So, Dr. Clark warned me that I need to post every day until the end of this class to catch up. I remember one classmate commenting that she would like to hear more about my life, and I suppose that if I am to post each day, then I'll start with my life and what made me such an advocate. I was a woman's advocate far before the rape, though that may not surprise you.
I will begin by addressing my life from the beginning or even before then. There are many things you must know about me to get a grasp on why I am so vulgar, angst, and verbal. I seem to others to be only two things: either intensely goofy or extremely ticked off. So, here's the story. My story and how I became who I am.
I am the oldest of four children, with two younger sisters and a baby brother. My father is a telephone man from the panhandle, my mother an English teacher who once dreamed of being a journalist. Then she got married and shortly thereafter was pregnant with me. So, instead, she taught.
My father came from a very strict family. My grandfather is a wonderful man, but one of few words and little compassion. He wears a starched shirt with dress pants every day, shiny black shoes and his hair is perfectly combed into place. I have never seen him in jeans, let alone shorts. My grandfather's father was a man who was very stern, hot tempered, and he would beat his children for touching things such as the family car. His wife was a very soft spoken woman who served him until his death.
Needless to say, my grandfather was taught to work very hard and take good care of the few things he had. While being a math teacher, my grandfather managed to hold down several jobs to save up money for a house he would build one day. In fact, this house was the priority of my grandfather's life when my dad was a child, and my grandfather missed out on seeing my dad grow up. He is still obsessed with investing in expensive things and buying lavish possessions. I remember being very young and going into his house. Our feet had to be flat on the carpet, our hands in our laps. We couldn't touch anything in his house.
His wife, my Memi, was leery of men and a believer in health magazines that wrote about getting Alzheimer's from deodorant and secrets to keeping her young. She sells Mary Kay, and has the face to prove that it works. My Memi is obsessed with perfect health and cleanliness. She too was a teacher, an English teacher with perfect grammar that taught herself how to play the piano later in life when they could afford to buy a piano.
My father grew up as the baby boy with an older sister. My father was and still is very good looking. He was dyslexic and hated school, something that didn't fly when your parents are both teachers. My father loves cars and working on them. He works with his hands to build many things from book shelves to model airplanes. My mom says that my dad's parents weren't there, and that my grandparents have spent the last 25 years trying to make up it. She also says that their relationship is unhealthy. And it might be true, because my know-it-all grandparents have supervised every part of my parents' lives since we moved to Guymon when I was five. I remember my mom being upset when my grandfather dictated what houses my parents should buy and how my mother should decorate and remodel her kitchen.
My mother, on the other hand, came from a family completely opposite. My Papa Bill couldn't care less about material possessions, as long as he has one TV to watch his sports on. His father was a good man who was married to a slightly crazy, but beautiful woman. That was my Memaw...she would tell me of the Indians that raised her and other tall tales as she was fading into dementia. She cursed and kicked Papa Bill when he moved her out of Odessa and into a nursing home. She was some kind of fighter. My mother's mom was an only child who always wanted a sister. She is kind and sweet, thoughtful of everyone. She remembers the days of World War II and she tells me about them. She talks and sometimes asserts her opinion, but more than anything, she is very good about being a loving mother.
My mom is their youngest and only daughter out of four children. She admits she might have been slightly spoiled, being the baby. The relationship between my mother and her father was strained, to say the least. My Papa is a sweet man who didn't know how to deal with a daughter after having three sons. His love of sports is second only to his love of God, and rightfully so, since he used to be a baptist preacher. He's a diehard Dallas Cowboys fan, a graduate of the Baylor. Eventually, my mother grew to understand Papa Bill. He is kind man who spoiled his grandkids with candy. He has a soft spot for children and an even softer spot for dogs.
My Granny cooks and cleans, and she loves nothing more when all of her family are in town, sleeping on makeshift cots in the living and dining rooms. My mom always believed that her mother was perfect. She still tells me that today, and yes, my grandmother is the perfect wife of the 1950s, wearing adorable tea length skirts and baking cookies. She buts June Cleaver to shame. She worked at Sears & Roebuck part time, and took care of her four kids. Eventually, she ran for county clerk and occupied the spot for 15 years. She still seems perfect.
My mom's parents don't have that much money, but on my birthday or for Christmas I get more money from them than from my dad's parents. The funny thing is that my dad's parents have saved up plenty of money in their lifetime (they can be pretty stingy), enough to go and buy two different Corvettes--one being a Z06--a Firebird, a Cadilac XLR convertable, two different motorcycles, and endless trips to who knows where. Then we get $20 for our gift. They're funny. I never touched anything in my Memi's house, no, because that would be a crime. But, I could spill grape juice on my Papa and Granny's carpet and it would be okay, they wouldn't yell at me.
That's where my parents came from. I had to give you some background on them before I started my story about my parents. We will pick up there tomorrow.
