The Birds and Bees Revisited

Love letters and trash cans

Thinking this works for “Funny Sunday” and maybe even “Thorny Thursday”.

When I was young, I first felt something bordering on love for my partner-in-crime, Skip (read all about him in Escape from the Garden Part One and Escape from the Garden Part Two). But it was more of a fascination, not even yet a crush - something about him felt both kindred and alien. He was kindred because he seemed to think and react to situations like me, but he was alien simply by virtue of being a boy with all that seemed to entail. Back then male/female was pretty straightforward – it definitely had something to do with genitals, and though I had never seen the nether regions of a male, I knew these parts were secret somethings to keep hidden and not talk about…unless you wanted to ask your mother who would regale you with stories of eggs, sperms, swimming and such. She used medical book Illustrations but only of the body’s inside, never the outside. Female ones looked like some kind of upside-down bottle with two curved arms sporting bulbous growths.  Male ones looked like something that should slither through the water, and lo and behold I did learn, that there actually were little squirmy bug-like things that swam! These creatures had a mind of their own and were intent on getting into the upside-down bottle, but by what means was never explained, illustrations or otherwise. By the time my mother reached this point, I would become quite bored, and our birds and bees talk (which I’ve never known why it is called that, does anyone?) ended with some admonitions to never show your secret parts and never look at anyone else’s secret parts, which I had no desire to do anyway especially if they had some squirmy little bugs hidden with questionable intentions.

Enough about my Skip phase.

I started first grade at five years old right before turning six. Schools back in those days began on Labor Day and ended on Memorial Day – I was born in September which meant I was usually one of the youngest and probably weirdest by virtue of having been surrounded only by cornfields and dogs in my formative years. In addition, I did not attend pre-school (there was no such thing) nor kindergarten so I didn’t have a chance to see what the world of other kids was really like. Nah, it wasn’t the dogs and cornfields, and it wasn’t even the lack of being around other kids, I was just weird – trying to keep it real here. 

I started in Catholic school wearing a cute little plaid uniform and toting a black book that was to teach me all I needed to know about how to talk to God. Silent sisters glided through the halls like female Gandolfs decked out in black and white robes of magic and power. They saw everything you did and punishment for infractions was swift and memorable (you can read a little bit about what my school years were like in Did it All Start in Third Grade. Note: I’m not consciously trying to plug my other stories and up their reader count, it’s just that most people need a little remedial help in better understanding weirdos (not a nerd, not a geek, not even a full-blown dork…everyone seems to have an intuitive ability to get these guys).

Anyway, after my first bout of Catholic school (from which I suffered another episode later), Mother decided her girl child would be better served by public school (really, I think it was all about saving the cost of tuition so that her golden boy could flourish under the watchful eyes of nuns throughout his school career). So, after being yanked from Catholic school for whatever reason, I started mid-year first grade at a little rural public school near my house. It was so different. There were no emissaries of God patrolling the halls, so it was easier to get by with things, a lot easier. We said pledges instead of prayers and there was no mass every morning where you had to go with an empty stomach so as not to mix your icky digesting food with the essence of Jesus at communion. I didn’t know anyone and felt like an alien who had landed on some planet inhabited by incomprehensible beings.

I began by quietly observing the ways of my new world. I can’t say honestly, I wanted to fit in at this point, mostly I wanted to understand. There was a lot more girl-boy interaction here, we weren’t separated by seats, playgrounds or assigned benches in the lunchroom and certain kids seemed to enjoy this novel state called, ‘popularity’. I was pretty young when I started Catholic school and must have missed noticing these chosen ones…or maybe, for some reason popularity was not as important a factor in first grade Catholic school, probably with all that time given to prayers and not getting into trouble with the nuns I was a bit behind developmentally.

I noticed being in the in-crowd had nothing to do with brains or even looks, though I was not good at judging the aesthetics of hair, skin, face and body features - things that culture would eventually teach me are considered either beautiful or ugly. But I did notice that clothes and accoutrements seemed to play a huge role in attaining this state of popularity. Also, it was important not to stink - more kids seemed to do so here than in my Catholic school. Were certain kids for some reason destined to shine and others to stink? I concluded they probably were, but hoped I would find other options to shining or stinking that could best fit my personality. What might it feel like to be popular I wondered? By the end of first grade, I had gathered many useful observations and resolved to devote a bit of time thinking on it come summer as long as it didn’t interfere too much with my dogs and playing in the cornfields.

Second grade started.

I was still six years old for a few days – some of the stinky kids, mostly boys, were eight and one was even nine. I was astounded to learn that some got to do a grade over but even with this advantageous leg-up on experience and wisdom, did not move in the coveted circles of popularity. This realization caused me to doubt that my part-time study and analysis over the summer would produce any positive results in breaking the code of popularity.  Still, I maintain even now, I did not crave the mantle of popularity, I just wanted to understand how it worked and what it was all about. Right, you say, how could that be - everyone wants to be liked, commented favorably upon or restacked. Weirdo. Remember?

I noticed a few other weirdos like me – ones that didn’t stink but still didn’t enjoy any level of popularity. No one paid attention to them and they were oddly uninterested in each other. I attempted to find common ground but to no avail. One boy was obsessed with comic books (Mother didn’t allow comic books, so he was already suspect). A dark-haired girl quietly drew beautiful horses in all sorts of poses; I studied her expertise and decided she was good. I complimented her horses and asked if she might draw me with some dogs in a cornfield. She looked at me like I was nuts and hid her drawings away in her desk while rudely staring at the wall and refusing any further exchange. I decided to leave the remaining weirdos alone.

Ultimate popular girl: Jaymie Leighton. I can’t tell you the ultimate popular boy because I had fallen under the spell of Jaymee’s one and only boyfriend, Robert Cosby and while he was not unpopular, he spent most of his time mooning around Jaymee instead of amongst the tight little circle of popular boys. Each day before class he sat protectively on her desk as they exchanged smiles, Jaymie mostly giggled and rolled her eyes. Robert (known as Bobby - does anyone remember the song, “I Want to be Bobby’s Girl”? I sang it every day at the top of my lungs on my walk home from school until he flunked fifth grade, and we went our separate ways).  

The second-grade fates had smiled upon me as Bobby sat in the seat next to me. I noticed he struggled with the written word. In those days, we were usually divided into little groups with animal names from bad, to better, to best (Elephants, Tigers and Giraffes) so that we could sit in separate circle times and impress each other with our reading prowess. Occasionally, the teacher would forgo the split-up and turns would be taken around the whole class to read a paragraph or two out loud.

Whenever it was Bobby’s turn, it was painful. He lost his place, he mispronounced, he skipped lines and invented words. The teacher, Mrs. Davis, who would later slap me across the mouth in the cloak room (a whole other story), would show signs of annoyance and hiss corrections at him. After a time, I got tired of this and started to whisper quietly the correct word to him while hiding my face behind my raised book. He at first ignored my assistance for some reason known only to the Bobby’s of this world, but then started to take my hints and progressed better through his paragraphs. He gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement each time but had no interest in talking or even smiling at me. It felt really silly, but once I tried giggling and rolling my eyes like I had seen Jaymie do, he just looked at me strangely, so I quit.

The two love birds liked to pass notes and I was one of the go-betweens. There was an unwritten code of conduct that if you were enlisted in the clandestine passing of notes between anyone in class, even your enemies, you did your best to pass it well and true without getting caught. If you allowed the teacher to intercept, a world of hurt awaited you on the playground (another difference between this place and Catholic school – the emissaries of God would have noticed at once, everyone knew better than to even try something like this). I successfully passed several of these notes until one day dying of curiosity, I only pretended to pass Bobby’s note. I asked to go to the restroom where I read it.  A big red heart adorned the outside and it said:

DEER JAYMIE
I LUV YOU?                       
DO YOU LUV ME.   YES   NO   (there were little red check boxes next to each choice!)
YORE FIEND, BOBBY 
FUREVR 
XXXX OOOO XXXX OOOO

Well, I really, really wanted to pen in some corrections to save the fool from himself, but then I thought, Jaymie has seen his grammatically disastrous notes before and is an obvious proponent of the school “it’s the thought that counts”. Mind you, I didn’t think any of this stuff in these sorts of words; I didn’t have the finesse to word things the way I do now (though the word finesse might be an embellishment), yet I assure you, I nevertheless had exactly these sorts of thoughts and feelings.

I came back to my seat and slipped Bobby’s note to the person caddy-corner behind me who passed it to the person next to her who gave it to Jaymie. I thought about that note for the rest of the day.

I tried writing several of my own love notes for the next week – all eventually ripped up and thrown away like first drafts of a doomed novel. Finally, I thought it best to keep it simple and follow the pattern already established; I didn’t need to include any sketches or fancy words (I had even asked horse girl to draw me some flowers and cupids, but since she only drew horses, that was a bust). I decided to just parrot Bobby’s words with a bit of editing,

My love note to Bobby read:

DEAR BOBBY,
I LOVE YOU. DO YOU LOVE ME? PLEASE ANSWER YES OR NO. 
       YES                       NO   (I kept the little red check boxes)
YOUR FRIEND,
TRACY
XXX OOO XXX OOO

The day my note was ready, I held it in my desk and sneaked it out to read off and on. The day passed but the note didn’t. Several days passed but the note didn’t. I’m not sure why I was insensitive to the fact that I was playing the fledgling role of homewrecker…I certainly didn’t continue this pattern later on in life. Perhaps it was because Jaymie was the most popular girl in class, and I wanted to feel what that sort of adoration felt like (especially from Bobby). Maybe I didn’t understand monogamy yet…or most likely, I didn’t care about any of this stuff as long as I could have that little red ‘yes’ box checked.

As I thought about giving my note to Bobby, I couldn’t help but compare him to Skip. Skip would have checked YES in a heartbeat, and he never would have gone for the likes of Jaymie Leighton…or was I just fooling myself? The world of birds and bees and boys and girls mystified me as much as my mother’s talks about it did.

Finally, I handed my note to Bobby right in front of Jaymie Leighton (obviously subterfuge was not my forte) as he perched on her desk before class started. Her big brown blank eyes registered nothing, his only puzzlement as he unfolded it. It took him a bit to read it (all that proper grammar and spelling didn’t help).

He frowned.

He looked mad.

All at once, Bobby dramatically ripped my love note up into little pieces and strode over to the trash can where he deposited it. All up in my face he said, “I don’t love anybody except my mom, God, and Jaymie Leighton!”

The bell rang, the teacher entered, and we took our seats.

Bobby and I didn’t look at each other but when it came time to read out loud and he stumbled as usual, I whispered the right words to him as usual – he accepted them and nodded his appreciation afterwards as usual.

It was a minor setback in my attempt to understand the ways of second grade in public school and the curious workings of the birds, bees and popularity. I wondered if it might have been better to have included a red check box for MAYBE, or one that said NOT AT THIS TIME.  

I lost track of Bobby over the years but ran into him in a bar I frequented in my mid-twenties, but that is another story. I never cracked the code of popularity, and the machinations of birds and bees continues even to this day to mystify. In college I seemed to be accepted in various popular cliques for reasons I never understood, but I’ve always had the heart of a wanderer and was drawn then as I am now to artists, musicians, writers and other weirdos like me.

Either 2nd or 3rd grade. Not going to say which one is me.