Finding a Niche

This was written circa 1972. I have not edited.

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I'm accused of all sorts of complexes; I can't defend myself. I do have all sorts of complexes. I think, though, that it is time to face them once and for all, explain why I have them or at least try to figure out what started them. The reason for this is that the horoscope was absent from Family Circle this month. Last month, I was in dire straits according to the horoscope. This month I snatched up my copy eagerly hoping that my "opponent" was finally going to get hers. The horoscope was absent. What could it mean? Worst of all, the greater part of the issue was devoted to an excerpt from Born to Win. How can you win when even your horoscope deserts you? Left out in the cold without a horoscope made me think of Brunswick who doesn't need a horoscope and who is constantly at me about my complexes.

According to my friend Brunswick, my problem is that I have no feelings of self-worth. Brunswick has no problem with feelings of self-worth. If I were Brunswick, I would have no problems of self-worth, either. If I had millions, I'd use them wisely. I would not spend hours trying to get beautiful; I'd skip the razzmatazz at the Paris boutiques. I'd go straight to the heart of my troubles and bribe my objects of mad passion left and right to come see me. And then I'd have automatic locks that would quietly shut them in for a couple of weeks. Naturally, I'd hire the best hypnotist in town to take care of a few post-hypnotic suggestions.

But lacking Brunswick's money, what can I do? Well, I can think nostalgically of Mrs. Jorstad and my mother. They are clearly responsible for my complexes. Without these women, I couldn't be what I am. If there were ever a time to pass the buck it is now and I am passing it to them.

Mrs. Jorstad's daughter went to Cristobal High. She was much admired by my brother who also went to Cristobal High. He was valedictorian; she was the reigning beauty. They had graduated the year before I had no place to go to high school. I was plucked suddenly from the reverie of three years without schooling and dropped smack in the middle of the brilliant scheme my mother had that I go away to school, live as a lodger at the Jorstads and do splendidly at Cristobal High. It was, she said, a tremendously lucky break for me. A handsome sum for Mrs. Jorstad insured her goodwill. So I was off.

The first month went well. Since, obviously, I couldn't follow in Judy Jorstad's footsteps, Mrs. Jorstad thought I would follow in my brother's. But by November, it was apparent I was not valedictory material. My English teacher had given me a copy of How Green was my Valley in mid-October and I hadn't been seen since. The holiday season would be soon upon us. I had no prospect for a date to a single Christmas activity. She decided to work on me.

Mrs. Jorstad is Swedish with lovely Swedish eyes and skin and hair to make Ophelia jealous. She also has a Swedish brain. It was she who gave me the first clue to what comprises the essence of Swedish intellect. After the first few minutes, I knew that in Sweden, there is simply not enough sunlight; it is definitely the place where "half-baked" originated.

First she cut my hair which I had always lovingly held across my face in the hope I wouldn't be seen, incognito-style. Then she set to. No amount of beer and spitting and swearing in Swedish did anything for my hair. After a while, I got the impression that what she had in mind for me was the Jane Powell look so whenever I heard her coming up the stairs, I'd sing very high and thump around in my room. I thought illusion might help. It didn't. But there was Dickie Tattleman. A good head on this shoulders had Dickie Tattleman. For twenty-five dollars, he'd take anybody, anywhere. One afternoon, Mrs. Jorstad informed me that Dickie Tattleman was going to be coming to pick me up for the Jamboree; she told me this about an hour before he was to arrive so that I wouldn't have time to come down with one of my mysterious diseases and she watched me every minute to make sure I didn't fall on the stairs. I asked her who in the world Dickie Tattleman was and that's when I found out he was a boy with a good head on his shoulders.

When he arrived, he arrived on a BSA. Where in Panama he ever got a motorcycle, I don't know. I was a little hopeful, though that all was well because I thought BSA stood for Baptist Student Association. My experience with Baptists made me believe that he'd take time out frequently for a hymn and a prayer so I needn't worry. The small wing symbol on the side of the bike obviously had to do with angels; the ride would surely be heavenly. Mrs. Jorstad had gotten me into, among other things, high heels and a pair of largish white gloves. It's about twenty miles from Margarita where we lived to Cristobal. The road looked snow-ploughed except that where the steep bank of snow had been pushed back there was instead of snow, jungle. It's a strange sight to see jungle cut off in midair, especially when the wild beasts peek out wonderlingly. And particularly at 90 miles an hour on a motorcycle. We couldn't have gone a quarter of a mile before I had had enough. I started screaming at Dickie Tattleman to let me off, and pounded at his back. I pounded and screamed and he laughed and went faster. I began to see why Catholics weren't allowed in Baptist churches. Baptists were demons and nobody had told me. I had always been mild-mannered and passive but right then I was terrified and felt double-crossed. It's a motivating mixture. I bit Dickie Tattleman on the back has hard as I could. The bike careened into one of those lovely, low-hanging fern trees that close up their leaves when touched. It was a soft landing for all. Dickie Tattleman was having an absolute fit so I told him if he'd go away and never speak to me, I'd double the bribe. $50. So he did and so I did. Every First Friday, I'd put ten dollars in an envelop and wedge it into his locker. I knew he wouldn't tell because he wasn't about to be humiliated by the likes of me. I went home and told Mrs. Jorstad that guilt will out, that I'd had a bad accident and if she didn't want me to back to Colombia she'd better never mention dates again because my mother had expressly forbidden them. I wrote my mother and told her I wouldn't stay another living minute unless she told Mrs. Jostad that I was allowed to go on dates. My dad sent a letter to Mrs. Jorstad as was his weekly custom and at the bottom, he a P.S. "We neglected to mention that we feel Christine is too young to go on dates. But I'm sure she's told you." The rest of the year was wonderful. I put the white gloves up on my bulletin board. I read How Green was my Valley three times. I hoped that would be an end to it all.

It wasn't. My mother decided in my junior year that I had a "complex" and needed cheering up. So she sent me to Charm School to be beautiful. The first day a man was put in charge of me. He said, "Ah yes, you remind me of someone." I thought fleetingly of Jean Simmons and Lauren Bacall and wondered if he really could turn me into somebody else. I say fleetingly because he added rather too promptly, "John L. Lewis. That's who you remind me of."

At Charm School I met Halda. I liked Halda a lot. It didn't matter to me that she was probably the spookiest girl in the world. My mother was overjoyed because now she could say, "Well, you know, you're much prettier than Halda." Anybody was prettier than Halda so that didn't count. But one day, the Geometry teacher called me in. She accused me of cheating. I was flabbergasted. I couldn't understand what she was talking about.

"But I'm getting a D in Geometry, Mrs. White. If I were cheating, I'd be doing a lot better than a D."

She looked at me quizzically. "You're getting a D?"

I showed her in the grade book.

"Oh, you're Christine," she beamed apologetically. "I thought you were Halda." I finished the excerpt from Born to Win. I liked the part where you're supposed to ask a friend to categorize you as weather, a piece of music, a color. But after that I began to tire. The same old lies. If you tell yourself a lie long enough, you're supposed to believe it. Born to Win is not my kind of book. I need one called Born to Muddle Through. Maybe I'm just the person to write it.