Ballerina Barbie
Making Friends with Change
Last year I was asked to give the speech at my 50th high school reunion. I only wish my parents superlative steps would have to take advantage of the benefits of having struggled so valiantly to me not only to send the acclaimed Buffalo Seminary Preparatory School, but keep me.
I was an unruly public school kid from South Buffalo. PS 67. My father was a butcher. In the 8th grade, my English teacher, Helen Wilson (bless her heart insightful) my parents called and told them that I take the scholarship exam for admission to the Buffalo Seminary, a small (and snooty) nonsectarian all girls prep school on the other side of our beautiful city. The parents were sufficiently flattered and encouraged me – no – I forced myself to it all the way to go upstairs and the exam. I have the exam. Then I bit my nails to the quick waiting for results with high expectations of the dismal failure in my black little heart. But of all the bad luck … I won! Yes. I got a scholarship to the Buffalo Seminary to attend.
For the 14-year-old me, this victory meant that I was punished for his cunning. Buffalo Seminary This site was not just a two-bus – one and half hour drive from my house, but it was full of strangers who wore very strange, lumpy square clothes. In those days, I just fancied white nylon see through blouses, circle skirts with felt poodles and sequins plastered all over them and black suede ballerinas. I had never even heard of the word wigwam, except when we examined the Maid of the Mist to go over Niagara Falls in a birch bark canoe in the fourth grade at PS 67's Mrs. Robinson.
Buffalo Seminary girls wore thick woolen socks called wigwams and bulky cardigan sweaters called Shetland (as in pony) that their well-to-mothers bought by the dozens from a shop in New York City Best & Company do. Seminary girls wore the same big galumphing Spalding saddle shoes on their wigwams and heavy wooly camels' hair polo coats. They looked remarkably not sexy.
Not only did I not go to school at the Buffalo Seminary. I did not lumpy or UN sultry look. Moreover, I have not a wealthy mother who went to New York to buy me expensive clothes. I wore my older sister Maroon storm coat with fake fur collar orlon and sweater sets in pastel colors to keep me warm.
My parents are warm, then decided. I was to be sent, at great cost to the school bus fares and books, etc., The Buffalo Seminary. In response to this announcement, I cried buckets of tears of self pity. And when I stopped crying for a few minutes to watch Howdy Doody with my brothers, I would suddenly think about what was in store for me in September and cry some more. I begged my parents to let me attend public high school. She said no. I promised I would even attend the grubby red bricks Mount Mercy Catholic Academy where my poor sister had been treated as a Viet Cong and his Protestant. The parents vetoed that too.
I would have gone to Guantanamo, instead of attending the Buffalo Seminary.
But my parents knew best. I would quickly adapt, they said. And Eureka! Good news! They announced one evening at dinner. My classmate (and rival) of PS 67, was Barbara Linden to the Buffalo Seminary. Think! How fortunate. Barbie and I could bus ride there together – which we did for four long, windy, snowy, winter's feet producing chilled years.
I never told my parents how much I hated Barbie. Her father was a lawyer. She had six wigwams and a few camel coat before they even started at The Buffalo Seminary. Her mother even took the train to New York City to correct Shetland sweaters at Best & Co. to find – with the grosgrain ribbon sewn down the front closure. And she had braces on her teeth. I had the ugly gap between my top front teeth. Barbie had no spaces. But she wore braces expensive anyway. Everyone did.
My father was a butcher. We were five kids. My mother did not know much about Plackets or grosgrain ribbon. But she knew exactly how my dad's succulent roasts of beef to cook the meat was perfectly light. I felt like I was being sent to school reform.
It is June 1952 and I'm about to be enrolled as a woman fresh from The Buffalo Seminary for the coming autumn. My father lives a conference with the imposing director, a certain Miss Angell, who was the head of the school since 1903. My father and Miss Angell agree that in my first year I will study four subjects: English, French, Ancient History and Algebra.
When my father came home and announced the four themes, I moaned. "Frennnnnch ????? Daddeeeeeeee! Please! For what? French is a foreign language! "
"You will not start Latin until your second year," he explained.
I did not want a part of his Latin stupid. I wanted typing and shorthand. I wanted to grow up to be a secretary like all the other girls in my 8th grade and in my church youth group.
But my father insisted that I could do what I was told "young lady".
So I sobbed some more and left the table in a sigh and hit the doors and stayed above sulk in my room for hours feeling painfully sorry for myself. Privilege meant less than nothing for me in those days. Privilege was punishment.
I have now lived in France for over 40 years. I speak French almost better than English. I have entire books written in French and translated books from English into French and vice versa. I have an abiding love and respect for the French way of life. And, learned how cranky and emotionally on cue, I fit in smoothly with the exuberant French people grouchy.
In short, although it took one year or two of the shingle-shake Family fight, I have to adapt to the severe changes that the Buffalo Seminary's standards of excellence applied to my hitherto relatively predictable life. And if I am able am to write this, it is because my parents somehow managed to raise all five of us on a modest income and still ensure that I, their uncontrollable Smarty Pants brutal daughter, graduated from the Buffalo Seminary. I thank them and thank the scholarship fund every day of my life.
Perhaps this endless early morning and dark afternoon bus runs along stinking smell Buffalo's National Aniline and steelworks Republic scrambled my brains chemicals. Or maybe it was peeling of nylon see-through draped blouses and black gabardine trousers pressed Hathaway shirts, plaid kilts, and wigwams Weejun loafers. But what worked in those precious teenage years, one way or another I got used to me. These four expensive (and often painful) years at Seminary opened my eyes to the world and changed my destiny.
Instead of working as a bookkeeper in a bowling alley on Seneca Street in South Buffalo, today I live in Paris and Buenos Aires. And I write books.
After it was determined that I would stay in Buffalo Seminary, and not run away and to the circus, I began to love to learn. The first year in Ancient History class, I learned the word "flood". Of Algebra, I learned that x and y could be values. Mrs. Clements of sweet, the English teacher, I learned how not to cry for a C + on a composition. She patiently explained that I just do not (yet) know how to write and that if I tried very hard, I could probably learn.
And finally, my gifted, elegant French instructor, I learned how irregular verbs conjugate a la perfection. Yvonne Handy taught me how to speak its language with accuracy and smoothness joie writing. Mrs. Handy's pre-war French still echoes in my 21st Century French, just like my mother prewar proverbs alive in my everyday English. I loved Yvonne Handy. I admired her style. Grey skirts, simple silk blouses, jackets thrown casually around her shoulders. Pearls. Simple well-cut black stockings and high heels. When she retired, Mrs. Handy wrote to me offering me her job in Paris. "Nobody else can do. "She claimed.
I refused. But boy was I proud!
Before I had to leave for Paris on the 50th reunion, I reread the weekend schedule on my computer screen live. To my surprise, I had not only invited to the speech at my 50th reunion, but I have top billing. The schedule maker raved that I promised to talk to the reunionees on "My fascinating life.
It reminded me of how in elementary school, we used to compose writing called "My Summer Vacation".
To look back at "My fascinating life" often seems like since I started writing books, I have been on a long vacation. I love what I do. I'm not rich. I do not belong anywhere. I am free to roam and write and do what fascinates me most at a given moment. Therefore decided I would like to speak about my life as a holiday.
I write books about Chinese and Western Astro Bed. If you do not like to astrology, or if you think it's nonsense, I understand. I do not repent. I'm not a missionary.
I began writing about the Chinese astrology in 1975. I had already written and sold a novel. My agent in New York broke to me. "You're a single mother. You should start writing non-fiction. "She said.
I did not even know what non-fiction. She made a list: fashion, beauty, cooking, astrology, history, Religion, Gardening ….
I vociferated. "I can not write about one of those stupid topics. I want to write stories. Novels. Short stories. Even plays or films. Do not cook fer chris sake! "
She warned me. "Nobody makes a lot of money writing novels. At least not until you written seven or eight. It's simple. If you persist in writing novels, your children will starve. "She lit a cigarette and blew smoke at me. "You bet off. "she said.
I chose Astrology – Chinese variant. I wrote a proposal today and next week my smart agent sold to a major publisher. Not writing fiction is more of a huge change and represented something of a disappointment. But, I quickly made peace with the idea. At least I was paid to do what I most of what is to keep writing books. Also, I was off and running in a new direction – on my way to the high priestess of Chinese Astrology. I have now written four best-selling books on astrology and are published in nearly every language in the world – including Chinese.
Despite and because of my astrology books and my willingness to get into another gear to survive and feed my children, I'm actually a fascinating life. I wondered.
Why did I go live in France?
Why did I start writing books?
How did I survive cancer for so long?
How do I raise two children in Paris without a spouse or child support?
How did I get published?
How I've managed to live in many places and so do many different jobs and love so many men and so often disappointed and still remain optimistic?
I think the answer is this.
I embrace change.
I'm going after the change. I seek it out. I hunt him down. I nose around like a truffle dog looking for a change. And if I can not find any, I intentionally make change happen.
Sometimes when we least expect, when change is only going up and nothing happens, I do my best to welcome.
Most people are hobbled by the familiar. They stay close to what is comfortable and stay with what is safe. She never colors outside the lines. They work the same territory every day. They do their chores and pay their bills and take their holidays at the same time, same place. That is the way they feel most safe.
Are they bored? Maybe. Yes. They could be bored. And they can complain about being bored. They chose the boredom change? Not really. Not intentionally. But. come to think so. It's safer that way. Change could prove to be dangerous or at the very least uncomfortable. Many people fear and discomfort as a result they continue to resist change.
My life is so fascinating never safe. I guess I do not believe in security. I know in the pit of my being, that not one of us is ever safe … illness, despair, loss, fear, poverty, sadness, self doubt and lies. We are but specks that float through each other rather aimlessly in the vast universe, and if we do not want to bore and we would not be disappointed and we do not want to be depressed, we must make our own amusement. Fun is always right under our noses. Creation, we only dare embrace change.
Today, when I the author of five books and friends with people of all races, sizes, shapes, colors and professions, mainly because I was so cozy with change.
And I would advise a young person starts, I would say, "Make it your business to live your life your way – even if that means crashing through crowds of screaming people who want you not to. Selfish if you must. But be. "
What if you mean being alone? Than alone. Until you decide you need a change.
About the Author
Doing a little shopping ….?
One day a father gets out of work and on his way home he suddenly remembers that his daughter's birthday. He pulls into a toy shop and asks the seller, "How much for one of those Barbie in the window?" The seller replied: "What do you mean, sir? We Work Out Barbie for $ 19.95, Shopping Barbie for $ 19.95, Beach Barbie for $ 19.95, Disco Barbie for $ 19.95, Ballerina Barbie for $ 19.95, Astronaut Barbie for $ 19.95, Skater Barbie for $ 19.95, and Barbie for $ 265.95 separately. "The amazed father asks:" It's what! Why is the divorced Barbie $ 265.95 and others only $ 19.95? "It annoyed vendor rolls her eyes, sighs and replies," Sir …," Divorced Barbie comes with Ken's car, Ken's House, Ken's Boat, Ken's furniture, Ken's Computer and … One of Ken's Friends
hahah … good … That's one for you here not right – Sum Ting Wong Are you harboring a fugitive? – Hu Yu Hai Ding See me ASAP – Kum Hia Nao Stupid Man – Dum Fuk small horse – Tai Ni Po Ni Did you go to the beach? – Wai Yu So Tan I bumped into a coffee table-Ai Bang Mai Fu Kin Ni I think you need a face lift Chin Tu Fat It's very dark in here Wai So Dim I thought you were on a diet Wai Yu Mun Ching This is a tow zone No Pah King Our meeting is scheduled for next week-Wai Yu Kum Nao are out of sight Lei Ying Lo He cleaned his car – Wa Shing Ka Your body odor is offensive – Yu Stin Ki Pu Cheerios
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