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Red Rover, Red Rover
March is Women’s History Month. Every woman has a story. Your granny has a story. Your aunties have stories. Your mother has a story. I have a story. During this month of women’s history, I hope to be able to tell my story and in doing so, encourage other women to tell their stories.
I grew up in the fifties and sixties. I’m a baby-boomer. My parents lived through an economic depression and a world war. My mom’s story affected how my story developed. Mom was a bit of a rebel. No house dresses and pin curls for her. She was a woman who didn’t wait for a man to do things for her. She knew how to fend for herself when Dad was away for work. This I learned from her story. My first memory of making my own story is pretty simple. Miss Bowers, a Second Grade teacher, told me and my friend we weren’t behaving like ladies at recess. In the “good old days”, the students at St. John’s School played in a divided yard. The boys played on one side of the yard and the girls played on the other. When I think about it, I guess the girls were expected to have been happily engaged in jump rope, hopscotch, reading quietly on a bench or bouncing a rubber ball. Of course, we girls had our happy sing-songs for each game and, for the most part, we did all of those stereotypical things. On the other side of the yard, the boys were playing move-ups (a baseball game), dodgeball, Red Rover and, generally, roughhousing. The boys played games my siblings and I engaged in at home. We were a boisterous bunch. This particular day, my bosom buddy, Patty C., and I were intrigued by the enthusiasm and excitement of the games the boys were allowed to play. We decided to get in on the “action” and turned our backs on bouncy-ball and jump rope. We encouraged several of our classmates to play a game of Red Rover. The game was over almost before it began. Nuns on yard duty have eyes in the back of their heads, doncha know. Patty C. and I were pointed out as the ringleaders and promptly sent to sit in the hallway outside the Principal’s office. Seven years old and we weren’t behaving like ladies. A female teacher arrived and lectured us on the need to make sure the boys didn’t see our bloomers and how important it was to avoid scrapes on knees, dirty finger nails and tangled hair. We spent the rest of the lunchtime recess sitting on our hands, in the hallway. The outcome could have been a lot worse. Maybe we got off easier because we were first-time offenders. But it was official, we weren’t lady-like and it was on record. Oh the shame.
Behaving like a lady, whatever that really means, wasn’t something I ever aced. The ribbons never stayed in my hair. My buttons on my blazer were never shiny and one sock always spent most of the day pooled around my ankle. On picture day, unless the photographs were done the moment I stepped off the bus, I looked as if my hair had been done by a Mixmaster. My knees were always scraped. My fingernails never passed inspection (and there was an inspection for the girls). And I could turn a starched, white uniform blouse into a rumpled mess before noon. I never got to play Red Rover at St. John’s, but when we moved to St. Jude’s School the play yard was much bigger and more difficult for the teachers to patrol. Clotheslining your friends in a rousing game of Red Rover became my very favourite game in elementary school. In high school I took a “pass” on interpretive dancing and signed up for Field Hockey. The words, “behave like a lady” rang in my ears for years. When LOML and I decided to get married, several people tenderly suggested it would be my chance to show the world I could behave like a lady and look like a princess on my big day. Nope, it didn’t happen. I was, quite simply, myself on that day. Although, I did wear shoes and my hair was under control, sort of. But, it wasn’t long before I had a huge red wine stain on my white dress.
In this, the month of Women’s History, share your story. Encourage other women and listen to their stories. It took a long time for me to realize I am exactly who I am. I am my mother’s daughter.
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