Dorothy

Vv.  *  Tt  *  Jj *  Cc

I was born with a natural gift or instinct for what handwriting told me. Before I was able to read, I could tell things about people by looking at their writing--in particular, the way they shaped individual letters. It certainly wasn’t sophisticated---how refined can a two-year-old’s interpretation be?--but it was astonishingly accurate. Second generation Germans, although loving, hugging, and filled with laughter, my parents were c-o-n-s-e-r-v-a-t-i-v-e, with a don’t-step-out-of-the-box approach to life.

Early on, they discovered my ability to identify personalities through handwriting. It became one of those “Oh isn’t she cute” kind of things. When they realized it wasn’t going to go away, they stopped mentioning it within the family, and talked over me when I would bring it up. Because of this, by the age of three I decided there was something wrong with it, so I kept it pretty much to myself.

I was in nursery school four days a week. I loved it there. We colored a lot, drew pictures, learned to write and read, played all kinds of games, sang songs, wore paper crowns and made baskets of flowers on May Day and danced around the Maypole. Our teacher Miss Ames was not only kind, she was always laughing or smiling and wouldn’t hesitate to put her arm around anyone who was feeling the least bit like they needed it. She loved everyone the same. 

I had a best friend in nursery school; her name was Mary Lou. It was one of those friendships made in heaven; something like a soul mate---at least it gave the feeling that we had spent many, many years together, although we were both only four years old. We never quarreled. We shared our lunches, took naps next to one another, liked to use the same color crayons, held hands when we danced in the class circle---like comrades of old.

Then one day a new girl came to class. Her name was Dorothy. She had naturally curly hair which was almost white blonde; mine was black and straight. Hers was often done up with a huge taffeta bow that matched her dress; my mother was lucky when she could anchor any kind of ribbon in my hair and make it stay. The new girl also had a ridge of lace on top of her socks. (Isn’t it funny what we remember?) My favorite shoes were cowboy boots. She cozied up to Mary Lou.

Gradually Mary Lou began to play more with Dorothy than with me. She also shared her lunch with her. When they laughed together I wasn’t included. Sometimes they whispered, then giggled. I could feel Mary Lou drifting away yet I had no idea what I had done or how to restore our friendship. 

It was writing time, 15 minutes before lunch. We never learned to print; we learned cursive. Our teacher Miss Ames would have it no other way. The class sat on both sides of long tables with our paper and pencils. The blackboard was at the end of the room. As Miss Ames wrote on the board, we copied what she wrote--usually something like “Kindness is its own reward” or “Love your neighbor.” It depended on the letter combinations we were learning. I remember what a difficult time I had connecting the g to the h. 

Today the sentence was “Haste makes waste.” We all began to move our pencils, tediously copying the letters, the words, the phrase. Again and again we wrote it, filling the page. Lunch time! 

I had counted on eating with Mary Lou, because my mother had included extra strawberries in my lunch box just for her. But as we jumped up off our stools she and Dorothy grabbed each other’s hands and started for the door. In desperation I shouted, “Mary Lou! You don’t want to eat lunch with her. Look at the way she crosses her ts!” They both stopped, turned around and looked at me, not understanding what I had said. 

I grabbed Dorothy’s paper, ran over and put it in front of Mary Lou’s nose. “Look! Look how low she draws her ‘t’ bars! That means she doesn’t feel good about herself. You don’t want to play with her! I cross my ts on the top!” Startled, Dorothy asked, "What did you say?!" Pleased as punch, I said it again--and with that they both ran from the classroom squealing with laughter. That not being enough, they told everyone in the lunchroom. Then they told Miss Ames. 

Having my classmates laugh at me was humiliating enough, but I wanted to run away when Miss Ames came up, put her arm around me and with her warm, disarming smile said, “Look now, Honey. You mustn’t talk like that. What you said was hurtful and untrue, and you know how important it is to tell the truth. I want you to apologize to Dorothy.” 

My one ally, the person I could count on through thick and thin, the person I knew would love me no matter what, the person who always understood--told me I had lied. I hadn’t, but I didn’t know how to explain. First Mary Lou, then my classmates, now Miss Ames. I knew they thought I was stupid; in my gut I just knew it. Now they thought I had lied. It felt as though my heart had been shattered into thousands of pieces. 

To restore something of my self-dignity, I looked up at Miss Ames and quietly whispered, “I was only kidding.” Yes--To save face, to not be ridiculed, and to be “like everyone else” again, I sold my four-year-old soul.

I remember so clearly that as I spoke that lie, from the very depths of who I was, I made myself 

a promise: “When I grow up I’m going to show people how to write.”