Logansport Rosenwald School was from Kindergarten until 6th
grade. Then you transferred and went to
the big school. Logansport High School was
from 7th grade to 12th.
There really was no such thing as middle school for us, but I will refer
to my 7th and 8th grade years in that way here, for your
convenience and understanding.
When I went to 7th grade, I had three best
friends. Sonya had been my best friend
since 1st grade, and would continue to be, until my senior
year. She treated me like dirt. Courtney was a short, round girl who lived
down the street from me. We took her on
vacation with us once, and camping at least once. Sonya and Courtney were my BFFs for many,
many years.
Mary transferred in to Logansport Rosenwald, from the Caddo
Magnet program. She was very smart and
very nice. I fear she thought we are all
stupid. She easily excelled at our
school. Mary was also African American.
She and I were one of the first interracial friendships my school had seen. We hung out together at lunch, and she spent
the night at my house a few times.
Stacy, Angela Heartsfield, and Jennifer were also my very
good friends. We all hung out together
and ate lunch together. I called it
“holding court.” I felt all people there
were free to speak their minds, and tell any story they wished.
I will never forget stepping into my new lunchroom. All the black kids were on one side, and all
the white kids were on the other. They
call it self-segregation. So when Mary sat down with me on the white side, which
had the only open table, we both got dirty looks. Mary took a lot of heat for that from the
black community. They often accused her
of wanting to be white. I think that
idea just befuddled her.
Together all of us kind of formed our own click. We were the outcasts, the weird ones, most of
us terribly smart. We were our own Isle of Misfit Toys. We, as a group, often floated between the
jocks, the poor kids and some of the black group, but then again we were also a
cohesive group on our own and often stayed to ourselves. As self-centered as it may sound, I often
felt they were my entourage. I felt I
was surrounded and protected by strong, intelligent, beautiful women, but none
of it would last very long.
Into our group we added Alison. She became one of my closest friends. Her father was the pastor of Maple Springs
Baptist Church. It was right next door
to Louisiana Pacific (the log plant) and the creosote plant. Her father was one of those charismatic
leaders. I would find out later, that
when he left town, he owed quite a few people money. It was to him I posed the question of, “Who
are God’s parents?” He became violent
and belligerent towards me, and told me to never ask such things again.
Alison’s church had a choir and you know me, I just love to
sing. We rehearsed again, and
again. We were preparing to do Bette Midler’s,
“You are the wind beneath my wings,” about the time my dad told me, I had to
quit. I remember turning in my choir
shirt, with tears in my eyes. I was
devastated. I still don’t quite
understand what happened. My guess is
this.
I had made an alter call.
I had for several years been masturbating. Something I believed I had invented. Remember no sex ed. here people. I knew I was going to burn in hell for this. I felt I could not bring up such a subject up
with my parents. I feel embarrassed and
squeamish bringing up such a subject to you even now. In a generation full of women’s liberation
and equality, women’s rights and long after the sexual revolution took
place. My parents never discussed such
thing with me. I would make several
altar calls, as several different places, before I would find out what I was
doing was healthy, natural, and normal.
I was also making altar calls about this time, because I had
heard other people’s stories of being saved.
Some said they saw light or halos, or that God spoke to them. None of that had happened to me when I got
saved, so I thought perhaps I had done it wrong.
When I made this particular altar call, Alison and her
buddies took me in the back of the church.
They told me how proud they were of me, how they had been praying for this
and that now I could be saved. I tried
to explain to them that I was already saved, that I had been sprinkled in the
United Methodist Church the year before.
They told me that this did not count.
The only way I could be saved was to be baptized.
I had stumbled upon a nasty Southern truth. Most Southern Baptist churches, don’t
recognized a person’s baptism, outside of their own denomination. I have also known some church that only
recognized your baptism, if you were baptized in their church. Even, for some of these people, if it was
another Southern Baptist Church, you had to do it again.
United Methodism is not like that. You tell us you were baptized on such and
such a date, and at such and such a church, we will believe you, as long as we
can verify it. No problems. You don’t have to be resprinkled or be
rebaptized. We simply call it a
profession of faith, you are then counted
as a member of the church, and given what we call a “letter.”
Dad tells me I came home that night, after my altar call,
“talking all kinds of crazy shit.” He
knew that the people I was hanging out with up there, were not the people I
need to be around. So he told me I had
to quit the choir. I think I stopped
being friends with Alison about that time as well.
My friendship with Alison pushed me to places that I was not
comfortable going. One of the girls in
our click was named Stacy. She is a dear
and treasured friend. Alison convinced
me that Stacy needed saving. She and I
brought our bibles to school. Not a big
deal, lots of people did that. During
our 7th grade English class, we asked to be excused, outside with
Stacy. The teacher said okay. I believe she knew what we were going to
do. We left the room with our bibles in
hand. We took Stacy outside and proselytized
to her, and told her she need to be saved.
We were so adamant, that Stacy started crying, because we had upset her
so bad. I had to stop. I think I walked back inside.
I have apologized to Stacy several times, over the years for
this. The fact that I attacked Stacy in
this way, on school property, and was allowed to do so, by the teacher, still
bothers me a lot. Stacy should have been
free to attend school without the fear of some trying to shove their religion
down her throat. Just imagine, if your
kids got accosted by a bunch of Muslims, that tried to force your child in to
believing in Ali, while she was at school, and the teacher knew about it. You would probably be pissed too. Although Stacy is a Christian, and was back
then too, I wonder how many people get accosted like this every today.
Courtney and I, were also coming to the end of our
friendship, about that time as well. I
had loved Courtney, as a best friend, for many years. But she frequently insulted me, and made fun
of both me, and of the things, I loved and treasured. She also would always hold over my head,
everything I ever did wrong. I stopped
speaking to her as well. I often acted
as if she was dead or she simply wasn’t there at all. Not an easy thing to do as we both graduated
in the same class together of 47.
Between the time I stopped speaking to her in middle school, and today,
I think I have said less than a paragraph to her.
Breaking up with Courtney had to be as hard on her, as it
was on me. We were continuously urged by
both our parents and other friends to fix our relationship, but I refused to
budge. I can be very stubborn when I
want to be. I see Courtney’s Momma ever
now and again, and ask after her. I even
ran into Courtney a few years back and spoke to her. She looked like she wanted to run away from
me. I tried to friend her on Facebook, and
make amends but she told me no. Although
I have no desire to be her friend again, as I know how she is, I do want to
apologize to her, for the way I behaved towards her, and for not being there
for her when her dad died. I want her to
know I wish her all the best that life has to give her.
Ilsa
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