I’m not sure of her name, but her name isn’t really important anymore…it’s what she did to me everyday, without fail, while I stood at my locker in 6th grade. I don’t remember when it started, I surely did nothing to provoke it, but the girl who had a locker directly next to mine would find a way to ‘nonchalantly’ smash me into my locker, as if by accident, each day at school. She would kind of smile and laugh to herself afterwards, and then actually strike up a conversation with me as if nothing had happened. And like some frightened, pathetic little puppy I would just go along with her sordid charade.

It became a love/hate relationship of sorts, the victim and her oppressor. A sickening ritual, day after day, pain and then a small shred of humanity. I don’t know why I never spoke up, I never snitched, I just took the abuse, over and over and over again. I was angry, afraid, hurt, and yet for whatever reason I never lashed out, which was odd because we were both the same size…she just seemed a lot stronger. She probably was. She probably still is.

What was truly incredible to me though was not the fact that I survived this ongoing, relentless, blunt force trauma, but that on the very last day of school, out of nowhere, she turned to me and apologized.

I remember just standing there at my locker, dumbfounded. I don’t remember if I said anything back to her and it’s not like we became friends that summer, or ever actually spoke to each other after that school year, but to this day it is something that still takes my breath away.

Maybe she was being hit at home, or someone was picking on her. Maybe she felt angry, worthless, afraid, and I was someone she could safely and quite easily take those feelings out on, I don’t know…but I forgave her back then, and I forgive her still.

I wish I could say I’d do things differently today. I wouldn’t take that crap from anyone, but I often still feel like that wimp of a girl, too afraid to speak up, too afraid to hit back…but I’m ok with that.

I’d rather be remembered for the love I tried to share than for the scars & bruises I could’ve left.

An alarm goes off in the distance, and then a quiet knocking at my door.

It's barely 5 am as I find myself sinking further into the warmth of my comforter.

Fishing is really one of the last things I feel like doing.


I hear the murmured voices of my Mom and Dad.

Dad is clearly annoyed that I am still fast asleep when there are Bass waiting in the **** bed.

I hear my Mom whisper, "But Ron, she is only nine."

The words fall on deaf ears.

Reluctantly I pull myself out of bed, throw on some clothes,

and try my best to put on a face of enthusiasm.



We fill our aluminum boat with fishing gear, poles, tackle box,

thermos filled with piping hot cocoa, and a few blankets

to help keep the chill to a minimum.

The sun seems reluctant to rise this morning as well,

but slowly she starts to show her colors

as we head out to the **** bed and our unsuspecting victims.



The water is amazingly still, like a glass mirror reflecting the sky.

Our waves ripple across the water, but eventually the calm returns.

We cast out our lines and out of the stillness comes an explosion unlike anything I had ever witnessed.

A Large-Mouthed Bass with as ferocious an appetite as a Grizzly, attacks my lure,

taking it back down to the murky depths from which it came.

Eventually I am able to reel in the monster, although it puts up a pretty impressive fight.



I will admit, it is an event I will never forget, truly awesome.

Sharing a moment of glory, fun even, just me and my Dad.

Moments like these just never seemed to last.

No matter how much I wished time would stand still, it would disappear,

like the fog that morning,

lifting from the lake as if it were from a dream.



I know my Dad always wished he had sons.

Sons to fish with, play ball with, go golfing.

Instead, God gave him two daughters.



I tried to be a son.


Not only did I learn to fish,

but I watched my Dad intently as he cleaned the fish we brought in,

and in time I picked up the art as well.

Naturally I tried taking my knowledge of cleaning fish to the next level,

when I caught a plethora of small perch off our dock.

I cleaned each one with the same precision and expertise I had been privy to,

and was overjoyed to contribute to our ever-growing collection of fillets.



Dad was none to happy, however, when he opened the freezer one day,

only to have some twenty miniature fish fillets come tumbling out upon him.


He was also not thrilled that I had used his knife without asking.



I just couldn't win it seemed,

no matter how hard I tried.


I was always just a girl, not a son.



I still am.

I stood at the top of the stairs, waiting & watching,

to see his car come winding around the bend,

up to our street and into the driveway.

Filled with anticipation & mischief, I listened quietly for his footsteps,

the jingling of his keys, as he unlocked the front door.

There I stood, hidden, trying not to breathe,

as I listened to him slowly climb the stairs, feet weary from the day.

Full of hope and excitement I jumped out,

'Boo!' I gleefully shouted, with a smile perched on my lips.

Time stood still, if but for a moment,

searching his face, I focused in on his eyes.

Expecting to see joy and amusement,

instead I was confronted only with a frown of annoyance.

My smile departed almost as quickly as it had arrived.

Filled with disappointment, as I watched him move past me, not even touching.

Down the hallway to his room, briefcase in hand, shutting the door behind him.

Leaving me at the top of the stairs,

with a hole in my heart.

The inferno builds, beginning from the tips of her toes,

where corroded copper pennies lie covered in sludge & slime.

She claws in the darkness searching for notches in the stone,

surrounded in a tomb of suffocating impenetrable rock.

Inch by inch she reaches the surface, bleeding at the nails,

blinded temporarily, with hesitation, she finds her footing.



The inferno is boiling now, unstoppable,

coursing through every vein, artery, capillary,

culminating in a throat constricted from a history

of silent struggle, not one understands.

A scream lies in wait,

yet she is afraid to give it freedom,

fearing the rage will take on a life of its' own,

and become a never ending roar.



A blank-faced crowd stops & stares,

some giggle, others mock in disapproval,

snide noses upturned, they simply scoff and continue on their way.

She watches, red-eyed, at their backs,

like an army off to battle.

Feeling a grin of confirmation & satisfaction forming on her lips,

she celebrates her victory.

An ivy league education would do nothing for their perception

of her.



Empathy is dead. Nothing is authentic.

Either be strong or cease to exist.



She returns to the hole in the earth,

filled with her own murky stench,

away from the chattering voices of those

forever searching for accolades & meaningless status.

Alone, she is jubilant, in her own nothingness.

She floats in water as clear as crystals,

with pennies, now sparkling underneath her feet.