Reclamation

                Pauline Palko

                My mother watched JFK.s assassination while holding
my bottle and poured all of her fear into that tepid potion.
Like Charlie Brown, by the time I was nine I had developed
pantophobia. Charlie at least had Lucy's guidance for the price
of a cold, hard nickel; I had to figure things out for myself.
                Cheerleading and ballet looked fun, but I spent four
years on the sidelines, safe from embarrassing stares, yelling the
cheers along with the crowd. No cute little skirt for me. I wanted
to try singing on the stage, but when the tryouts were posted
for the spring musical, I signed up for a chorus part, where a
missed note would go unnoticed. I dreamed of flying airplanes,
interviewing celebrities, riding camels, and painting portraits that
hung in museums. My mother insisted that joining the air force
would get me raped and lead me into drugs, and that college was
not for me. Be a hairdresser, she advised. You don't need an
education to get married and have kids. The things I wanted to
do and couldn't stacked up, but I didn't follow her plan either. I
worked mindless jobs during the day and at night, sustained my
dreams with words on pages.

                When she died, I screamed like hell and started living.