The Tomboy
By
A. Desiree Midkiff....

.. ..

.. ..

My father, in his younger days, was a lively artist. His hands created paintings, gardens, and had even been the author of many sermons. But my father’s greatest creation, his other child, was the house I lived in when I was very young. The first house he built was on a couple acres of land in Royal, Arkansas. It had burned down because of a faulty chimney, but soon after my family had sifted through the dust to salvage anything they could, the plans for the new house began.....

It was a magnificent start; the foundation, sturdy and strong, would be the shoulders upon which my father’s grand idea would be carried. But being a man of thought and not action proved his motivation would run in short supply. This dwelling, this child, would not reach adulthood before our eyes. A 2,200 square foot ranch house with four bedrooms, an office, two bathrooms, an iron wood stove, hardwood floors, wrap-around porch and beautifully adorned, hand-crafted trim had left my weary father uneasy, wishing for the vigor to finish it. ....

Our yard was littered, not with trash, but with the things we needed and did in fact want: badly stored lawn mowers, bed springs that we could someday need for something, five gallon buckets used to catch the rainwater that my mother and I would wash our hair with; water straight from Heaven itself. There were chicken coops with toe-nailed boards and a barn used for storing pottery collected over the years by my parents on their many travels. ....

The outside paint was chipped and the plumbing was never completely installed.  But there was an outhouse at the back of the yard, close to a large murky pond. It never had any fish in it and the water was always too stagnant to swim in. Its tangled weeds, thick and stubborn, had claimed the lives of many a wayward chicken, pulling them down into the blackness with every struggle they made to get free. Behind the water’s Western edge, through a mess of muscadine vines and briars, was my hide out.  This was where I would lose hours of my time, pretending, digging, climbing, and adding my collection of bites and scrapes. ....

Our house and this land were a tomboy, much like me, at the time. She was as reckless as I was and her pretty knees were adorned with scars, each holding a memory. The pockets of her over-alls, full of trinkets jingling around, gave her charm. She was an awkward girl, desperately trying to emulate everything about her father, the one who had built the most notable parts of her. The young girl didn’t care about her makeup or wild hair, and she gave not thought at all about how she compared to the other “prettier” girls in the neighborhood. This girl was loved; we were her parents and we adored everything that could be misunderstood about her- because she was OURS.....

But the time came for my family and I to move on and let this little girl grow up. Moving into town proved difficult and I found myself missing her. The friend I had grown up with, whose fields I rolled in, whose tall trees beckoned me each summer to climb even higher than I had the summer before, was gone. My otherwise solitary childhood had been filled with her land’s natural mysteries and the curious beauties of an unfinished home. Years fall behind me and the smells of that place grow fainter, colors become grey, sounds are muffled and to try to recreate my explosive excitement I once felt while running around that pond, is near to impossible. ....

So I resolved to revisit my long-lost companion last summer, while on a drive across the state. Pulling down the once dirt road, which was now paved, made my heart and everything within me thunder. I anticipated meeting her and maybe becoming old friends again, since I still felt like a twelve year old in my spirit. Maybe she would still be stunted in her age. The neighborhood didn’t seem as large as it once was. The drive, not so long as it once had been, left me asking as Peggy Lee might say, “Is that all there is?” I reached the top of that hill where my father’s house had sat for years, and with my heart’s arms open, my mind replaying the games we had made up- she finally came into view. But my house was unfamiliar. ....

Luckily, the woman who loved there was a woman of good taste and a polite demeanor. She let me in and I told her the story of how I came to be so acquainted with the place. Sitting and chatting about improvements made and changes done, she allowed me to spend some time alone, reminiscing over the old house. Quietly, and with much respect, I entered each space to see what the place had become. ....

One of the bedrooms, the one whose ceiling had no tiles, but insulation, was now an office. Books lined the walls on one side and shelves with very important things lined the other. This room that once held my toys for so long was now a place of business. It did not have time for such follies! Plumbing had since been installed and the toilets were now in complete working order. New molding, high on the ceiling was worn like expensive earrings that one would only wear on special occasions. ....

The chicken coops were bulldozed over and a new metal, modern swing set was in its place. My mother’s rose garden was replaced with a lawn. Solid, green, uniform grass took the place of her variegated roses, her tea roses, her climbing roses. The reds and pinks, oranges and yellows, lavenders and blues- they were all gone. The pond out back had been filled in with dirt and since grew its own field. My hideout beneath the brush of that bank was cleared away and left bare.....

This tore at me because my tomboy pal had cast aside her childish ways; sweetness and innocence were gone. Sobriety there stood. Standing in the middle of that new field, I wept. I wept for the loss of her. The girl I once knew with her quirks and silliness had become a product of a charm school made of paint and pipes, tile and carpeting, bulldozers and lawn mowers. She’d become the valedictorian of Miss Manners’ graduating class, and my tomboy was, as I too had become, a woman. I appreciated her, not for her humor, but for her grace. My father’s little girls were all grown up.....

I'm so glad that no one can appropriately call me "white trash". Off-white. Taupe. Tan. Brown-ish. Olive-coloured, even. But never just plain ole run of the mill, standard issue, generic, boring white.  And I'm glad that my parents never adhered to a solely white-American only or Hispanic only type of culture. I get the best of both worlds and I don't fit into anyone's stereotypes. I get the scholarship, AND I sit in the front of the bus, bitch!
 

I took my parents to a Mexican restaurant last night and had an EXQUISITE time. Food was incredible, waitress was a hottie, the place is newly remodeled and beautiful, and the best part about it was that my parents didn't complain about a DAMN THING! A+ for Mama.
 

Now, I completely understand that Mexican food is all the same 5 or 6 ingredients all mixed together differently. Rice, beans, tortillas, salsa, meat, and cheese. There, you have it- everything on any given Mexican restaurant's menu in your town. You're welcome. But I'm fine with that because they don't deny it, they don't give a shit. It all tastes good, and it's not some big plot to get poor little Joe Consumer to buy their products, thinking he needs them. Like bottled water. Let's bottle up something that God made... and sell it to people... who don't need it. Then we can all listen to them talk about how "this one tastes much fresher than that one". They actually put expiration dates on some of these things. Damn French.
 

So, we're sitting there, talking about how cool the barstools are that were made from real saddles; you actually have to "saddle up" to sit at the bar. Genius, you get bucked off- you've had too much to drink. Go home, come back tomorrow, and let's live to ride another day. All was fine and well, until retards came and sat down by us at the next table.
 

"What? Ya'll ain't got no burgers? My daughter don't eat none of this stuff." Oh. My. God. You're in a F#$%!! MEXICAN RESTAURANT, what do you expect, woman?!?! It got worse... "Ya'll ain't got no fries or nothin'? Ok, I'll get one of them 'kay...so... dillies' Hee hee!" She giggles.... Yes, my friends,. she giggled sheepishly at her husband/partner/boyfriend/sugar daddy as if to say "I'm cute... See? AND I'm culturally diverse." Absolutely no effort to not butcher the Spanish langage.
 

Right then, the White part of me cringed and wondered, "Ok, WHY am I pro-life, again? Oh that's right. Killing babies is bad." Stupid people should be shot. Only in adulthood though because... killing babies is bad. People like this really make me feel bad for other white people. These are people who have no concept of a culture outside of McDonalds and Burger King. These are the ones who think that going to Mexico and "roughing it" in the Hampton is really stepping outside their comfort zone.
 

Now, my Spanish sucks. Honestly. Most the Spanish I speak anymore, is to illegal aliens at the hospital, asking them, "Donde le duele?". But it doesn't stop me from trying to improve what I know and learn some more. I know better than to ask for a HAMBURGER in a Mexican Restaurant. I go to Rome, I do as the Romans do, and I'm ok with that. My hispanic side is fed up with stupid people.
 

And I'm proud to be Off White.

Donuts for the Class

There was a certain Professor of Religion named Dr. Christianson, a studious man who taught at a small college in the Western United States. Dr. Christianson taught the required survey course in Christianity at this particular institution. Every student was required to take this course his or her freshman year regardless of his or her major. Although Dr. Christianson tried hard to communicate the essence of the gospel in his class, he found that most of his students looked upon the course as nothing but required drudgery. Despite his best efforts, most students refused to take Christianity seriously.

This year, Dr. Christianson had a special student named Steve. Steve was only a freshman, but was studying with the intent of going onto seminary for the ministry. Steve was popular, he was well liked, and he was an imposing physical specimen. He was now the starting center on the school football team, and was the best student in the professor's class.

One day, Dr. Christianson asked Steve to stay after class so he could talk with him.
"How many push-ups can you do "
Steve said, "I do about 200 every night."
"200 That's pretty good, Steve," Dr. Christianson said. "Do you think you could do 300 "

Steve replied, "I don't know... I've never done 300 at a time."
"Do you think you could " again asked Dr. Christianson.
"Well, I can try," said Steve.
"Can you do 300 in sets of 10 I have a class project in mind and I need you to do about 300 push-ups in sets of ten for this to work. Can you do it I need you to tell me you can do it," said the professor.

Steve said, "Well... I think I can...yeah, I can do it."
Dr. Christianson said, "Good! I need you to do this on Friday. Let me explain what I have in mind."

Friday came and Steve got to class early and sat in the front of the room. When class started, the professor pulled out a big box of donuts. No these weren't the normal kinds of donuts, they were the extra fancy BIG kind, with cream centers and frosting swirls. Everyone was pretty excited it was Friday, the last class of the day, and they were going to get an early start on the weekend with a party in Dr. Christianson' s class.

Dr. Christianson went to the first girl in the first row and asked, "Cynthia, do you want to have one of these donuts "

Cynthia said, "Yes."

Dr. Christianson then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten push-ups so that Cynthia can have a donut "

"Sure." Steve jumped down from his desk to do a quick ten. Then Steve again sat in his desk. Dr. Christianson put a donut on Cynthia's desk.

Dr. Christianson then went to Joe, the next person, and asked, "Joe, do you want a donut "
Joe said, "Yes."
Dr. Christianson asked, "Steve would you do ten push-ups so Joe can have a donut " Steve did ten push-ups, Joe got a donut. And so it went, down the first aisle, Steve did ten pushups for every person before they got their donut. And down the second aisle, till Dr. Christianson came to Scott.

Scott was on the basketball team, and in as good condition as Steve. He was very popular and never lacking for female companionship. When the professor asked, "Scott do you want a donut " Scott's reply was, "Well, can I do my own pushups "
Dr. Christianson said, "No, Steve has to do them."
Then Scott said, "Well, I don't want one then."

Dr. Christianson shrugged and then turned to Steve and asked,
"Steve, would you do ten pushups so Scott can have a donut he doesn't want "
With perfect obedience Steve started to do ten pushups.

Scott said, "HEY! I said I didn't want one!"
Dr. Christianson said, "Look, this is my classroom, my class, my desks, and these are my donuts. Just leave it on the desk if you don't want it." And he put a donut on Scott's desk.

Now by this time, Steve had begun to slow down a little. He just stayed on the floor between sets because it took too much effort to be getting up and down. You could start to see a little perspiration coming out around his brow. Dr. Christianson started down the third row. Now the students were beginning to get a little angry.

Dr. Christianson asked Jenny, "Jenny, do you want a donut "
Sternly, Jenny said, "No."
Then Dr. Christianson asked Steve, "Steve, would you do ten more Push-ups so Jenny can have a donut that she doesn't want " Steve did ten....Jenny got a donut.

By now, a growing sense of uneasiness filled the room. The students were beginning to say "No" and there were all these uneaten donuts on the desks.

Steve also had to really put forth a lot of extra effort to get these pushups done for each donut. There began to be a small pool of sweat on the floor beneath his face, his arms and brow were beginning to get red because of the physical effort involved.

Dr. Christianson asked Robert, who was the most vocal unbeliever in the class, to watch Steve do each push up to make sure he did the full ten pushups in a set because he couldn't bear to watch all of Steve's work for all of those uneaten donuts. He sent Robert over to where Steve was so Robert could count the set and watch Steve closely. Dr. Christianson started down the fourth row.

During his class, however, some students from other classes had wandered in and sat down on the steps along the radiators that ran down the sides of the room. When the professor realized this, he did a quick count and saw that now there were 34 students in the room. He started to worry if Steve would be able to make it. Dr. Christianson went on to the next person and the next and the next. Near the end of that row, Steve was really having a rough time. He was taking a lot more time to complete each set.

Steve asked Dr. Christianson, "Do I have to make my nose touch on each one "

Dr. Christianson thought for a moment, "Well, they're your pushups. You are in charge now. You can do them any way that you want." And Dr. Christianson went on.

A few moments later, Jason, a recent transfer student, came to the room and was about to come in when all the students yelled in one voice, "NO! Don't come in! Stay out!" Jason didn't know what was going on.

Steve picked up his head and said, "No, let him come."

Professor Christianson said, "You realize that if Jason comes in you will have to do ten pushups for him "

Steve said, "Yes, let him come in. Give him a donut"
Dr. Christianson said, "Okay, Steve, I'll let you get Jason's out of the way right now. Jason, do you want a donut "

Jason, new to the room hardly knew what was going on. "Yes," he said, "give me a donut."

"Steve, will you do ten push-ups so that Jason can have a donut "
Steve did ten pushups very slowly and with great effort. Jason, bewildered, was handed a donut and sat down.

Dr. Christianson finished the fourth row, then started on those visitors seated by the heaters. Steve's arms were now shaking with each push-up in a struggle to lift himself against the force of gravity. Sweat was profusely dropping off of his face and, by this time, there was no sound except his heavy breathing, there was not a dry eye in the room.

The very last two students in the room were two young women, both cheerleaders, and very popular. Dr. Christianson went to Linda, the second to last, and asked, "Linda, do you want a doughnut "

Linda said, very sadly, "No, thank you."

Professor Christianson quietly asked, "Steve, would you do ten push-ups so that Linda can have a donut she doesn't want " Grunting from the effort, Steve did ten very slow pushups for Linda.

Then Dr. Christianson turned to the last girl, Susan. "Susan, do you want a donut "

Susan, with tears flowing down her face, began to cry. "Dr. Christianson, why can't I help him "

Dr. Christianson, with tears of his own, said, "No, Steve has to do it alone, I have given him this task and he is in charge of seeing that everyone has an opportunity for a donut whether they want it or not. When I decided to have a party this last day of class, I looked at my grade book. Steve, here is the only student with a perfect grade. Everyone else has failed a test, skipped class, or offered me inferior work. Steve told me that in football practice, when a player messes up he must do push-ups. I told Steve that none of you could come to my party unless he paid the price by doing your push ups. He and I made a deal for your sakes. Steve, would you do ten push-ups so Susan can have a donut " As Steve very slowly finished his last pushup, with the understanding that he had accomplished all that was required of him, having done 350 pushups, his arms buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor.

Dr. Christianson turned to the room and said. "And so it was, that our Savior, Jesus Christ, on the cross, plead to the Father, 'into thy hands I commend my spirit.' With the understanding that He had done everything that was required of Him, he yielded up His life. And like some of those in this room, many of us leave the gift on the desk, uneaten." Two students helped Steve up off the floor and to a seat, physically exhausted, but wearing a thin smile. "Well done, good and faithful servant," said the professor, adding "Not all sermons are preached in words."

Turning to his class the professor said, "My wish is that you might understand and fully comprehend all the riches of grace and mercy that have been given to you through the sacrifice of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. He spared not only His Begotten Son, but gave Him up for us all for the whole Church, now and forever. Whether or not we choose to accept His gift to us, the price has been paid. Wouldn't you be foolish and ungrateful to leave it laying on the desk "