Some Ladies are Made, Not Born
I never do things the easy way. It cost me mortification of the flesh and damage to my pride to learn even the first rules of being a lady. I could have accepted my mother’s authority that little ladies do not swear or indulge in common street brawls, but I chose instead the hard way of learning through experience.
I must have been six years old when the trial-and-error method resulted in the first rebuke. Having at the time a limited vocabulary and a fiery temper, I kept my ears alert for new and more expressive sounds to use in my warfares. ‘Sap’ and ‘dope’ were my prize acquisitions. I guarded them cautiously and made frequent use of them when not in the presence of my parents.
Then I heard a marvelous new word. It was an expression that dwarfed all my previous accomplishments. This was a word that had caused one man to smack another on the nose. I kept the magic-working sound on reserve in my mind and practiced it on my favorite dolls until the day came when I could use it on the boy upstairs who had nicknamed me ‘Tommy.’
The golden hour arrived. I met my red-haired tormentor in the hall of our apartment house. As he passed he grinned maliciously, showing an empty space where a tooth should have been.
“Get out of my way, you horrid little tomboy!” he said. I took a deep breath, thrust my lower lip out, and yelled as loud as the capacity of my powerful lungs permitted: “You — you son-of-a-dash!!!!” Then I waited for his response. Little did I realize the cause of his silence. I repeated the enchanted word still more loudly. Then confusion reigned.
In the excitement I suddenly recognized a familiar scent, the kind that Mother allowed me to use on Sunday, and this was not a Sunday. I was tucked under a none-too-gentle arm and carried past the red-haired boy, who, for the only time in our acquaintance, gave me a sympathetic look.
When my feet touched ground again, I was in the bathroom and Mother was smearing a wet cloth with red, strong-smelling soap. I became easy as I thought: Oh, it’s only a face scrub again. But I was instructed in harsh tones to open my mouth. It fell open quite naturally at such a surprising demand. Into my gaping mouth was thrust the soapy cloth, which vigorously scrubbed every inch of interior.
In my amazement I forgot to protest. I had childish visions of my mother having lost her mind. After the bottom of my tongue had received its last rubbing, I started to taste soap. Then the yells came. I shrieked, cried, threw myself on the floor, bounced my feet, and lastly held my breath.
Mother calmly watched me. From the expression on her face I understood that this time I would arouse no sympathy, so I decided to live and took a breath of air. On seeing that I was resigned to defeat, my mother explained: “If you ever utter that word again or any other like it you’ll not only have your mouth washed but another part of you tanned.” The mouth washing had been sufficient purification. I learned to discriminate in my use of language, and I suppose I became at least ‘half’ a lady.
Experience was gracious enough to let me indulge for the next two years in secret hair-pulling bouts. Having a lusty grip I was accomplished at that sort of thing. I considered myself superior to all rivals in the vicinity. I continually lugged around a piece of wood on my shoulder and dared my more feminine friends to knock it off.
Consequently, there was a day at school when Rosemary Reynolds tore up some papers and threw them under my desk, a mild offense in itself, but one strong enough to push the chip off my impatient shoulder. I told her to pick up the torn paper. She pretended deafness, so I indignantly kicked the scraps under her seat. She returned them to their original position. I slammed the wood back on my shoulder and repeated my request. Her reply was: “Do it yourself, Tommy!”
That was about the last straw. My chip had been dealt a damaging blow. I tendered my own challenge by whispering threateningly: “Pick them up or I’ll be waiting outside after school.”
Rosemary simply laughed and said, “O.K. Tommy!”
I saw red, green and various other shades of color. I warned, “I’ll be waiting at three!”
Whispers started spreading around the classroom. “A fight at three.” Heads turned about and excited eyes studies my scowling face and Rosemary’s laughing one.
A halt was put to our public’s admiring glances by our slightly deaf teacher, Miss Pearson, as she demanded of me, “What are you up to now?” I replied with a look of hurt innocence.
At three I paraded from the room followed by my clique of faithful fans. Rosemary remained surrounded by hers. A group of more neutral spectators rushed ahead in order to attain the most favorable position for a full view of the battle.
I waited impatiently in front of the school hemmed in by inquisitive questions. “What happened?” “What did she do?” “Do you really think she will fight you?”
Finally, my opponent emerged. A murmur of excitement rose in the crowd. Never before had I felt so important. It was a noble feeling I had standing in the midst of the animated faces, waiting for a slaughter. I had glorious visions of standing over a vanquished Rosemary Reynolds. My antagonist approached, glanced disdainfully in my direction, and asked in a bored manner, “Well, shall we start?”
I nodded agreement, put on my maddest expression, and gave her a push. She returned with a similar thrust. I lifted my open palm and smacked her on the cheek. The audience started yelling and dancing about in glee. I heard voices crying, “Give her another one!” and also cries of “Slap her back, Rosemary!” Then something hit my eye. I felt myself falling. I landed in a most undignified position. The cheers and moans grew louder. Helping hands lifted me to my feet. My eye was hurting me. I was sorry I started the whole thing and wished that I was home in bed.
The next thing I knew two hands grabbhed me by the hair. I thought I was being scalped. One fist captured a handful of bangs and the other was in the act of taking a similar trophy when a loud voice issued from a first-story window. It shouted, “Stop that immediately! Immediately, I say! Do you hear?”
Before the second ‘immediately’ had been pronounced all our audience had dispersed in various directions. Rosemary, still coveting a handful of my hair, and I, now covering an eye, were left standing alone, staring up at the horrible spectre of the Principal’s red face. We were commanded in ominous tones to ascend to the office. We assented without protest.
On arriving we were confronted with demands for an explanation. I made myself doubly popular with the Principal by refusing to talk. Rosemary, not having to suppress wails because of an aching eye, told the story truthfully and fairly. I received my share of the blame which I was beginning to realize I deserved. I also received the warning that if another similar incident occured I would be expelled for two weeks. I was further given a lecture on the proper behavior for young ladies.
At length, Rosemary and I were asked to apologize to each other, I to do so first. We made amends and left. On the stairs we started to laugh, shook hands, vowed eternal friendship, and agreed that the Principal was an old crow.
On my arrival at home, my mother looked at me, took another look, then grew white and gasped: “Where did you get that black eye?” I gave its history, for which I received in exchange an excellent tanning, another lecture on the behavior of ladies, and a trip to bed without dinner.
Today I am proud to acknowledge that I do not owe behaving like a lady to elementary instincts bred by a long line of lofty ancestors. The lady in me was bossed into shape by experience: a cake of soap and a black eye.
December 11, 1939