The Original Miss Jane Marie

For reasons that I still haven't figured out, I attended kindergarten at Rock Hill Presbyterian. My mother was a recently observant Muslim who had just adopted hijjab and become friendly acquaintances with the Kosher butcher in downtown St. Louis. Frankly, if I had understood any more about religious identity, my childhood would have been even more confusing that it already was. As it were I spent my days trying to avoid Jesus' gentle gaze in the chapel, hoping he wouldn't notice that I didn't believe in Him as much as I believed in his Father. Still, I took great comfort in the stories promising that He loved me.

When I wasn't avoiding Jesus, my days were filled by Miss P, Miss J and Miss Jane Marie. Each had a specific role in my life: Miss P, the principal, was all love and patience. I remember the day she taught me to count in tens. Miss J was all business and order in a way that made me feel safe. Nothing bad could happen around her because bad things were not part of her daily plan for the kids. And finally, Miss Jane Marie was the thorn in my side. She was tall and very heavy in a way that only Midwesterners seem to be; an accident waiting to happen and the opposite of Miss J in every possible way. When I realized that they lived across the street from each other and sent their children to the same school, I was fascinated for days. I imagined a street bi-sected, pitting neighbor against neighbor. These thoughts made prayer time much more interesting.

After a few months, my mom started working at the church. My hijjabi, Muslim mother joined the pre-school staff and would sit next to me on the pew during prayer. She would peek into my classroom to see if I was behaving and soon became friends with the three grown-ups in my life. Frankly, in a time when my lonely mother needed support the most, these three women were by her side. During the days that my mother had to take my brother to the hospital, they would offer to babysit me. The Miss J days were wonderful: Snacks on actual plates; kids playing games and doing homework; dinner being prepped and a cat watching all of us lazily from the top of the stairwell. Miss J made being a single mom to seven children seem effortless.

Staying with Miss Jane Marie was like a smelly, whirlwind. As the proud owner of four cats, two dogs and four puppies, she had a given up on cleaning after them. Moving around her house was much like navigating my way through a field of landmines, "Oh! Don't sit there sweetie, that's where Mr. Whiskers likes to pee." or "Smell the pillow before you use it for naptime! I haven't washed them after Lady gave birth to the puppies." She was not a great believer in showers, handwashing or house cleaning. Meal time at her house was filled with anxiety for me, because she liked to reuse paper plates (the thin white ones) that no one had bothered to throw away from whenever. What time I didn't spend locked in the bathroom, cautiously washing my hands and air drying them, I would spend staring wistfully out the window at Miss J's house, planning my escape.

One day after church lessons, I asked, "Miss Jane Marie, is cleanliness really close to Godliness?"

"Yes, of course."

"And do you love Jesus?"

"Yes!"

"Then why..."

To her credit, Miss J wasn't just orderly, she was incredibly fast, too. She had scooped me up and relocated me to a pile of books that needed organizing by size. Sadly, I never got to finish my question. Nor could I offer her any five year old wisdom on the necessity of bathing regularly and not discussing one's bowel movements.

Strangely, in second grade I met a girl at my new school who looked like she had been plucked out of a Peanuts cartoon, complete with her own dusty aura. Her name was Jane Marie. I went home that day and declared, "I think I don't like the Jane Maries. They're all the same! EWWWW!"

I would like to say that I stand corrected. I don't like the St. Louis Jane Maries.

The Tragic End of My Olympic Dreams (or How Nadia Comaneci Betrayed Me)

In 1976, I fell in love with gymnastics. At the tender age of three, I would watch the Olympics and try to do whatever Nadia Comaneci did. As I recall, I was a great imitator of hers, jumping and trying to do splits. I would crawl on top of the coffee table and try to balance on the edge. I was then, as I am now, single minded in reaching my little goals. I became so obsessed, that I would sit still as my mom tried to pull my non-existent hair into little pigtails. I'd tumble across the floor and stand up, triumphant with my arms in the air. It seems I was quite entertaining.

My obsession did not wane. I continued to tumble, balance and wear pigtails for years. When my campaign to be renamed Nadia failed, I named my stuffed rabbit and my favorite doll Nadia. In the absence of gymnastics classes, I taught myself how to do cartwheels and handstands. I never fell off the thin strip of cabinet in front of the kitchen sink that doubled as my balance beam (except when my brother grabbed my ankle and pulled me down). I was on my way to becoming a homemade, world accomplished writer-gymnast.

So you can imagine my joy in third grade then, when during winter gym class, we had a gymnasium full of real equipment. For the first time, I was in the same room with a balance beam and uneven bars. UNEVEN BARS! I could never improvise those at home. I was in heaven. All winter we practiced our 'routines' and were going to be graded just before Spring Break. I couldn't sit still for weeks, dreaming of my victorious 10's A's.

The day finally came. I wasn't allowed to wear a leotard like all the other girls, but for the first time, I. Did. Not. Care. Nothing could ruin my joy and excitement. I was finally going to be the little Midwestern Nadia. I was going to be discovered and train for the Olympics, where they would make an exception for my attire not being the same as the rest of the team's.

It was my turn. I got on the uneven bars, and started my routine with great pomp and enthusiasm. I don't know what I actually looked like, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't a threat to Nadia Comaneci's record. When I dismounted, I raised my arms, stuck out my chest and dazzled them with a huge smile. Time stopped as I waited for the applause.

Everyone laughed. Coach Z and Mrs. B tried to stifle their laughter, with no success. Finally, Mrs. B composed herself and said, "Thank you for a very interesting performance. Please sit down."

As I walked to the opposite wall of the gymnasium. I felt like my brains would boil and my head would explode. I didn't know what had happened, I just knew I was being mocked by the entire third grade. I had done everything, just as Nadia had and I was mocked. She caused me to be mocked. AGAIN.

And that's how Nadia Comaneci's record was saved and my life as a world famous gymnast came to an end.