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Authors: Margaret Atwood
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two, who competed for her attention in more or less sinister ways.
At first they tolerated me, on those long perilous walks to the streetcar stop. I had to walk a little behind, but that was a small enough price to pay for protection from the invisible bad men. That went on through September and October, while the leaves turned yellow and fell and were burned in the sidewalk fires that were not yet illegal, during roller skating and skipping, past knee socks and into long stockings and winter coats. The days became shorter, we walked home in the dark across the bridge, which was lit only by one feeble bulb at either end. When it began to snow we had to go into leggings, heavy lined pants that were pulled on over our skirts, causing them to bunch into the crotch, and held up by elastic shoulder straps. In those days girls were not allowed to wear slacks to school.
The memory of this darkness, this winter, the leggings, and the soft snow weighing down the branches of the willow trees in the ravine so that they made a bluish arch over the bridge, the white vista from its edge that should have been so beautiful, I associate with misery. Because by that time Elizabeth and her troop had discovered my secret: they had discovered how easy it was to make me cry. At our school young girls weren’t supposed to hit each other or fight or rub snow in each other’s faces, and they didn’t. During recess they stayed in the Girls’ Yard, where everything was whispering and conspiracy. Words were not a prelude to war but the war itself, a devious, subterranean war that was unending because there were no decisiveacts, no knockdown blows that could be delivered, no point at which you could say
I give in
. She who cried first was lost.
Elizabeth, Marlene and Lynne were in other grades or they would have found out about me sooner. I was a public sniveler still, at the age of eight; my feelings were easily hurt, despite my mother, who by this time was telling me sharply to act my age. She herself was flint-eyed, distinct, never wavery or moist; it was not until later that I was able to reduce her to tears, a triumph when I finally managed it.
Elizabeth was the leader of the Gnomes, and I was one of her five followers during those dusty Tuesdays of rituals and badges and the sewing on of buttons. It was over knots that I came to grief. We had mastered the reef, and Tawny Owl, who was the knot specialist, had decided we were ready for the clove hitch; so with her lanyard – from the end of which hung a splendid and enviable silver whistle – looped over a chairback, she was demonstrating. I was cross-eyed with concentration, I was watching so hard I didn’t see a thing, and when it came my turn to duplicate the magic feat the rope slipped through my fingers like spaghetti and I was left with nothing but a snarl. Tawny Owl did it again, for my benefit, but with no better results.
“Joan, you weren’t paying attention,” Tawny Owl said.
“But I
was”
I said earnestly.
Tawny Owl huffed up. Unlike Brown Owl, she knew about the things that went on behind her back, which made her suspicious. She took my protest for lippiness. “If you won’t cooperate, Gnomes, I’ll just have to go over and work with the Pixies. I’m sure they are more interested in learning.” And she marched off, taking her whistle with her. Of course I started oozing right away. I hated being falsely accused. I hated being accused accurately too, but injustice was worse.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. She was about to say something, but Brown Owl, ever alert, came trotting over and said brightly,“Now, now, Joan, we don’t like to see unhappy faces at Brownies; we like to see cheerfulness. Remember, ‘Frowns and scowls make ugly things, Smiling gives them fairy wings.’ ” This only made me cry harder, and I had to be secluded in the cloakroom so as not to embarrass everyone until I had, as Brown Owl put it, got my Brownie smile back again. “You must learn
At first they tolerated me, on those long perilous walks to the streetcar stop. I had to walk a little behind, but that was a small enough price to pay for protection from the invisible bad men. That went on through September and October, while the leaves turned yellow and fell and were burned in the sidewalk fires that were not yet illegal, during roller skating and skipping, past knee socks and into long stockings and winter coats. The days became shorter, we walked home in the dark across the bridge, which was lit only by one feeble bulb at either end. When it began to snow we had to go into leggings, heavy lined pants that were pulled on over our skirts, causing them to bunch into the crotch, and held up by elastic shoulder straps. In those days girls were not allowed to wear slacks to school.
The memory of this darkness, this winter, the leggings, and the soft snow weighing down the branches of the willow trees in the ravine so that they made a bluish arch over the bridge, the white vista from its edge that should have been so beautiful, I associate with misery. Because by that time Elizabeth and her troop had discovered my secret: they had discovered how easy it was to make me cry. At our school young girls weren’t supposed to hit each other or fight or rub snow in each other’s faces, and they didn’t. During recess they stayed in the Girls’ Yard, where everything was whispering and conspiracy. Words were not a prelude to war but the war itself, a devious, subterranean war that was unending because there were no decisiveacts, no knockdown blows that could be delivered, no point at which you could say
I give in
. She who cried first was lost.
Elizabeth, Marlene and Lynne were in other grades or they would have found out about me sooner. I was a public sniveler still, at the age of eight; my feelings were easily hurt, despite my mother, who by this time was telling me sharply to act my age. She herself was flint-eyed, distinct, never wavery or moist; it was not until later that I was able to reduce her to tears, a triumph when I finally managed it.
Elizabeth was the leader of the Gnomes, and I was one of her five followers during those dusty Tuesdays of rituals and badges and the sewing on of buttons. It was over knots that I came to grief. We had mastered the reef, and Tawny Owl, who was the knot specialist, had decided we were ready for the clove hitch; so with her lanyard – from the end of which hung a splendid and enviable silver whistle – looped over a chairback, she was demonstrating. I was cross-eyed with concentration, I was watching so hard I didn’t see a thing, and when it came my turn to duplicate the magic feat the rope slipped through my fingers like spaghetti and I was left with nothing but a snarl. Tawny Owl did it again, for my benefit, but with no better results.
“Joan, you weren’t paying attention,” Tawny Owl said.
“But I
was”
I said earnestly.
Tawny Owl huffed up. Unlike Brown Owl, she knew about the things that went on behind her back, which made her suspicious. She took my protest for lippiness. “If you won’t cooperate, Gnomes, I’ll just have to go over and work with the Pixies. I’m sure they are more interested in learning.” And she marched off, taking her whistle with her. Of course I started oozing right away. I hated being falsely accused. I hated being accused accurately too, but injustice was worse.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. She was about to say something, but Brown Owl, ever alert, came trotting over and said brightly,“Now, now, Joan, we don’t like to see unhappy faces at Brownies; we like to see cheerfulness. Remember, ‘Frowns and scowls make ugly things, Smiling gives them fairy wings.’ ” This only made me cry harder, and I had to be secluded in the cloakroom so as not to embarrass everyone until I had, as Brown Owl put it, got my Brownie smile back again. “You must learn
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