To say I had a traumatic childhood would be a bit of a stretch. I was never abused, never witnessed a disturbing event, never disfigured in an accident--unless you count the barely visible scar on my right thumb from slamming it in my dad’s truck door. As childhoods go, I would say I got pretty lucky.
But I was the youngest of three sisters who, for a brief time which I barely remember, all shared the same bedroom. As anyone who has ever lived with more than one female can attest, the opportunity for disaster was rich.
Cheryl, the self-professed “oldest and boldest” of we three, was fifteen when I was born. Imagine the horror of being a mid-teen on the brink of the freedoms granted by a license to drive and having to share your sacred space with two bratty younger sisters. Cheryl was none too thrilled with the idea herself and she unleashed torment upon us in a series of emotional mini-traumas that are now amusing family dinner stories.
For the few short years that the three of us inhabited the same bedroom, Cheryl drew our boundaries in no uncertain terms by suspending sheets from the ceiling, separating our side from her side like a semi-private hospital room. Kenna and I knew that we were never to invade Cheryl’s space under any circumstances, but the moment she left the house we would part the curtains and delve into the mystery that was Cheryl’s Side of the Room. We were in awe of the treasures we found in that forbidden land: a small, round transistor radio with knobs that resembled wide eyes and an o-shaped mouth, stuffed animals won in the midway games at the county fair, psychedelic blacklight posters, hordes of turquoise jewelry and cartons of Kool menthol cigarettes.
My gaze often landed upon a square poster divided into four equal parts, with each quarter framing the face of a different long-haired somber looking man. The eyes of those four men followed me no matter where in the room I stood. Their enduring stares made me uneasy and while I tried my best to avoid looking, I couldn’t seem to tear away from it. This poster of portraits from The White Album was my first exposure to John, Paul, George and Ringo.
There was never a shortage of music in our room, and somehow the music became the core of our suffering. From the moment Cheryl discovered that the guitar’s whale-like screams and haunting moans in Pink Floyd’s “Echoes” would throw Kenna and me into fits of terror she began using it against us. All it took was the reverberating ping in the opening of the piece to send us running from the room, leaving her to bask in the privacy; at least until Mom forced her to let us back in.
Another favorite among Cheryl’s sister-scaring songs was Cliff Richard’s “Devil Woman.” When the chorus began to close she would raise her hands in mock attack position and chase after me as she sang, “She’s gonna GET YOU from behind!!” I would whine in protest for her to STAHHHHHHP but she derived too much pleasure from my fright to give it up. Is it any wonder I was afraid of the dark when I was a child?
Cheryl’s musical persecution didn’t stop at terror. She also enjoyed the taunting refrain of “Cry baby cry, make your mother sigh. You’re old enough to know better, but cry baby cry!” This was particularly effective if she caught me already in tears, which admittedly happened quite often. As the youngest child, I hated being called a baby and the lyrics would transform my whines and sniffles into full-force tantrum style wailing. Looking back, I am amazed that my mother retained her sanity during those years.
But Cheryl wasn’t the only one to use music to her advantage. Late one evening on the bedroom floor, a blonde Barbie was sharpening her vocal talents by performing Nazareth’s “Hair of the Dog.” This particular Barbie wasn’t keen on memorizing entire songs, so she resorted to singing the most memorable lyrics of the song repeatedly: “Now you’re messing with a… a son of a bitch!” This was too much for Kenna to bear witness to alone so she brought it to the attention of others in the household. Apparently Barbie did not impress Mom with her song choice and, consequently, that evening was her last attempt at rock stardom. Kenna was quite pleased with her role as instigator and enjoyed being a spectator during the sentencing phase of my ensuing trial.
My big sisters found no shortage of creativity when it came to the game of sibling scourge. One of my earliest memories is of a day when the absence of parental authority figures left Cheryl in charge. Kenna, always an avid reader, had barricaded herself in the only room where she could read in privacy – the bathroom – and ignored my urgent pleas to vacate so I could tend to my own business. At the tender age of three I had not quite yet mastered the art of bladder control. After several pained minutes of leg-crossing and potty dancing, my attempt at holding back the urge met with failure. Cheryl concocted a brilliant means of punishment for my transgression. After cleaning up the mess and dressing me in clean clothes, she strategically placed the wet underwear on my head like a baseball cap, where they remained until just before Mom arrived back home. If asked she will still boldly deny the events that took place that day.
Kenna, however, was always proud of the horrors she unleashed upon me. As the middle child, she had already experienced what it was like to be the little sister and as I grew, she relished in passing on the big sister tradition. One of her masterpieces came in the form of a scientific taste test with her best friend Suzie filling in as her assistant. One by one, they fed me with a variety of items found in Mom’s kitchen cupboards. In the name of research they dutifully recorded my reactions to each substance. A spoonful of cherry extract produced the most interesting results. As I vomited red on the kitchen floor, Suzie was sent home and Kenna was sent to our room. Mom revoked all further funding and the experiment was declared a disaster.
I, the innocent youngest child in all these proceedings, was utterly defenseless. I could not physically overpower the two older girls with my baby sister physique and my unrefined powers of logic were no match for their creativity. As time wore on though, I discovered those three simple words that every little sister knows will strike fear in the very hearts of her tormentors:
I’M TELLING MOM!!!
In true little sister fashion, this became my most treasured weapon.
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