Missy's Big Fish Stories

Raindrops on Roses

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 03:53:00 +0000

Raindrops on Roses, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

My roses are finishing up now. But this is one of my favorite shots.

And Whiskers on Kitteh's

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 03:50:00 +0000

100_8056, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

Simba loves to follow me out into the garden and pounce on cat nip. He's such a shadow.

Sunset Reflection

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 01:56:00 +0000

june 027, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

The sun's reflection in the water is a golden ball that casts a glow on everything. Even the lily pads reflect it's long light. If you sit still for a moment your heart will slow with the rhythm of the peepers. Breathe in the strong scent of blossoms from the olive bushes on the shore. Watch the flash of silver and water as schools of fish leap and break the waters surface in unison.
peep peep
peep peep
peep peep

Big Fish Lake at Sunset

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 16:25:00 +0000

june 040, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

Yes, I have been kayaking out on the lake. It always refreshes the mind and soul. And this view is just one reason I love it.

Iris at Twilight

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 16:23:00 +0000

june 047, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

I think I'm into photo blogging right now.
I like the ethereal floaty feeling of the dark background.

How Do You Say "Dark Film" in French?

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 14:20:00 +0000

I picked this picture up from Pita. (Say that five times fast.) For some reason, I love it. The darkness, the tension. Click on it to make it bigger. What's that he's holding--or is it she? Is it a gun? Are they struggling? Something's missing. He's not wearing a hat.

"Of all the unlit alleys, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine. With gams that went on forever and eyes that said danger."

Troubled Times, Troubled Minds

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Sun, 31 May 2009 02:07:00 +0000

So I stopped by Dan's Garage Friday night and had a drink with Dan and Lisa; Karleen stopped by, and Greg. We were chatting and talking about different ideas of how to overcome this wretched economic mess everyone's in. The neighborhood is turning into a ghost town.

"Well Dan and I have an idea," Lisa said. "The old farmhouse across the road is empty..."

"Wait, which one?" asked Greg.

"You know, the one where he got the barn wood," I said.

"The grass is a foot tall," added Karleen.

"Oh yeah, that's a cool looking old house," said Greg.

"We thought we could turn it into a haunted house," said Lisa.

"Hey," I said, "That's not a bad idea. I bet people would come..."

"And an AFC home," added Dan. My jaw dropped.

"Adult Foster Care?" I said.

Lisa laughed, "Yeah, a combination haunted house slash AFC home."

"It's a perfect idea," said Dan. "You can just dress up the residents and send them for a walk around the grounds."

"Oh. My. God." I started laughing uncontrollably. "The living dead..."

Everyone warmed up to the idea. "Here, honey, you need this bandage..." said Lisa.

"Over your whole body," added Karleen.

"Now take a walk down this hallway," threw in Greg.

"Let me just put this sheet over you before you go outside," said Dan.

This is the most evil, yet brilliant plan I have ever heard. These people should not be allowed to congregate together.

Prom Night '09

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Wed, 27 May 2009 02:19:00 +0000

may 060, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

My Bill with his lovely friend.

He is such a white boy.

Dear Diary...

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Wed, 27 May 2009 01:30:00 +0000

I feel very self conscious about this blog lately. All this soul baring. People I know in real life come here. I've always been a bit mercurial about it, deleting things and putting them back, re-editing posts that are years old.

I keep closing and reopening and I can't decide if I want to keep going on or if it's lived it's life or if it should just be private. For now I'll reopen it most nights when I'm around. I dunno.

Good news: Now that Steve is home for the summer I can confiscate his laptop.

Bad news: Financially things are going down hill fast and it looks like we will probably lose our home in 6 to 8 months. Unless I win the lottery. Or inherit big bucks. Or my husband finds a job.

The rumor from someone I know in the know is that GM is going to declare bankruptcy overnight. I'll see in the morning how good my sources really are. Of course, this would spell untold disaster for Michigan, especially Southeast Michigan which has always put it's eggs in the auto and manufacturing basket. The ripple effects are going to be horrendous. Just wait.

Good news: I'm getting counseling. I think it will help. I had my first session today. I finally found someone who would pay for it.

Bad news/Good news: My parish won't pay for my study retreat this year, but I have found a "scholarship." I think the savvy will guess where my help is coming from.

My life is so embarrassing.

Catharsis

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Mon, 25 May 2009 17:08:00 +0000

Oh, Missy, as I was writing this to you I received your email. I feel sick – no matter how many of these stories I have heard in my years as VAC, I can never get used to it. I am grieving for you. It is unbelievable that he was doing this kind of stuff for so many years and never got called to task. I can’t imagine how many lives were destroyed by this “man of God.”

Memory is a funny thing. The closest analogy I can think of is a movie. You know how you can watch a film when you are very young and see it one way, then watch it again years later and notice things you missed the first time, and then watch it again still later and realize there are jokes you didn't get before or references you didn't have the knowledge or background to really understand? My memories of Fr. Monroe are like that. I pulled those memories out in 6th grade, and then again when I was a sophomore in high school, and then again after my mother died.

I don't doubt the boy's story who reported being molested by Fr. Monroe. I think many people have misconceptions about pedophiles and think they are homosexuals or bisexuals or even heterosexuals. But to use terms like that is to grant them the dignity of someone who is attracted to adults who are capable of consent and equality in a relationship. Pedophiles are pedophiles--they may be attracted to a certain age or body type or even have a preference for girls or boys, blondes or brunettes--but it is a relationship based on manipulation and control. Pedophiles are seducers in search of power and control.

I know no one stopped Fr. Monroe after the big incident at our house. He stayed on for another four or five years at St. Mary's. I believe he moved on to "Jane" after me. I have no proof of that, but I recall a conversation Jane and I had back in 6th grade...

She was number 8 of 9 kids and I met her in first grade. Her father was also a teacher at Loretto. See, the thing is, that conversation wasn't about sex. It was about the way we felt. I mean, I don't think either one of us "got" at the time what had really happened. This might sound weird; we were talking about the way Fr. Monroe made us feel--like I was his special girl--she said the same thing. She was the special one, he would give her attention, she would sit on his lap. And then suddenly it was over. Once when I was in first grade and walking in a line with my class I saw him talking to Sister and I said "Hi," but I didn't just say hi, I was like, jumping up and down waving and saying over and over "Hi Fr. Monroe, hey Fr. Monroe, Hi, Hi!" He just ignored me until finally Sister kind of elbowed him and he nodded at me. I told Jane that must be what it feels like to get dumped by a guy. Then we had a laugh over Fr. Monroe and his "little girlfriends." I remember one line in particular though; Jane said "No one could tickle like Fr. Monroe." So I've always thought something happened to her, too. Jane also told me her family would go to Fr. Monroe's cabin and that he had a pool there and he liked to play in the water with the kids. I never went to his cabin or played in his pool, so I have no personal knowledge of this. If Jane hadn't told me I would not have known, but Sister confirmed in a conversation we had that he did. It reminds me of what my dad said about Soldier Lake back in the 30s.

If I had my way he would be defrocked posthumously--I mean anything to acknowledge the pain he caused and the crisis of faith he brought to my mother. It was all just so wrong. And my dad--he didn't want to believe it, acted like it never happened. But he was in pain over this also. Fr. Monroe was his favorite. My dad and I did have a conversation about this before he died--I had to know, I had to have it acknowledged by another human being that this really happened. And yes, he remembered. He wept.

When I was in 10th grade I had my first boyfriend. We would "make out," what I consider to be an age appropriate sexual experience. It was deep kissing, hands on the outside of our clothing. At one point the boy took my hand and placed against his thigh so I could feel his penis. Suddenly I had a flashback to Fr. Monroe that was so vivid I startled--I pulled my hand back as if I had been burned. I opened the car door and jumped out. Needless to say my boyfriend was confused, embarrassed, chagrined. So was I. I couldn't explain it to him--how could I tell him he reminded me of an old priest? Ick, ick, ick.

It was a warm sunny day. I was playing in my wading pool in the backyard, my dad was cooking on the grill. I had to pee, so I jumped out of the pool and ran into the house. My mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner as I ran through that room, through the dining room, through the living room where Fr. Monroe was sitting on the sofa.

"Come here," he said smiling and reaching for me--I made a beeline past him saying "I have to pee!" I ran up the stairs to the bathroom. Coming back down the stairs, slower this time, I stopped to visit with Fr. Monroe for a moment. I didn't want to stay inside--everyone else was out back enjoying the weather including my brothers and some kids from the neighborhood. But I liked him. He put his arm around me and took both of my hands and put them on his thigh so I could feel his penis through his clothes.

"What do you think that is?" he said. His eyes were smiling. He was smiling, playing a guessing game with me.

"I don't know," I said.

"Come on," he said. "You can take a guess, can't you?"

"A banana?" I asked.

He laughed, "No, not a banana." He held both of my little hands to his thigh. "Feel it," he said. "Take another guess." I grasped him more firmly with both of my hands.

"It's a pickle," I said.

"No it's not," he laughed.

"Yes it is!" I squealed as I let go and turned and ran away. "Fr. Monroe has a pickle in his pocket!" I sang as I ran through the house back outside to my wading pool. My mom looked at me funny, a question on her face.

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Wed, 20 May 2009 17:49:00 +0000

Take some time and energy (and prayer) which will be painful to write everything you can remember about the abuse ... How you felt, what you recall about your mom and or dad, what happened ... How this has affected you and your life, etc ... Write more rather than less ... This is meant to get as much of the hurt and ugliness out and maybe down the road we will even burn them ... You know the song ASHES ... That is what this is all about.

It's hard to know where to begin to tell the story. I believe I was four years old when it began. I have vague memories of different incidents; different times of day; different seasons. The sharpest memory is of the night my mother caught him, so I guess I should start there. "Caught" is maybe not even the right word. Realized what he was doing is more accurate. All of this happened in my own home, right under my parents nose.

My father taught and coached all sports at Loretto Catholic Central. He was friends with Fr. Monroe and had known him many years. Fr. Monroe coached my dad's 8th grade basketball team. My dad told me before he passed away that in retrospect he realized Fr. Monroe was a voyeur back in the 1930s. He said Fr. Monroe would schedule his favorite altar boys for the last Mass of the day on sunny summer days and take that group skinny dipping at Soldier Lake.

I don't think my father was ever abused. But I think it's likely Fr. Monroe's predatory behavior began that far back.

So Father Monroe would spend time at our house. And he would pay special attention to me and I would sit on his lap. He was like a doting grandfather to me and I loved the attention.

One time he came to our house--it was winter. It was dark out. My mothers Christmas decorations were not up, so it was likely after Christmas, probably early 1969.

It's after dinner. The big game was on television, as it always was in my house. I don't know if they were watching football or basketball, but I wanted to be a part of it. My mom made me take a bath first. She was there with me, I was rushing through it so I could get downstairs. I remember her dressing me, holding my panties for me to step into, pulling the nightgown over my head and laughing as I ran away with wet hair.

I ran down the stairs, across the living room and straight into his arms. He hoisted me up onto his lap. Are we winning? I would sit quietly during the game, then in between plays and during commercials he would make small talk with me and tickle me. I would squeal with delight. My dad was in his lazy boy on the other side of the room, my mom was on the sofa next to Fr. Monroe's easy chair.

Only he wasn't just tickling me.

He had his hand up under my nightgown and he was masturbating me. And then suddenly he jammed his finger up inside of me.

And I yelled, "Ow!"

I pushed myself away from him and climbed off his lap. "That hurt!" I said. He was apologizing and trying to pull me back onto his lap, but precocious thing that I was I shook my finger at him. I wasn't going back until I got some kind of promise. "It's okay if you tickle me," I said, "but don't stick your finger inside of me cause that hurts." My dad was watching the game oblivious of what I had just said, but my mom's back stiffened, then her eyes got wide.

"What did you just say?"

Suddenly I felt like I was in trouble. I knew she had heard me, so I looked down at the ground and repeated myself. My mom grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me into the kitchen. "Show me," she said. What? "Show me where he touched you," she said. "What did you mean?" she asked. "What do you mean 'stick your finger inside of me'?" Her voice was getting louder and she was starting to shake. I lifted up my nightgown and she pulled down my panties and saw a little spot of blood. "Bob! Bob!" she starts screaming.

I am scared and I don't really know who's in trouble. I start to get the feeling Fr. Monroe is in trouble. I just want to calm my mom down. I don't want her to be angry and yelling. I tell her it was an accident, that Fr. Monroe was just tickling me down there and his finger slipped and went inside of me. I tell her he didn't mean to do it. Then she goes totally berzerk. She holds onto my arm tight and it hurts, she doesn't even know she's doing it. She is screaming for my dad to get the shotgun because she's going to blow Fr. Monroe's balls off. My dad comes into the kitchen and tries to calm her down. I am standing right inbetween them. Fr. Monroe pokes his head around the corner and says, "Bob, I better go." He quickly turns and runs out the front door as my mom lunges at him over my dad's shoulder.

I am sobbing.

My dad yells at me to go to my room. My mom is crying.

I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.

That was the last Sunday my mom went to church.

Around Big Fish Lake

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 20:56:00 +0000

What has been going on around here? Well, shah, I have to go back a few weeks to catch up. So yes, Pepper. That dog was the biggest pain in the ass. She drove me nuts. Still, she was a member of our family for four years--if you've never had a dog or pet you wouldn't understand. I took her to McDonald's for a few cheeseburgers on the way to animal control. By the time I got there I was crying and the gentleman running the shelter took pity on me and did not charge. He told me what a shame it was to put her down, but you can't do anything about dog bites. Someone can break into your home, and if your dog bites he can sue you. You can shoot an intruder, but you can't let your dog bite him. Weird how case law as evolved that way. I guess Americans love guns more than dogs.
***
So that Friday I went to see Kars and hung out with her through several happy hours. It was a lovely evening out on the deck, perhaps tonight will be like that. After dark Jane called and we went to the garage for euchre. Luck was not a lady that night.
****
Lisa hosted the last Bunco night, and I did not win there either. But I felt the weight coming off my shoulders and it was another great evening hanging out with the Lakeview Ladies League. Then the weekend just kept getting better. Because I finally got to meet (squeeee) Tim! Yes, my buddy from Straight Friendly was in town, not under the best of circumstances, but what a treat nonetheless. Here we are outside of the Chinese restaurant we met up at:

Tim and his partner, Walt, were just as gracious and warm and friendly as they could be. Somehow they managed to listen to my prattle for two hours without yawning or rolling their eyes. (I told you my eyes disappear when I smile.)

*****
All of that joy sustained me for the next week, which was a whirl of last minute end of year stuff culminating with Mark making his First Communion on Saturday evening. He said it was the happiest day of his life! He wanted to go to church as soon as he woke up. Yes, there will be pictures, just not now. I'm not on the right computer for that.
After the service we hosted a family party and turned it into a euchre tournament. So much food and fun--it was a perfect celebration ending a perfect day.
******
But wait, there's more. During the party I got a phone call. Father Friendly called and asked me to come in on Monday and interview for their DRE position. That's Director of Religious Education, for you non-Catholic folks. So I wore my red shirt and I was feeling the Holy Spirit that day when I went in for the interview. It went well. That's all I can say for now. I know they are interviewing other candidates so it will probably be a few weeks before I know one way or the other. But a full time job would be such a help right now. Especially since I just got the bad news at my current job--no, they're not actually cutting my hourly rate, that would be ridiculous. But I am forced to take off four more weeks this summer. That means I will be without income for two months: July and August. Not an easy situation. I suspect there may be more bad news coming--I'm just waiting to be told they won't pay for my retreat at the end of June. That would be really sad. Cause let me tell ya, I need a little vacay.
*******
Thank God it's Friday.

Postscript: Bad news, good news. Bad news: I didn't get the job. Good news: they only had me waiting a few days to find out. It would have been a bigger let down if I had lots of time to hope.

A Woman's Place

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 15:22:00 +0000

Recently Claire pointed out an NCR article explaining the Vatican investigation of women religious. I felt my chest tighten as I read it.

Obviously these wild, outrageous, and disobedient women need to be brought in line.

Given all of that I was thankful to read Sandra Schneiders letter, also published by NCR, in which she spontaneously shares her feelings about the investigation:

"We cannot, of course, keep them from investigating. But we can receive them, politely and kindly, for what they are, uninvited guests who should be received in the parlor, not given the run of the house. When people ask questions they should not ask, the questions should be answered accordingly. I just hope we will not, as we American Religious so often do, think that by total 'openness' and efforts to 'dialogue' we are going to bring about mutual understanding and acceptance. This is not mutual and it is not a dialogue. The investigators are not coming to understand--believe me, we found that out in the seminary investigation. So let's be honest but reserved, supply no ammunition that can be aimed at us, be non-violent even in the face of violence, but not be naive. Non-violent resistance is what finally works as we've found out in so many arenas."

Women religious have come out of the cloister and given birth to a new form of religious life in our country. As the priest shortage increasingly reduces priests to merely performing sacraments, women religious and lay ministers are taking up the reins by fulfilling the other two priestly duties: catechizing or teaching; and ministering to the sick, imprisoned, and needy.

We are all, at our baptism, anointed priest, prophet and king. We are all called on to bear witness to Christ in this world.

So let us.

(Go read Sr. Schneiders letter in full. And cheer.)

Do Re Mi Oh My

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 13:40:00 +0000

This is just the sort of delightful pick me up I needed. More than 200 dancers were performing their version of "Do Re Mi", in the Central Station of Antwerp, Belgium. With just 2 rehearsals they created this amazing stunt at 8:00 AM on a Monday morning (March 23, 2009) to the bemused amazement of the commuters passing by. It is a promotional stunt for a Belgian television program looking for someone to play the leading role in the musical of "The Sound of Music." Enjoy!

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 13:30:00 +0000

Well, it's finally happened. I think I'm officially having a nervous breakdown. Asshat called yesterday and wanted to know why we hadn't surrendered our dog yet. Because the 10 day quarantine doesn't end until today, fucktard! Thanks for being such an insensitive shit that you have to ask! And who said I was taking her to animal control, anyway? They want $100 to put her down--I can't afford that. I would rather take her to a vet so I can at least be with her when she dies. The local one wants $59.95. I wonder if they charge tax? I'm down to my last $40--should I bounce a check? Or maybe just do her in myself?
I am so sick and tired of lovely, comfy people and their insensitive bullshit. "Have you been to the doctor for that cough?" No. "Oh, you're one of those people who toughs it out." No, I'm one of those people without health insurance. Sure antibiotics would help, but slogging through four weeks of an infection is what I prefer. "You should stay home if you're not feeling well." That would be great if I had a salary, but I don't. I get paid by the hour, which means if I'm not working--I don't get paid! And while we're on the health subject, I also have a molar that broke in half eight months ago which I can't afford to get fixed. Yes I called every dentist in town and none offer credit or do pro bono work. At least my kids have medicaid. I don't qualify. I guess I'm supposed to be able to afford $1000 a month premiums, which is weird because I don't even make $1000 a month. I only make $10,000 a year.
Oh, and I'm supposed to go out to lunch for secretaries day, or whatever they call it now, but much as I love the woman I can't afford flowers and cards and a restaurant lunch--I don't have a car to get there and if I did I wouldn't have money for gas. I'm embarrassed by my wardrobe--I've gained weight and nothing seems to fit me right and of course, should I say it? I can't afford to buy anything new. I just realized, this being one of the first nice days of the year, that I don't have a pair of shorts that fit me or a short sleeved shirt that isn't old and stained. Whoo hoo! But what the hell, pick me up and give me charity. I live for it. Let me sit there in a foul mood and give everyone indigestion. Ah, but the truth is I would just sit there smiling and no one would know or even notice the hateful feelings swirling around inside of me.
My little one, Mark, wants to go to a lock in tonight, which I made the mistake of mentioning. Maybe I can scrape up $15 in change so he can go. Then pizza is $1.50 a slice and pop is $1.00 and they're selling candy, too, which is only 75 cents. How much spending money do you think he would need to feel normal? Would $5 do it? I suppose it's the least I can do for him--he's asked to play soccer, and wrestling, and baseball. No, no, no, dear. No team sports for you. We just happen to live two miles over the district line so that will be an extra $60 to play any recreational sport at all, since apparently our taxes don't support their programs. Even if your parent volunteers to coach, you don't get a break. Sorry, son. Just play your video games.
Second son, Bill, wants to go to the prom. "Can you afford it?" I ask. Wait. Oldest son didn't have to pay for himself... Mom covered the tux and corsage, dad let him use the truck and gave him money for dinner. Those halcyon days gone by. Second son is 17 and doesn't even have a drivers license yet. Because I can't afford the classes, let alone the insurance. To his credit, he's NEVER given me shit about it. He's a good kid.
Speaking of good kids, Grace and Jack both got Youth Recognition Awards last night from the local youth assistance organization. Both have volunteered extensively for yard clean ups, Special Olympics, VBS, PBJ Outreach, raising money for World Vision.
Yup. Helping the poor.
I'm so proud of them.
Why can't I stop crying?
Oh yeah. I have to go kill my dog. Thanks for reminding me.

Just When You Think It Can't Get Any Worse...

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 22:21:00 +0000

I have to put my dog down. She is in home quarantine (death row) for biting a young child. It is this, or get sued and be unable to purchase homeowners insurance.

Poor Pepper. Our prison ministry is keeping her supplied with treats, meaty bones, and gravy until the quarantine is up. Her spirits are good despite being forced to stay either crated or on a leash at all times.

I dread accompanying her on her final walk.

Indulge Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 21:28:00 +0000

I understand the sentiment being expressed by Catholics who embrace traditional practices. There is a richness of liturgy and tradition stored in the attic and basement of our Catholic faith. The richness of the sights, scents, sounds, and tactile symbols--the ancient way they manipulate our emotions--is truly a beautiful treasure.

But.

You knew there was gonna be a "but," didn't you?

Look, as long we're not embracing superstition ...

But how do you catechize people to have the proper attitude? Look at this comment:

"When we visited the Martyr's Shrine in Fultonville, N.Y., there are certain devotions you can say, and if you receive Holy Communion and go to confession within seven days, I believe it is an indulgence," said Amy Sussman, 46. "When we go on a trip, we always take advantage of those opportunities. Every little bit helps."

The reason Indulgences spare us from some of the suffering for our sins is because participating in rituals of this sort can have a very powerful healing effect on people. We need rituals and rites as a means of letting go of psychological pain we inflict on ourselves when we operate outside of our own morals. We need this as a way of forgiving ourselves.

It's like when people say, "I don't need to go to confession. Why can't I just tell God I'm sorry for me sins. Doesn't he forgive me?" The answer is yes, of course God forgives you. But do you feel forgiven? Do you feel healed? The sacrament of reconciliation allows the opportunity, not just to say "I'm sorry," but to also hear the words, "you are forgiven." And that can be a very powerful thing.

On the other hand, if you're saying "every little bit helps," because you think completing an Indulgence will magically move some little tally mark on your permanent record in the sky, then you have a very immature understanding of what you're participating in.

Now the Latin Mass, I mean, okay--yes--the music is beautiful--some of the greatest composers of all history have written for the Mass--it is a pinnacle of liturgy--

But it is my belief that its use should be reserved and it should never replace the Novus Ordo. And Joan Chittister expressed far better than I those reasons.

It's Not a F#*&king Game

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 20:57:00 +0000

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Jim Cramer Pt. 2

Daily Show Full Episodes
Important Things w/ Demetri Martin

Political Humor
Jim Cramer

Bunco Night

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 00:16:00 +0000

Once a month I get together with seven of my neighborhood friends and we play Bunco. There are four alternates, in case someone can't make it. We take turns hosting, and since we only play eight times a year, you only have to host it once a year.

It's kind of a dumb game, if you've never heard of it. There is no need for strategy, since the game is won entirely by luck. The roll of the dice. This, of course, frees the mind to do other things, like talk and drink and eat.

But, in the end, there are winners and losers. We pay $5 to get into the game and pay out $20 to the Bunco Queen, $15 to high score, and $5 to low score. It is small consolation to get your money back.

I am the reigning Bunco Queen.

What is the Bunco Queen, you may ask? Well, if you roll three of one number, the number you are trying to get, that is called a Bunco. If you roll three of one number and it is not the number you are trying to roll, it's called a Baby Bunco. Not as good as the real thing.

When you roll Bunco, you get the Bunco Queen hat and you wear it until someone else manages to roll Bunco. Who ever is wearing the hat at the end of the evening is Bunco Queen and wins the big bucks. And takes the hat home for a month.

Once you have the hat at home, you are now obliged as Bunco Queen to add something to it.

Fire Up the glue gun.

So far I have added the word "Bunco," the dice, and the Kewadin Casino coin on the back.

I'm trying to figure out how to add a jello shot.

I envision the Tulle eventually going to the floor in the back as more and more items are added, much as an ancient American Indian warrior may have continued to adorn his headdress after each battle.

Piano Man

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 20:55:00 +0000

This is my 13 year old son, Jack, with minimal interference from his little brother, Mark. He's pretty good, no? Hahahahaha--well, we could use a good tuning on that piano. And the journey song made me think of Sherry. :) For you, dahlink...

Last month when I went to the middle school to watch the plays Jack's drama class were performing he played through the whole intermission to hoots and rousing applause. Mostly from the wimmin and gurls.

Anyway, bizzay day. Peace out.

How I Became a 12 Year Old Cynic

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 20:21:00 +0000

Time for another OLD story...

When I left elementary school in the spring of 1976, I was a whole person. I was popular and smart and athletic with no negative body image or concerns about my looks. Full of girl power, I did well in school and thought I would pretty much stay on top of the world. I was unprepared for adolescence. Somehow I didn’t get the “rule book.”

Now over 30 years later, I share this story with my middle school students each year. So they know something about me. So they know I remember what it was like to be that age. So they know they can trust me.

This is the story of how our culture stole my innocence; this is how I became cynical.

Growing up in the 70’s had its own feel, slightly different from the culture of today. Still, some things probably never change: Junior High among them. Everyone has a hard time in junior high. But if you have kids that age, don’t expect them to tell you what’s going on. I didn’t tell my parents or my oldest brother, Bob, or anyone else in my family, about the social problems I had at school. And the teachers I trusted, like tired Mrs. Rogers, turned out to be ineffectual, at best. Almost no one can talk about their junior high social problems while they are in the trenches. It’s only in looking back that we are able to confront our own pain and humiliation from that time. While you’re in the midst of that howling wilderness everything feels so intense that you just have to bury it. Pack it away. Save it for a day when you can tolerate feeling all of that emotion.

To become what our culture considers a normal woman, adolescent girls begin to process all of that cultural information about how to look and act, and how the world works, and what their place in it is. This is the age when all of those female stereotypes sink in. This is when girls’ math and science scores drop; this is when girls realize men rule the world; this is when girls realize they probably won’t become president of anything. It is a message that crushes the spirit.

Boys have their own brand of hard time during that period. But speaking from my own experience, girls have it harder. One day you’re lithe and androgynous, then suddenly your back aches, your belly bloats, your boobs swell. Your peers laugh at you if you don’t comb your hair right or wear the right clothes. A surly, “Move your ass!” can leave you feeling shaken for days. Boys and girls begin traveling in packs and acting gamey with anyone who doesn’t try to conform.

One of my first experiences in this vein happened in what should have been my favorite class. I was a voracious reader, and had always enjoyed anything that had to do with language arts. But by the end of October I dreaded Mrs. Rogers’s 7th grade English class. Of course, with my usual smarty-pants ways, I started out fine. I was not afraid to speak up when I knew the answer, and I always knew the answer. Even the boring, yucky part of studying English: sentence diagramming. I see now that I had broken the first rule of indoctrinating girls in the change from wild child to adult woman: Number one, don’t be smart. This rule seems to apply to guys as well as girls. For some reason it's not cool to be smart. I've seen many boys dumb themselves down for their peers. It pains me now to see kids change themselves in this way. Also eye opening for me, coming from a sheltered home and loving parents, was this rule: Number two, women are sexual objects and men don’t have to like them to use them this way.

There was a boy who sat behind me in the last seat of our row. I was in the second to the last seat. He was Chippewa Indian, and probably lived on the local reservation. Tall for 7th grade, he had long black hair and dirty clothes. My parents had taught me to beware of my prejudices, but I was unexpectedly scared and uncomfortable when I was exposed to kids from the other side of town. I had Indian friends in elementary school, but they were like me. He was different. He was a boy, for one thing, which made him totally foreign to me. But he was also older and more intimidating than the other kids. I was immediately uneasy when he sat behind me on the first day and dismayed when I found out these would become our permanent seats.

The harassment started a few weeks into the school year. I raised my hand to answer a question and felt a pinch, hard, on my right butt cheek.

“Ow!”

Everyone in the room laughed.

“Miss McKerroll, would you kindly give someone else in this class a chance to answer?”

“But he pinched me.”

Again, everyone roared with laughter. My face grew hot with embarrassment and tears welled.

“Everyone please keep your hands to yourself,” said Mrs. Rogers with tired frustration. She held her right hand against her temple as if she felt the start of a headache. “Let’s get on with the lesson.”

Get on with the lesson indeed.

I turned to look at him and he smirked. Hate was in his eyes. I didn’t understand what had just happened. I didn’t understand this boy. His harassment seemed sexual, but I could tell he didn’t like me, and that left me feeling shaken, weird, and confused. And while I longed for attention from a boy, developmentally I wasn’t anywhere near the “lust” stage, and his continued attacks scared me in the creepiest way. (See rule #2, above.)

He pinched me if I was trying to speak up in class, but when I stopped speaking up he would pinch me anyway. I complained to the teacher and she moved him over one row so he wasn’t right behind me, but now sitting next to me where he could cop an occasional breast feel. Also, it was harder to ignore him when he was next to me and I could see him. One time he kicked me and when I looked at him he held his palm up to his face, spread his fingers like a Vulcan and licked the space between his fingers. I was fascinated and horrified. I learned more lewd gestures that year, as well as how painful and humiliating sexual harassment can be. By the end of 7th grade I had been thoroughly mocked and demoralized.

It wasn’t just boys who acted as cultural agents. The girls had their own way of inflicting punishment and conformity. As I sprouted from 4’11” to 5’8” that year I reached a stage where I was suddenly taller than everyone. The small popular diva girls turned on me as I struggled to find clothes in my wardrobe that fit. My mother’s lovely homemade pantsuits were no longer attractive to me as they were mocked for matching, for not being denim, and worst, for being too short. Flood pants! My legs grew so fast that year my mother couldn’t keep up. I had broken another rule: Number three, wear the right clothes.

But worst of all was being bullied by a girl gang. I guess it was mid November when all of that began. I was in gym class one day and we were in the pool playing water polo. I had always taken pride in my athletic ability, especially in the water. As someone threw me the ball I jumped up for a great overhead catch. I pulled the ball into my chest and held my breath for the bounce under water before I could turn on the goalie. But while I was under water someone’s hands clutched my shoulders, and then—BAM—a knee in my face. I let go of the ball and rocketed up for air. I was angry, blood rushed to my face, I balled my right hand into a fist before I even shook the water or hair out of my face to see who it was, and swung. I connected. I gave Rita a bloody nose.

The threats began immediately as we climbed out of the pool.

“I’m going to get you,” she said through her bloody nose.

Carrie made a fist and shook it in my face. “You’re dead now. Dead now,” she said quietly, backing away as Miss Mordecki came over to the pool deck and began leading bloody Rita to the locker room.

I had broken another rule: Number four, don’t cross people with a reputation to maintain. She had to come after me. A tough gang chick gets a bloody nose from white bread Missy? No way. She had to prove that was a fluke.

For the rest of the year I just wanted my life to change. I cried everyday on the way to school. I played “sick” almost every Monday. I got to see a lot of Bill Kennedy: At The Movies. Bill Kennedy, native of Detroit and bit part movie actor from the 30’s and 40’s, had his own show on weekdays where he would air old movies and do interview blurbs in-between scenes and commercials. This show probably precipitated my love of old movies and actors and celebrity crushes. They can take you away from a world where people daily threaten to kill you.

The main difference between American culture in the 70’s and American culture today is volume. Back then we had a car radio, a family room stereo, and a family room TV. The networks broadcast test patterns in the middle of the night. If you stayed up late enough, you might see the National Anthem before you went to bed. This is unheard of now, with 24/7 streaming media coming at us from everywhere. Now you can listen to the radio, watch cable, and surf the Internet while talking on your cell phone. And you don’t have to be at home to do it. It’s not that the cultural message of today is more violent or more sexual or more sexist, or even so different from the past, it’s just so unavoidable. I can only conclude that it must be even harder for kids growing up today. The symptoms are everywhere: anorexia, bulimia, girls burning and cutting themselves. No one knew about these pathologies in the fall of 1976.

Rita was a good looking girl. She had smooth skin and shoulder length black hair, and was already physically well developed, I discovered to my embarrassment in the locker room. Her boyfriend picked her up from school in a car. Rita and her gang were girls who had been pushed to the edge. They were conforming to a different stereotype: the bad girl. I became their target. They were always small, quick hallway attacks, a kick or a shove from behind. And continuous threats. “You’re dead. You’re dead.” One day I was walking down the hall when suddenly someone grabbed my pigtails from behind and jerked so hard that I flew backwards into her and we both landed on the floor.

By mid April the stress had gotten very bad. A rumor was going around the school that I was going to be beat up by Rita and her gang: they planned to attack me as soon as I stepped off school property Friday afternoon. On Friday morning, when playing sick with my Mom didn’t wash, I decided I would just have to defend myself. I went back into the kitchen before leaving for school and took the biggest butcher knife she had and slipped it into my notebook. It was about a 10” steel blade that ran the whole length of the knife through the wooden handle. Narrow at the tip, broad at the base.

Throughout the day the knife gave me an odd sense of comfort. I could slip my hand into the notebook and feel it there, the heft of the wooden handle and the steel blade, without ever opening the cover for anyone else to see. I dawdled at the end of the day, standing at my locker. After the buses had left I made my way to the Northwest entrance, which was the closest to my house. In fact, from the back of my house you could see that entrance quite clearly.

As I walked out the door and down the steps I saw the group who had stayed behind to watch this. There were maybe 30 kids standing in clusters, and Rita and five of her gang were front and center at the bottom of the steps.

She was gamey, and smiling. My heart started to race, my pupils shrank, and my hands shook.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she said walking up to me. I looked over her shoulder and saw the back of my house down the alley in front of me. It was so close. I could see the dogs at the back yard gate, my brother Bob standing on the back porch. The other kids were starting to move in around the two of us as we stood at the bottom of the stairs, me a step above Rita. I wanted to be tough. I wanted to narrow my eyes and say something clever and cutting. I wanted, for a moment, to be Barbara Stanwyck. I remember her in that movie Ball of Fire. Man! I loved that movie. She played nightclub singer Sugarpuss O’Shea—what a name. I wanted to be that cool, that tough. I moved to the left and Rita moved to block my path. I moved to the right and she moved again.

“You’re not going to get by me today. Today’s the day I’m going to take you down.” She shoved her chest out at me, smiling. “You’re scared to death.”

I pulled out my knife and pointed it at her face. My hand and the knife were both shaking badly. “I’m not scared of you,” I said, emotion quivering in my voice. “I’m going to cut you—go ahead—try and touch me—I’ll cut you.”

The look on Rita’s face changed to scared surprise as she backed away into the circle of kids that now surrounded me.

“You’re stupid crazy,” she said.

The tears were streaming down my face, and snot was bubbling at my nose. I was sobbing and holding the knife out at the kids around me; turning in a slow circle and saying over and over, “Go ahead—try and touch me—I’ll cut you—I’ll cut you!” They were all backing away and looking at me sideways. All I could hear was, “she’s crazy.”

I could no longer see through my tears, but jumped as I felt an arm around my shoulder and heard a gentle voice tell me, “Its okay, Missy. You’re all right. Let’s go home now.” I leaned into Bob and started sobbing on his big chest. He was in 11th grade and a varsity football player. The junior high kids all scattered when he showed up to walk me home. He had seen me walking down the school steps from our back porch. He promised not to tell our parents about the knife.

Right. So once again I can’t help but look at this by the standards of today. Not only did I not get in trouble for bringing a weapon to school, but also not a single administrator tried to step in or stop the fight. There was no adult to be seen outside the school that afternoon—even though they surely knew—this “fight” had been the talk of the school. And while part of me knew bringing a knife to school was wrong, there was no written rule that said you couldn’t. There was no social pressure to stop me. My only worry was I might dull it and make my Mom mad. But really, I’m a status quo kind of gal. Had there been any known consequences for me, had I any inkling of the kind of Columbine violence in our national future, I would not have done it. But for me, at that time, in that place, with those people … it seemed like the right thing to do.

The next Monday, it was over. I went to school and heard a few whispers like “knife” and “crazy,” but Rita and her gang didn’t bully me anymore that year. And the boy from my English class, he quit bothering me too. I never saw him after that school year got out. I guess he dropped out. So did Rita. I heard she got pregnant. There’s something to be said for being a late bloomer.

So I guess for them, as well as me, the damage from the junior high social scene was done. I looked weak and they looked strong. But I survived and they didn’t. What that year said to me was: don’t be yourself, don’t be quirky, don’t be confident, and don’t call attention to yourself. My self-esteem was battered, bruised, shell shocked, and I became afraid of my sexuality, and afraid of achievement. In other words, I became a normal adolescent girl.

Over the years I have managed to reclaim the parts of myself I clipped off at that age to try and fit in the round holes of junior high. I’ve come to see it as something we all go through as we search for our genuine selves. Still, I worry about my kids and the kids I teach. I wish there was some way I could make it easier for them.

Blue Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 01:08:00 +0000

Blue Eyes, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

How could anyone be mean to that gorgeous face?

This Little Light of Mine

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 11:24:00 +0000

Grace and I were talking on the way home from youth group. She kept peppering her story with "and stuff." Finally I asked her.

"What is all this 'and stuff?' What does that mean? Are these the parts you don't want to tell me?"

"No, it's just... well, I don't really like myself. I'm not really happy right now."

"In what way? Can you tell me more?"

"It just seems sometimes that no one really likes me. I'm too gullible; people are always telling me stuff that's not true and I believe them and then they laugh at me. They're always trying to trick me, like it's a big joke. And I'm too shy. I have a hard time talking to people. I hate that feeling inside when I want to say something but I can't or I don't know what to say. No one talks to me. I don't have very many friends. And I don't know why. I don't know why everyone seems so mean. It's just so hard sometimes..."

"I'm sorry," I said. "But you know you can always talk to me, right?"

She nodded.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you, too."

After we got home I thought about what she said for a while. Then I went up to her room and quietly knocked on the door. "You still awake?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said.

"Hey, listen honey. I have something I want to say to you. Don't change. Okay? You got that?"

"Okay," she said. Her voice sounded small.

"No. I mean, don't change for other people. Don't change yourself just to try and fit in. Don't change because you think that's what other people will like. Because if you do that, then you will be a fake Marigrace and deep down inside you won't be happy even if you have tons of people around you. If you hide the real Marigrace behind some fake Marigrace then you'll end up with fake friends. You have to just keep being yourself, fiercely and unapologetically. Be true to yourself.

Because if you're not true to yourself, if you're not letting your own brand of Marigrace show, if you're not letting your light shine, how are the people who like the real you ever going to find you?

So keep being yourself. Let your light shine. Then the people who like you for you--the real you, gullible and shy and all of it--will find you. It might be hard for a while. I know it is. But be patient. Real, true friends will find you."

"Thanks, Mom."

"I love you. The real you. Remember that, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good night, honey."

Picture Meme

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 17:00:00 +0000

I picked up this meme from my friend Barbara.

Here are the rules:

1. Go to your Picture Folder on your computer or wherever you store your pictures.

2. Go to the 6th Folder and then pick the 6th Picture.

3. Post it on your blog and tell the story that goes with it.

I call this one Biker's for Jesus. Just kidding.

Anyway, the story behind this is that I had my camera at work that day to take pictures of our First Communion kids and decided to step out back and take a picture of the Blessing of the Bikes that went on that weekend after Mass. It's not really much of a story, but I did find the dichotomy that day amusing. White lace and black leather.

Okay, I showed you mine, now you show me yours...

Out of the Darkness

noreply@blogger.com (Missy) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 03:15:00 +0000

Three words best describe Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Lake effect snow.

I remember winter nights, cold, dark, and contemplative. Bundled up like a well stuffed sausage in the early twilight I would go out into the front yard where I built a snow fort. Hollowed out from the mountain of snow my Dad shoveled into a pile, the entrance was a small circle at the bottom facing the house with a peep hole at the top where I could look out into the street. It was like an igloo or a wolf's den. When I climbed inside it was incredibly dark and quiet. The walls of snow glowed. Another world.

That's where I waited for my Mom to come home from work.

My Mom worked at a funeral home. It was mysterious and creepy and normal. She managed the front office and was the first person you saw, the one you talked to when your mom died. So emotionally, the job was sometimes difficult for her. But my Mom was warm and friendly and empathetic, and everyone loved her.

I would stop by during the day when nothing was happening there and it would seem very casual. The maintenance guy and the director would be sitting in the office on the sofa or chair and they would all be laughing and telling jokes. Other times there would be a visitation going on and I would creep in walking across the cushy carpet unobtrusively, whispering to her in hushed tones, trying not to disturb the family mourning in the next room. More than once I came in the back way only to find a dead body on a gurney in the back hallway. I would feel my pupils shrink and stifle a gasp while the hair on my neck and arms rose away from my body as if it were growing faster from the shock.

But death is a part of life, and this became clear without any one ever telling me. Dead people are not ghosts. They don't get up and walk around. The life and soul escapes them leaving behind an inanimate object no different than a rock or chair. They resemble people, but they're not. They lie in a brass handled casket with their hands folded across their chest, quite different from the swarming, sobbing humanity that fills the room around them.

Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord

And let perpetual light shine upon them

Lord, have mercy

Christ, have mercy

Lord, have mercy

I could not touch their sorrow. It was like a precious crystal; something I stepped delicately around, lest the china in the hutch rattle and break. But my Mom touched it. All the time. Carefully, gently, she handled their sorrows, cradled them in her hands and heart.

When she came home from work in the winter twilight, walking through the snow that swirled in the street lights, I could see the weight of their sorrow on her. More people die in January than any other month. Her head bent, I would see the top of her beret, not her face. And I would think someone died today.

That's when I would crawl out of my dark, silent den. I would walk toward her along the crunchy sidewalk and slip my mittened hand into her gloved one. She would look at me and give me a sad smile. Then together we would walk out of the darkness, up the front steps, and into our warm, little house. She would hang up the darkness and death with her coat and beret and enter into the light of the living.

I have always hated January.