October 31, 1984
“Mummy, Daddy can I dress up for Halloween this year?”
“No. You are not allowed to participate in this ritual begging for candy.”
“Daddy, I meant for school…we’re supposed to…”
He eyed me suspiciously. “I thought fifth grade would mean the end of such nonsense, but if you are supposed to…what do you need to wear”
I had thought about this. Based on what the popular girls were last year, I decided…“I want to be a cheerleader!”
“Absolutely not. Those skirts are indecent.”
“Caroline Auntie was a cheerleader!”
“In college. When you’re in college, I’ll forbid you then, too.”
Nine-year old me promptly burst in to tears. Later, my mother came to my room and helped me match a v-neck sweater from my old Catholic school uniform with a pleated skirt I usually wore to church—i.e. one which went to the middle of my knee. She unpacked a box in my closet and wordlessly handed me my toy pom-poms. My six-year old sister glared at her indignantly, so Mom rolled her eyes and did the same for her. I was so excited. Finally, a “cool” costume, one which didn’t involve an uncomfortable, weird-looking plastic mask to secure with an elastic band, from a pre-packaged ensemble. I went to sleep feeling giddy.
The next morning, for the first time ever, I was tardy for school. I don’t remember why, but I was. When I walked in to class just before recess, everyone froze and stared at me. The hopeful smile on my face dissolved; this year, the popular girls were all babies in cutesy pajamas with pacifiers around their necks. I thought the weirdness in the air was due to my lame costume, but within a few minutes I discovered it was caused by something else entirely.
The moment the bell rang, my desk was surrounded. This couldn’t be good. Was I going to get locked in a closet or a bathroom again?
“Why are you here?”
“Yeah, we thought you weren’t coming.”
“Shouldn’t you be at home crying?”
“Mrs. Doyle said you wouldn’t come in today.”
The questions assaulted me one after the other. I was baffled.
"Why…would…Mrs. Doyle say that?” I stammered.
“DUH, because Gandhi’s daughter got killed.”
“Isn’t she like your queen or something? Or a Hindu God?”
“No you buttheads, she’s like the president of her country.”
At the end of the last sentence, the boy speaking gestured towards me. When did they get so enlightened? Last week, they asked if I was Cherokee and said “How” whenever I walked by, or pantomimed yowling war cries with their hands and mouth.
“She’s not the president of my country. I’m…I’m from this country. My president is Ronald Reagan.”
They got impatient and vaguely hostile.
“No, you’re Indian. Mrs. Doyle said you were in mourning.”
“Did you not like her or something, is that why you don’t care?”
“I heard they dip her in milk before they burn her up.”
“Duh…that’s because they worship cows.”
I put my head down on my desk, as if we were playing “heads up, seven up”.
“See? She’s crying now…she is Indian.”
And with that they walked off, to do whatever it was that popular fifth-graders did.
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