SOUL SAP

Broken Bird

My mom is the oldest of four kids, and even though they all grew up in Southern California, my grandparent's Arkansas roots were hard to dodge. Darlene was the youngest, and when she was about fourteen, my grandparents decided it was time to move back to Arkansas. She drew the short stick.

See, "The blacks" were apparently causing issues at their gas station, so naturally it was time for them to move five states over, while the rest remained in California.

I can only imagine the rest of the siblings giving one another high fives as the car sped off. As my dad described it, "We dodged a bullet. Darlene HAD to go because she was so young. I would have drown myself in the Pacific before I moved to Arkansas with your mother."

I think about what my life would have been like had my parents followed the dusty road to the South. What if I had become an Arkansas Girl? I don't have to think too hard to know how disastrous that could have been.

Aunt Marla and Uncle Kent had money. Kent was the second oldest sibling, and the only boy. After serving in Vietnam, he and his new bride, Marla, moved from California to Arkansas to be close to my grandparents. He started up his own auto body shop, and made a killing, which largely had to do with the fact that the people of Jonesboro are terrible drivers.

At least, that's what my grandma always said. We'd be driving around town and while in the back seat, I'd study the social experiment playing out in front of me.

Grandma Lucille would grab my grandpa's leg with welting strength and yell, "Honey! You watch that one right thar. He's crazy. He done put on those breaks without any warning!" Even at twelve, I knew that the brakes WERE the warning.

Aunt Marla and Uncle Kent had one child, my cousin Laurel. At sixteen, she was given a Porsche.

And let me tell you something else ... her wardrobe was like this boutique where I used to window shop in Corvallis called "The Closet". This shop had neon-colored wire racks that hung teenage couture such as Esprit, Benetton, and Calvin Klein. The salesgirl was a gum-chomping Cindy Lauper, and she knew me. She also knew I wasn't going to buy anything.

I studied my reflection in the window with homemade fingerless lace gloves gripping the Jolt cola bottle. Chipping away at my frosted nail polish, I longed for the day I'd have a job so I could afford to buy a Hypercolor sweatshirt.

I was about five years younger than Laurel, but already taller than her. My Aunt would ship boxes of clothes to our house in Oregon, and most of the items still had tags dangling from the armpits. I remember one Generra sweatshirt was the price of my entire "back to school" budget. So naturally I shredded it with scissors, cut off the shoulders, and doused it with bleach.

I remember squealing with delight and yelling, "Mom! There are GUESS JEANS WITH ZIPPERS AT THE ANKLE!" Up until that point, my mom bought me some "faux" Guess jeans. The label fell off in the wash, and the crotch blew out in 5th period.

I was the best dressed kid at Cheldelin Middle School. "Yeah, those jeans are MEANT to be cropped. It has nothing to do with the fact that my legs look like never ending rubber bands!".

I remember Laurel driving me all around Jonesboro in her cherry red Porsche and I got to witness Grade A Southern flirting. I definitely took notes, and then promptly burned them when I realized I had Jello for a spine and fleeting confidence that leaked from my body like a sieve.

She had a way with men from very early on. I'd watch her gently push a boy away with her shiny red nails and say things like you see in the movies such as, "Oh, you STOP it now, John B.! You're gonna make me blush! Why don't you be a good boy and get my little cousin and I a Dr. Pepper." Then she'd giggle and he would go insane, pushing people aside, worried he'd never find a Dr. Pepper ... in the South.