eros, logos: education

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

education

I can tell you a story about the first porn I saw. I wonder how many people have a story like mine; I suspect many of us do, at least people who grew up in a similar time and place. I think it's not uncommon. My story is about stumbling over something when I did not expect it and did not understand it, in a place where i should not have been.

When I was 12 I was best friends with a girl I will call Maggie. We made trouble in a number of ways. Maggie's father had left her mother some years before and my own mother had died a year before, and I think now we were drawn to each other because of this as much as anything else. We didn't speak of it, but there was this knowledge that we loved each other in part because we had these symmetrical absences framing our lives. I realise this now in writing here, but at the time it seemed we were drawn to each other for other reasons.

We shared a hatred of authority, a general moodiness. In our large school it was very easy to cut classes, or even whole days. It was around this time when I discovered I had a talent for forgery. I forged Maggie's mother's signature a few times, on tests and report cards and sometimes doctor notes, and this talent stood me in good stead later when I got to high school.

One of our main activities was cutting school. It was terrifyingly easy to do this and not get caught. In most cases, bringing a signed note in to the office on the next day was enough.

So on most days that year, Maggie and I would climb out a window or hide under a bed, or meet up in the woods, and then hang out at her house. We wandered through shopping malls and occasionally went to movies and generally looked aimlessly for trouble.

Are we going in? she said. Yes, I said. I think it was her idea. I don't remember. It was the old public school in her neighborhood and it had been boarded up for a long time. We had two screwdrivers, two flashlights, some sandwiches for a picnic. I remember she had a backpack.

We pried the wood off one window and got in. I don't remember who went first, but it was probably me. That would be like me. I'd be "too good" at that age to think of or suggest such a thing but then once it was on the table I would want to be first. I'd be afraid of it, but it was like some misguided sense that if I went first at least I'd be the one hurt or in trouble.

The school was very frightening. It was huge, for one thing, and it was not empty. There were still desks and books, and things were turned over or destroyed or in disarray. In general it seemed like the whole place had been hastily abandoned. The rooms on the upper floors didn't have their windows covered, and even on the first floor the transom windows ten feet off the ground were uncovered, and weak spring sunlight pushed its way through the dirty panes. The hallways were pitch black and the basement classrooms also, and there we needed our flashlights.

We looked through some classrooms, and the cafeteria. We found old books from a play that had been given there. We went to the principal's office (naturally) and fucked around with the broken intercom, making each other laugh. Our inital fear had worn off as we stayed, and on the upper floors with the windows not boarded up we felt almost safe.

So naturally we decided to go to the basement. That's always the most frightening place in the movies, the basement or the attic. Everyone knows they shouldn't go there, but doesn't everyone go anyway?

The stairs were narrow and steep, and in that small corridor we heard something. Some mechanical sound like a pump, something like machinery breathing. On the floor below we could see a small puddle of electric light. It was leaking from around the corner and we couldn't see its source. In the dark and narrow corridor we held each other and listened.

We went down the stairs and turned left, down a ramp. The door to this small room was open, and we went in. There was one electric bulb, and some machine. I assume now it was a generator, but at the time I thought it was a furnace. There was an army cot with a blanket and a pillow. Someone stayed here. We thought it was a janitor, or some caretaker, but it was clear that we were not alone in the building after all. Someone lived here. This had been a janitor's closet or a storage room, once.

The walls were that painted kind of cinderblock you see in public schools on lower levels. Part of the right wall, just over the cot, was plastered with pictures torn out or cut out of magazines. They were taped to the wall, and some were old and some were not, they were layered over each other in places.
Neither of us had ever seen pictures like this. These weren't the kind of pictures you see in Playboy. They were very explicit.

The generator or whatever it was continued breathing. I don't think we did. We didn't speak. The noise was too loud, and that frightened me more than anything. We wouldn't hear someone stepping quietly into the room behind us, and we wouldn't know if someone was standing on the stairs listening for movement, just the way we had.

She grabbed my wrist, or I grabbed hers, and one of us pulled the other out of the room. I don't remember.

But we didn't stop yet. That was the strangest thing. Back in the corridor, outside the room, it was like we had to keep going, walk down the ramp to the last classroom there.

So we did. I think I was first.

I had this confused impression, the room lit by flashlight and everything is only revealed in pieces and for an instant, a sewing machine I thought, tables, and also an upright coffin. On top of it was the head of a manniquin, a woman's head facing away and hair.

Behind me Maggie screamed and ran. I followed her, I was also terrified, but my fear wasn't about the coffin or the head---after the inital fright I realised this room was a home economics classroom, and that some highschool kids long before us had been here and had parties here.

I was afraid she'd leave me on my own in the basement, and I was mostly afraid that whoever lived in that room would hear her and find us, or find me.

I couldn't catch her or stop her though until we were both outside again.

We went back two other times. The second time I made her come right away to the basement, I showed her that it was a mannequin's head and the coffin some stage prop.

On the last time we were caught by the cops. Some neighbour saw us climbing in the window, and when we climbed out there were three squad cars waiting. Maggie spontaneosly gave a stellar performance. She claimed we were looking for a cat we saw climb in. I was amazed; I could never have come up with such a lie on the spot or delievered it so conviincingly. I can't understand it, because the lie was so transparent, but they let us go.

Each time we went the light was on in that room, and it seemed to have been recently vacated. We would stand and look at those pictures. They were terrifying to us; they were crude...some woman on her back or stomach with her legs spread wide and her hands and other things opening her up further.

They also had a certain fascination because what was on the wall was ourselves and what we were. What we'd be.

I look at this memory now, and I wish I could tie it up neatly. I wish I knew whose room that was, and why he was there. At the time I convinced myself he was some caretaker, some official adult--it just seemed natural to me that if an adult was there he had the right to be. Unlike us.

Now I think it was someone who broke in and lived there sometimes, and we were very lucky. There was nothing to be the 'janitor' or 'caretaker' for---the place was trashed.

We never told anyone. If we'd just vanished one of those days no one would have known where to begin looking.

Walls like that are a cliche now; we see them in movies when the clever detective breaks into a suspect's bedroom or hiding place.

Some years later my father died. This bookend is not common, but it's still part of the story.
I had not spoken to him for a few years but I was still the closest relative, and in clearing his house I found a similar sight. On the inside of a bedroom closet door...in the closet I found guns, one of which I remembered very well (but that is another story for another time.)

On the inside of the door I found a similar collage. This one was just the same as that one Maggie and I found when we were twelve.... but amongst these magazine pictures of unknown adult naked women exposing themselves were proper pictures of myself as a five year old child at my birthday party, shellacked into the wall next to them, layered over and under and amongst them. Here I am at five, wearing a white dress and hat and laughing, and me at seven, ten, twelve, --all my official school pictures, just my face---, and alongside me and under me, over me and behind me, a hate-filled statement about what women are, or about me.

posted by O @ 23:28


28 Comments:
At 17 May, 2007, Anonymous said… Despite your first line, this story is not like anyone else's; it seems to me unique to you. You tell it beautifully. Thanks for writing. Seriously. kissykiss, chelsea girl At 17 May, 2007, T - Another Geek Girl said… I can't imagine anyone telling a story quite like this. I actually have goosebumps. My own introduction to porn came from having 5 uncles in our house when I was growing up. The death of my little sister and my fathers drinking finally drove us to my grandmothers house. I remember sneaking into their rooms and rummaging through their things while they were at work. I found all kinds of neat stuff, but nothing to compare to the treasure trove they had stashed in their clubhouse in the furthest corner of the backyard. Cigarettes butts, old beer cans and lots of porn. Of course I dragged my best friend out there as soon as possible. For some reason those kinds of finds just beg to be shared with your best friend. You never cease to amaze me O. I adore you, but then you already knew that ;) At 17 May, 2007, Anonymous said… Such a powerful story, O. And one that focuses on pornography as the evil that I was brought up to believe it truly is: misogyny, pure hatred and degredation of women. I avoided porn or anything associated with it for many years. I was given to believe that it was pure evil -- from a "good girls don't do that" perspective, and then later from a "this derides, degrades and dehumanizes women" feminist one. As a sex blogger, i have been brought into contact with pornography that does not fit this stereotype, which is a fact that has taken me many months to fully accept. The work of such artistes (and i use the word carefully) as Tony Comstock, combined with the reality that my own writings have been called into dubious question about whether they are, as erotica, merely elegant porn, together have called me to seriously re-evaluate my initial understanding of what porn is, and perhaps more importantly, what it could or should be. You reminded me that everything in the erotic garden is not always rosy. And that was lucky, not to mention timely, because I was in grave danger of forgetting. Once again, you made me think outside of the box, O. Brava. At 17 May, 2007, Anonymous said… Dear O; I'm so glad you're back. That really was an amazingly well told story. You inspire me. Thank you. sss At 17 May, 2007, Anonymous said… You've touched upon, and in a subtle manner, that thin line between pornography and misogyny, the one that has been frequently discussed, but perhaps too aggressively, by Andrea Dworkin. I've had similar experiences as a young girl, looking at posters of women in workplaces or in small men only staff rooms, and I never really found them erotic, arousing or pleasing to the eye. I found them confronting, and now as an adult, I'm not sure whether I'm okay with these forms of 'art' or commerce, because society (in all its totality) has conditioned me to submit to the imagery that's out there. Those spreadeagled poses, the extreme images (then again younger children and/or young teens would find such images extreme at that point in their lives), are things that I haven't been able to iron out; for example, I find extreme sadomasochism (in porn) unpleasant to look at, and always question the psychology of those within the imagery, as well as those who produce it. At 17 May, 2007, Anonymous said… You take my breath away with this tale. I'm sad that you had the freedom and lack of care to go exploring in this manner. I'm scared that you were in such danger. But damn you tell the story well. Kiss. At 17 May, 2007, Anonymous said… My dear O, You've brought me to tears with this. I'm not sure why. It's beautifully written, of course, but that's not it. There's something extraordinarily powerful here about the way you relate losing innocence, seeing yourself in ways that no one should ever have to see themselves, least of all when it's their parent's perspective that's in question. I'm once again struck by what an old soul you are, and the price you've had to pay for your wisdom. xo At 18 May, 2007, patrick said… I'm tempted to write an old fashioned, structuralist essay about why this piece is so good -- the idea of your hatred of authority, and the notion of the "official adult" and how the ending perverts the whole idea of adult entitlement to authority; the fragmentation imagery and how it works as a motif of burgeoning self-awareness, the haunting, ironic literalness of seeing the pictures as "what we'd be." But I feel sheepish even outlining the things I might write about if I were to do so, as if a cold, detached analysis were an appropriate response to your writing. What I want to say about this is that it ripped my guts out. It pulled me in, terrified me, and then hit me like a board to the back of the head. The analytical stuff, that's my defense. That's the way I get my emotions in check, take things apart to see how they work, why they're so fucking great. But first comes the pure, visceral gut response. At 18 May, 2007, ArtfulDodger said… tales of such honesty tear at our hearts, in such a way as to bring us into the lives of those that lived them and remember well our own journey, moments torn away by fright, by fear, or anger. indeed such moments collapse under their own weight and are often found at the bottoms of our minds, awaiting the light. i am so proud of you that you found the courage needed to illuminate this dusty memory and bring it forth into the day. it can be a painful and emotional experience giving birth to such things, but in the end i believe they do more harm buried within. keep the courage dear O. At 18 May, 2007, Anonymous said… I've recently become reacquainted with my own "education" as you call it - nothing like yours, though. As your readers point out, this story is unique in many ways. I am struck by how clearly you remember all of this... don't you sometimes wish we reserved this kind of clarity and detail for moments we could choose? I was never introduced to pornography in the way you've described. The sexual scenes I first remember came from cable TV and books that I was too young to be reading. I had occasion to look back at one of those books recently and was troubled by its depiction of sex, and more so by the memories I have of enjoying it so much. As to the last paragraph of your story, it makes me too sad to really articulate. As always, your bravery here is remarkable. -j At 18 May, 2007, Unknown said… Yes, Exploring in this way seems scary, and a very memorable way to find porn. But the memory of finding your own picture upon that wall... And later understanding and reflecting on what that might have meant to your father. Perhaps that was worse. It reminded me of a friend's father. Who did not keep me pictures... At 19 May, 2007, Sam said… OMG, such a riviting narrative. O, you have a beautiful writing voice. Once I started reading I just couldn't tear my eyes away. Thank you! At 19 May, 2007, O said… CG, It doesn't seem to me to be unique; most of it seems like an ordinary story of suburban mischief and consequences. I laughed at the reviews of the movies 13 and L.I.E when they came out because it seemed to me they were many years behind the times; what these movies talked about in terms of suburban kid anomie was old news, I thought, as one who lived it. Move this memory of mine several hundred miles away to upstate or western New York and it looks to me like a template for a Joyce Carol Oates story, though she'd do it better and it'd be fiction. It's too bad Spy magazine never did a 'create your own Oates short story' wheel the way they did for other fiction (as far as I know; someone should!). This post would match that putative wheel in many ways; it contains many of the features I see again and again in her short fiction. None of it seems to me unique, most of all my particular telling of it. But it means a great deal to me that you'd find it so. It's very hard to write truly, as I have said before in talking about fictionalists; I think there's no point to writing unless one takes those risks. I pity the people who can't. You are my exemplar for taking those risks, and you're my Buffy because you always do. Faithfully, O At 19 May, 2007, O said… I'll answer everyone I promise, but this is sort of hard for me to look at. All your comments have been greatly appreciated and I look forward to answering the many intelligent things that have been said. I hardly know where to start--Juno, Anastasia, you've both said things that I'm dying to talk about for so many reasons and each warrants a whole post, so many ideas...other people have also. I hope people will understand why it might be hard for me to do this all at once, much as I'd like to. It's hard for me to look at this post and the comments on it, and I feel this unexpected exhaustion in answering just one right now. I didn't expect to, and I don't want to answer people with anything less than the thought they've given to their comment. I'll answer them all this weekend I hope. Thank you, to everyone. It means a great deal to me, and I don't think I have the capacity to convey it. At 19 May, 2007, Al Sensu said… It's interesting that people who had attentive, caring parenting can grow up to be thoughtless idiots and people who had absent/missing parents can grow up to be thoughtful, creative, wonderful people like yourself. But I know from someone close to me that the hurt never goes away. Thank you for sharing this story. While I mostly played by the rules, it did remind me of some of my kid adventures. Tying that to the experience after your father died was poignant and illuminating. At 19 May, 2007, Anonymous said… What a frightening tale, O...beautifully written, painful to read, at least at the end. Thank you for sharing such a thoughtful and thought-provoking piece of your life. At 19 May, 2007, Anonymous said… Your story would be perfect but for one thing - convincingly is misspelled conviincingly. I'm also worried that you found my hiding spot. What's the name of this school again? Seriously, your story is rich, not only in suspense and plot but also psychological interpretation. Makes me want to find out about the relationship between you and Maggie (did you guys do anything? - write another post about this, even if it's fictitious!)and more about the guy wanking in this god-forsaken spot (in case it's not me). I DON'T want to know more about your father's juxtaposing pornography with your pictures. This is seriously distressing and depressing - esp. given my love for you. You were dealt an incredibly bad hand having this shmuck for a father. Somehow, though, you've managed to overcome it. An inspiration to me, who next to you will always be a frail little butterfly. At 20 May, 2007, Miss Syl said… O, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the story to say anything very useful (overwhelmed for personal reasons, btw, not because of anything you did). But I do want to thank you for having the bravery to tell it, and tell it so well and openly. I do hope you will keep on doing so. At 22 May, 2007, Anonymous said… There are so many things here, and really, it all hits so hard at the end. It is different for a lot of us, because we all carry certain images of our own parents, and it is difficult to imagine them having such a wall. But then, to discover ourselves, our childish, innocents selves, tossed into this same disposable pile with so much trash...it is hard to really comprehend just what that would mean. You're a lot more normal than you should be. At 22 May, 2007, Unknown said… Still doing it, I see. Spinning words into a glittering web that entraps me so that I cannot move or breathe. I can't fathom being exposed to such images at that age. But I was a late bloomer to the sexual arena. At least, sex that involved someone other than myself. Also, I suppose it's far easier to access pictures of naked women, than naked men, in American culture. As a het male, pictures of naked woman brought about, "Oh, so that's how they look." thoughts. I was maybe 15 the first time I saw pictures of a man and a woman "in congress". Thanks, Larry Flynt. Of course THOSE had an impact because I was nothing like the males in the pictures. So maybe I can identify in a small way ;) with the idea of seeing pictures that were meant to be representations of what I was supposed to become. I remember those days of suburban adventure, though. We could go anywhere and everywhere on our bicycles. Down to the school to play. Down the paths into the woods and the creek. Up to the stores when we had money for candy or soda (rarely). There were no cell phones, pagers, implants or spy satellites. For me, I had just better be where I said I'd be when I said I'd be there. Since my mother seemed omnipotent, I followed that rule. :) You were far braver or wilder than I. Of course, I didn't have a friend like Maggie, either. I'm glad that you both made it through that adventure without encountering anything darker than you did. Are our children really less safe these days? Or are we more aware of the danger? Or more afraid? As a father, I can't fathom how anyone could view their own daughter in a sexual manner. All the more ironic since I've been accused of that very thing. It's an effective attack method during a divorce. Sadly there are enough males who have felt this way about their daughters to make "the system" respond as effectively as the Kaiser's army after an Austrian assassination. Wow, look at that tangent go... See what you do? Your willingness to pin your naked soul with the sharp serifs of letters allows me to release my own. I've missed you, O. Been too much in the world. My fault. I shall attempt to rectify that and keep the signal going. Thanks for your words. & P.S. I have a new uber-deluxe Scrabble(tm) set. & At 23 May, 2007, Anonymous said… You know what I think of your words. You know what I think of your thoughts. You know what I know. You know why I think this both beautifully written, yet troubling. You know. As do I. Thank you. At 24 May, 2007, Anonymous said… O- I can't even begin to imagine what you and your friend felt while you were in that abandoned school, nor how you felt when you found your pictures scattered among the one your father had in his closet. You tell an absolutely amazing story and my heart goes out to you. At 24 May, 2007, DESIRE X said… Sometimes scars grow over wounds that never quite heal. I imagine that still today there are times when you see a picture in a magazine or even a picture of a young girl similar to yourself and this vision catches you off-guard. Some things we don't overcome, we merely survive. Sometimes that is enough because it must be. Him At 26 May, 2007, Shay said… You were such a brave/foolish little girl! I am so very happy that the story didn't end with whoever lived in the school basement finding you there! At 26 May, 2007, Shay said… a very thought provoking piece also At 29 May, 2007, Gracie said… my darling O, how i miss your words. i miss you. reading about your youth gives me hints of my own. i was quite the forger myself. i spent most of my junior and senior year cutting. as always you write so well my dear. what struck me the hardest was the ending. perhaps i will have to write you about my introductions to porn. but, it is not a sexy post by all means. maybe that explains a lot about me. smile G At 15 June, 2007, Anonymous said… Wonderful piece, very well written! At 30 June, 2007, Anonymous said… Wow. I just discovered your blog and wow. You are such an amazing writer.
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