Read Online A Lotus Grows in the Mud by Goldie Hawn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Goldie Hawn
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propaganda fills our TVscreens, ominous-looking sirens are erected on street corners and on the rooftops of every school. I can’t even bear to look at them. And each time they begin to wail, I shift into a state of panic. For me, the sound of the siren is the sound of instant death and annihilation.
Even the noise of the firehouse siren sets me off. If I could call the president and ask him if this is the end of the world, I would, but instead I dial the operator.
“Excuse me, but are we having an enemy attack?”
There is silence at the other end of the phone. “Er, no, dear, I don’t think so.”
Afraid to be on my own, I climb the fence to the Fishers’ or to my girlfriend Jean Lynn’s house every night after school.
One afternoon, arriving at Jean’s, I walk in and throw my schoolbooks on the table, and she rushes out of the kitchen with a wicked smile on her face.
“Hey, look at this!” She grins and shows me an unopened jar of peanut butter. “Okay, who gets to go first?” she says as she unscrews the lid and reveals its shiny, swirly perfection. Satisfying our need to despoil it, we both stick our fingers in and mess it up badly, laughing so hard. Just as Jean goes to find another jar of peanut butter, or—better still—a jar of mayonnaise, the sirens go off.
The jar slips from her fingers and smashes onto the tiled kitchen floor. Shards of glass and globules of peanut butter splatter everywhere. Panic buddies, Jean and I lock eyes, and she runs for the door to her basement.
“Come on, Goldie!” she screams.
We race down the stairs, our feet clattering on the wooden steps, into a dark room filled with old scooters and art projects and caked mud pies we made as small children. In the middle of the room stands a table, piled up with freshly washed clothes and ironing.
“Here! Quick!” Jean cries, throwing me some of her mother’s freshly pressed clothes. “Put these on.”
I do as I am told, and watch as Jean rips the oilcloth from the table with one swift motion, tumbling the clothes to the floor. “They toldus at school that if we cover ourselves in oilcloth, it will protect us from the fallout.”
We wrap ourselves furiously as she pulls it over the top of us and we clamber under the table. Lying there together, huddled in the duck-and-cover position, arms over our heads, we look at each other and cry big, fat tears.
“We’re going to die! I don’t want to die!” we scream at each other, hyping each other into an hysterical state.
“Where’s my Nixi? I don’t want him to die by himself.”
I cry and cry for my dog. I cry for the life I fear I won’t have. I cry for the fact that I am never going to grow more than bumps on my chest. I cry over the double wedding Jean and I had planned in Takoma Park. I am so afraid of dying.
Looking at Jean under my arms, I say, through my snot and tears, “I haven’t even been kissed yet!” Raising my face to heaven, I cry, “Please, God, let some boy kiss me before I die.”
Just then, we hear an airplane fly low overhead, and we both fall quiet. Our eyes are as big as saucers; my fingers grip hers so tight that I can no longer feel them. “Oh my God! Oh my God! This is it!”
I hang my head in prayer and wait for the end.
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” I repeat over and over, reciting the lines that I have learned from going to church with Jean Lynn. I have no idea what they mean. Just speaking them comforts me. Unknowingly, I am reciting my first mantra.
W ithout fear, we cannot evolve. It is a natural human emotion that protects us from harm or even death. It creates something called the “fight-or-flight response,” where people either fight or run away. But fear is also one of the most destructive emotions we have. It can quickly manifest into anger. And, as we all know, anger can be poisonous. You must approach your fears with as much truth and courage as you can.
Fight-or-flight is very clearly embedded in us for
Even the noise of the firehouse siren sets me off. If I could call the president and ask him if this is the end of the world, I would, but instead I dial the operator.
“Excuse me, but are we having an enemy attack?”
There is silence at the other end of the phone. “Er, no, dear, I don’t think so.”
Afraid to be on my own, I climb the fence to the Fishers’ or to my girlfriend Jean Lynn’s house every night after school.
One afternoon, arriving at Jean’s, I walk in and throw my schoolbooks on the table, and she rushes out of the kitchen with a wicked smile on her face.
“Hey, look at this!” She grins and shows me an unopened jar of peanut butter. “Okay, who gets to go first?” she says as she unscrews the lid and reveals its shiny, swirly perfection. Satisfying our need to despoil it, we both stick our fingers in and mess it up badly, laughing so hard. Just as Jean goes to find another jar of peanut butter, or—better still—a jar of mayonnaise, the sirens go off.
The jar slips from her fingers and smashes onto the tiled kitchen floor. Shards of glass and globules of peanut butter splatter everywhere. Panic buddies, Jean and I lock eyes, and she runs for the door to her basement.
“Come on, Goldie!” she screams.
We race down the stairs, our feet clattering on the wooden steps, into a dark room filled with old scooters and art projects and caked mud pies we made as small children. In the middle of the room stands a table, piled up with freshly washed clothes and ironing.
“Here! Quick!” Jean cries, throwing me some of her mother’s freshly pressed clothes. “Put these on.”
I do as I am told, and watch as Jean rips the oilcloth from the table with one swift motion, tumbling the clothes to the floor. “They toldus at school that if we cover ourselves in oilcloth, it will protect us from the fallout.”
We wrap ourselves furiously as she pulls it over the top of us and we clamber under the table. Lying there together, huddled in the duck-and-cover position, arms over our heads, we look at each other and cry big, fat tears.
“We’re going to die! I don’t want to die!” we scream at each other, hyping each other into an hysterical state.
“Where’s my Nixi? I don’t want him to die by himself.”
I cry and cry for my dog. I cry for the life I fear I won’t have. I cry for the fact that I am never going to grow more than bumps on my chest. I cry over the double wedding Jean and I had planned in Takoma Park. I am so afraid of dying.
Looking at Jean under my arms, I say, through my snot and tears, “I haven’t even been kissed yet!” Raising my face to heaven, I cry, “Please, God, let some boy kiss me before I die.”
Just then, we hear an airplane fly low overhead, and we both fall quiet. Our eyes are as big as saucers; my fingers grip hers so tight that I can no longer feel them. “Oh my God! Oh my God! This is it!”
I hang my head in prayer and wait for the end.
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” I repeat over and over, reciting the lines that I have learned from going to church with Jean Lynn. I have no idea what they mean. Just speaking them comforts me. Unknowingly, I am reciting my first mantra.
W ithout fear, we cannot evolve. It is a natural human emotion that protects us from harm or even death. It creates something called the “fight-or-flight response,” where people either fight or run away. But fear is also one of the most destructive emotions we have. It can quickly manifest into anger. And, as we all know, anger can be poisonous. You must approach your fears with as much truth and courage as you can.
Fight-or-flight is very clearly embedded in us for
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