highs. What excitement! The best thing about wearing knee socks was—and still is—the stealth they can provide for carrying contraband. In my case, the contraband was usually a small book and mini notebook and pencil. And Chapstick! I always had Chapstick. Still do. I walked around with bulging socks most of the time when I wore dresses, because girl dresses tended to come with no pockets—yet another stoopid “rule” the clothing manufacturers followed as if it were a law. Who ever came up with the not-brilliant idea that girls didn’t carry stuff and didn’t need pockets? Had these clothing people never seen a real girl in the world, in her natural environment? I’ll make this simple for clothing manufacturers who still make pocketless clothes meant for girls: every being on the planet needs pockets—especially children. There is no exception to this.
My knee-high socks also bulged with raw sliced turnips whenever they were part of the school lunch in elementary school. I was one of the few kids who liked turnips. Sometimes, the lunch lady would get in a huff and wouldn’t excuse a table if every kid hadn’t taken at least one bite out of each food item on their plate. When turnip slices were on the menu, I let everyone at my table know that I would be more than happy to take their turnip slices off their hands ASAP so we could get excused for lunch recess. Kids at nearby lunch tables got in on my scheme too. I’d accept the turnips until my socks were packed. With socks chock-full, I had the lower legs of The Elephant Man. The lunch lady would excuse our table, with nary a turnip to be seen on a kid’s tray, but I had to time my getaway with utmost care—for when she was looking in an entirely different direction. If she had laid eyes on my temporarily deformed legs, she would have made the coming years of my elementary lunchroom life more Hell than it already was. I never got caught.
Of course, even though I didn’t get caught with the turnips, it doesn’t mean I didn’t do that thing every kid has to try: I stole something. I stole a book from the Rexall, a Delta drugstore which used to be on the corner where Curley’s is now located. The movie, The Godfather had just come out in movie theaters, and I wanted to read the book. I was a sad case that day because the city library didn’t have it, nor did the elementary library (duh!). It was checked out of the Bookmobile, and there was a waiting list. The high school secretary told me I couldn’t use DHS’ library due to my excessive youth, so I don’t even know if DHS had it. And then, on my way home from my ever-disappointing search for the un-findable book—The Godfather, somewhere, anywhere in the environs of my hometown—I saw the book, my day’s Holy Grail, on the rotating kiosk of paperbacks at the Rexall: The Godfather, by Mario Puzo. My family didn’t have a charge account the Rexall at the time, and I did not have the 4 bucks to purchase the book. I had to have this book. Must. Have. Book! I casually stuffed it in my sock when no one was looking my way. It wasn’t easy to get it in the sock because The Godfather was one of those bigly thick books I don’t cotton to. I sort of slid-walked sideways to the door closest to me. I made it out of the Rexall with my horrible crime undetected. I amscrayed. I skedaddled. I booked it (pun intended). I fled like the scared petty criminal I knew I was. Who knew I could run home so fast in a dress and with a fat book deep in one of my knee-high socks?!
At first, I didn’t feel guilty at all about being a book thief. It was right after I finished reading The Godfather that I began to feel contrite. I had been wrong to steal it, and I felt the abject guilt in every cell of my body. I worried myself sleepless. I couldn’t secretly return the book because it was evident someone had read it. I knew I should tell my parents and the Rexall owner what I had done. But I took the chicken-y way out to try to absolve me of my guilt: when I had saved up the $4, I surreptitiously left it on one of the two Rexall counters by the cash register. No note of apology, no nothing—just the $4. I didn’t feel like I was ever quite even with the Rexall, but I did feel considerably better. And, most importantly, I knew I did not want to feel the way stealing made me feel, ever again.
Cursive is not my strong suit. My printing suffers from sever bouts of illegibility as well. This is the “lost” book today, as homely as when I originally “lost” it.
I once, accidentally-on-purpose, “lost” a book I had checked out from the Delta City Library because I wanted it for myself—and I wanted it right that minute. I checked it out knowing I had no intention of bringing it back. I know kids do things like that sometimes, but I must confess I was 36 at the time. It was in the year 2000, and I had just moved back to Delta from Maryland. I hadn’t bought my Hombre truck yet, so I couldn’t drive out of Delta to find a bookstore where I could try to get my own copy of the book. I couldn’t order it online because I needed it NOW. And I probably wouldn’t have been able to find a copy anyway since the book was not in print at the time. Two weeks later, I out-and-out lied when I confessed to the librarian I had “lost” the book. I paid the fine for losing it, which meant I paid the cost of the book—something like $26. Thus, I can truthfully say I bought the book, even though we all know I “lost” it with purpose and with glee.
And just what was this extraordinary book which so caused me to confiscate it for my eyes only? What book did I decide Delta library patrons could be deprived of, for my selfish benefit? It was a book about taxidermy—a field I couldn’t care less about. Its title was HOME BOOK OF TAXIDERMY AND TANNING, written by Gerald J. Grantz, published in 1969. I have no idea what specifically caused me to even pick it up and start thumbing through it s pages when I first encountered it on its library shelf. I could see from its check-out card that the book hadn’t been checked out for almost a decade before I borrowed it, so I didn’t feel too guilty for wanting to “lose” it. All I know is that when I opened up the pages of the smelly, misshapen, ugly book about taxidermy, I was inspired by sentences like these: “Spread the scalp out, flesh side up.” and, “Fold the skin once, flesh-to-flesh, roll it up and place it on a sloping surface to drain.” and, “Now fill the shell with chopped excelsior, tamping with a dowel.” I was intrigued by its jargon, and I simply had to have that book right then and there. Its pages immediately sparked in me this brilliant idea to write a book-length series of poems using taxidermy processes and terminology as metaphors for life and love.
Yes, folks, it is creativity like that which keeps me raiding my piggy bank as I approach my 60’s. I am rolling in the coinage. I have distinguished myself as a writer who has ideas about writing the absolutely least marketable books I possibly can. I live for the thrill of finding the perfect words to write the things most people don’t want to read. I’ve got a knack for it, coupled with all the wasted skills. Bearing this in mind, please be assured I’m perfectly content to know that an old book about taxidermy made me a minor thief of public resources, sort of. I got a groovy idea for writing a book of poems out of it—a book which nobody will ever publish or read. And that’s good enough for me. 😆 📄 📝 🖋 📖 🤓
Folks, I forgot to wake up this morning. Technically, I got out of bed and went downstairs to the recliner, but I immediately fell asleep and slept for 3 more hours. I never do this sort of thing. And even when I finally did wake up, I can’t say that I felt like I was fully awake. A few minutes before 3 this afternoon, I suddenly felt like my eyes finally opened wide enough to qualify me as actually being awake. That was my good luck, because Judge Judy begins at 3 and I do not miss it. Perfect timing.
Check out this repeat from August 2018.
BEES GOTTA BE WHO THEY BE
Before Bow Tie o’ the Day and I can wreak havoc on Davis County today, we’re jumping in the car to go visit my regular doctor. You see—I am in dire need of re-upping my EpiPen supply. In all the hub-bub of selling the Delta house last year, I didn’t take time to get my yearly EpiPen prescription. My current injectors expired months ago.
The irony of my needing to carry EpiPens is that I am allergic to bee stings, which is not the best allergy to have when your father is a beekeeper and the bee warehouse is in your backyard. Bees around your house can make for some tense times. Oddly, my allergy didn’t kick in until I was 16. Getting stung was a somewhat regular occurrence in my childhood. I considered the bees my siblings, and sometimes we fought. It was really no big deal. I even worked in the warehouse sometimes and hung around with Dad in bee yards.
But the summer I was 16, I was wrangling some hollyhocks growing up against our house, and I got stung by a bee who was enjoying the ‘hocks. A couple of minutes later, I couldn’t stop sneezing. I decided to settle my sneezing by lying down on the couch with a cold rag on my forehead. I had a hard time catching my breath, and when Mom saw me she asked why I was turning blue. That’s when I connected how I was feeling to the bee sting. I hadn’t even considered a sting being the cause of how I felt because I’d been stung a thousand times before without any problems.
So off we went to the old Delta Hospital. I was not breathing well at all. My appendages were swelling up. My eyelids swelled up to the point I couldn’t open them. But I did get four shoes—sort of—out of my bee sting hospital visit. Apparently, when I got into the ER, the nurses needed to take off my shoes. When they couldn’t get my Nike’s off my swollen feet, they cut them off me. Thus, two shoes became four partial shoes. I’ve been armed with EpiPens, all of the time from that point onward.
I was officially excused from helping Dad in the warehouse or in bee yards ever again. And that was kinda sad.
I figured that would get y’all’s attention, but I assure you this is a clean and family-friendly post. It does have its serious moments, though. For the past few weeks, I’ve been cogitating about the idea of “bodily autonomy”: the idea that your body is your own, and that you are the ultimate decider of what you do or do not do with it. Personally, I’m all-in with bodily autonomy. If I’m not the one in charge of my body, please tell me who or what my body belongs to and I will kindly buy it back from its enslaved state of being. Also, I think whoever owns my body needs to pay the bills for its care and feeding, and for the mortgage on where it dwells. Seriously, I am quite certain the only “owner” of my body is me.
It was while contemplating bodily autonomy this afternoon that I remembered one of the many times I got sent to the principal at dear old Delta High School, and it had to do with my breasts. Let me say this at the outset: in my entire DHS career, I never got sent to the principal for doing anything even vaguely considered wrong—except maybe for the time I mooned a trucker while on the volleyball team bus, on our way home from Grand County. I got invited to the principal’s office somewhat regularly because I was simply—but constantly—outspoken about the issues of the times, and my ideas didn’t always sit well with the powers-that-be. I think I made certain people uncomfortable by giving them something to think about. (Story of my life.)
Anyhoo… Back to the breasticles tale. At the time I attended DHS, grades 1-6 were in Delta Elementary and grades 7-12 were in the high school. My cups started to overfloweth beginning in the 5th grade, so by the time my chest and I walked through the DHS doors and into the 7th grade, I was—as Mom would say—”quite busty.” It wasn’t so bad in 5th and 6th grade, probably because some of the guys my age had seen me punch a kid in the face on the playground one day in 5th grade when—I’ll say it this way—he encroached upon my body’s personal space. By the time the kid and I were finished slugging it out, I had him pinned up against the side of the school. I was even wearing a dress at the time! Our fists flew until the playground monitor dragged me away. The guys my age knew I could handle myself. But the older guys in DHS were a whole different experience for me. I learned quickly that the testosterone runs amok in high school boys, if you know what I mean.
The result of the older boys’ hormones included a near-daily regimen of bra-snapping. I saw it happened to other girls, too. It happened in class. It happened in the halls. It happened in the gym at sports events. Bra-snapping occurred in the auditorium and lunch room. Adults were usually around and seemed to see no problem with the practice. I am here to tell you: it was never fun to have my bra snapped or undone. It was never fun to be groped in the process. But from what I could tell, it was a fact of high school life. It was a constant reminder that puberty had somehow magically made my body accessible to boys in this way. They seemed to have permission to do these things. Nobody tried to stop it. It was a daily reminder that my community thought it was perfectly normal for my body to be touched in a sexualized way by someone else, whether or not I invited that touch. I learned my body was not completely mine, but was meant to be used in certain ways by whatever guy on his demand, even in public. Indeed, whenever the bra got snapped, laughter filled the area. Some male teachers laughed too. It never seemed to get boring to the guys who did it. It was like they had just then thought it up and did it for the first time. Every time.
The messages girls are sent through our tolerating this kind of unwanted behavior is not innocent. The more it happened, the less I felt like I could say anything about it. Every bra-snap, every grope, every time someone undid my bra—each unwanted touch took a tiny piece of me away. And when it happens so many times, the smallest of things can add up to something monolithic. That’s how it works. Just because an occurrence seems minor, it doesn’t mean it’s okay. Sometimes, it takes a lifetime to un-learn the idea that you are not your own. I am 58, and I still have to remind myself it is not my job to make everybody else happy, at the expense of my own happiness. This idea extends to my body.
So here’s the story I’ve been leading up to telling. One day in my 9th grade year, I was walking down the hall to class. You can guess what happened. SNAP! It happened once, and I girded up my loins and calmly walked on. Then it almost immediately happened a second time. Yup, a second guy snapped my bra when I was about 10 feet past the first bra-snapper. That was it! This had gone on for over two years, and I had had enough! I had reached my limit, and then some. I threw down my books and stood silently in the middle of the hall, amidst a bunch of older students. I pulled both arms inside the sleeves of the t-shirt I was wearing. Whereupon, I unhooked my bra and I wriggled out of it. I did the Bra’s-Coming-Off-Right-Now-Squirm that bosomy women especially know how to do with such finesse. I stuck my arms back out my sleeves and reached down my shirt to yank my bra out the collar of my shirt. I threw the bra on the floor of the hall, picked up my books, and went wherever I had been going. There was silence as I walked away. When I turned a corner into another hall, the laughter began. I did not care one bit. Note that Delta is a small town, so I had known these guys and their families all my life. I considered most of them friends and still do. They clearly saw nothing wrong with what they did, which means they literally did not pay attention to my expression or hear my words whenever they behaved this way. To them, I wasn’t the point, or a person—but an object. I learned a lesson from that, too, as all girls do to some extent from the accumulation of all these tiny infringements: how a guy’s actions made me feel did not matter as much as what a guy wants to do to a girl to show-off for his friends—to get a laugh and an “attaboy” at a girl’s expense.
Fast forward 20 minutes to the loudspeaker calling me from class to the principal’s office. My bra was sitting on the principal’s desk when I walked in. He left his office to give me privacy in which to put it back on. And then, when he came back in, I got read the riot act, albeit only half-heartedly. He understood what I was about, for the most part. A phone call to Mom ensued, during which she told the principal she thought I was completely in the right to make my point in a dramatic way. She also said that if I was ever touched again, she would bring the ladies from her book club to DHS to patrol the halls to ensure girls could walk the halls in safety. The principal did not disagree that the bra-snapping was inappropriate and needed to end. In fact, he usually agreed with my take on things, but he also usually felt compelled to punish me for my unorthodox methods to make my points. I was then written-up for my “disruptive and inappropriate behavior.” I’m sure the write-up still sits somewhere in the file that is my permanent record. Of course, no bra-snappers were talked to or disciplined in any way. I can remember saying, as I left his office, “I’m not the problem. You need to be having a talk with the fine gentlemen in this school.” He replied, “You’re right.” But no such meeting ever happened. This simplest definition of feminism, shown here on my t-shirt, apparently hadn’t reached Delta yet in 1979: feminism is the radical notion that women are people.
My bras continued to be snapped for the duration of my high school days, but it happened significantly less often after my silent striptease meltdown in the hall. The killer irony for me was when I went to church the Sunday after I had met with the principal, the second dude who snapped my bra in the hall the day I’d had enough was the one who passed the Sacrament to my row. I’m not going to lie: I felt sick to my stomach. ⛪️
