I can’t emphasize enough how excited I am to have Ashley from Big Top Family posting here today. She had the weirdest fricking childhood I never knew was possible (seriously who grows up with a nun???), making for the most entertaining reading. In fact I’m just gonna go ahead and shut up now so you can get into the good stuff (and after you fall head-over-heels in love with her make sure you click the links in her BIO at the end so you can keep reading all her magical words).
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We’d moved ten times in the last nine years, and we’d just been told we were moving again. Sister Helen was moving with us too. She was a nun my mother met several years after divorcing my dad, and she’d convinced Mom to move with her to Steubenville, Ohio, where a charismatic community of Catholics On Crack were flocking together. Sister Helen had been hopscotching around from house to house with us for three years by the time I was eight and my sister, Alysia, was ten. The up side this time, we were told, was that another family, The Bratmans, were going to move in with us – and they had two girls our age.
We met The Bratmans at Church, and they were Total Jesus Freaks, of course. The husband and wife were David and Judy, and we found out that Judy (a Brooklyn Jew who’d drunk the Catholic Kool-Aid) had homeschooled their daughters since, like, birth. The older daughter, Roberta, was Alycia’s age, and Jaclyn was a year younger than me. The girls seemed nice enough, but right away we could tell they were . . . different. For one thing, they talked like they’d walked straight out of a Jane Austen novel. They said “shall” and “shan’t,” “must and mustn’t,” “I dare say,” “I beg your pardon,” and other stilted, British-sounding phrases. Beyond just being weird and book-wormish, though, the girls were totally and ridiculously sheltered.
Now, you might say that I was sheltered too, given that I was living with an uber-religious mother and a NUN; and we went to church every single day (not just Sundays, because, you know, every day is the Lord’s Day); and we didn’t own a television (the Devil’s Playground); and we spent all our spare time with people who were either praying to Jesus, talking about Jesus, talking about praying to Jesus, or praying about talking to Jesus. I also went to Catholic school, and you would think that’d be the most sheltering aspect of all, but if you think that, you didn’t go to Catholic school. Catholic-school-kids actually develop a magnetic field of attraction to cussing, perusing pornographic materials, shoplifting, smoking, visiting the Bases, and generally going out of their way to violate all of God’s Commandments. By the time I was eight, I’d been exposed to all of these aforementioned sins, except the one about the Bases, so I was in prime position to give the Bratmans a new sort of education. But that would come a little later.
After our house was packed up, we moved into our new home, an abandoned boarding school. Upon first sight, it resembled more like an enormously long trailer, with no back-end in sight, and its painted white wood siding was chipped and beaten by time and weather. We were to live in the building that used to be the school’s living quarters, since it had a kitchen, bathrooms, and at least a dozen dorm-style bedrooms that were scattered on both ends of a never-ending hallway. When we walked into our new home, the first thing I noticed was a dank, clay, basement kind of smell; a musty smell that, historically, I’d always kind of liked. However, the scent was mixed with something else, the pungent odor of animal urine, which I immediately guessed belonged to a cat. When we entered the long, dark hallway, my mom was quick to steer us away from stepping in the little piles of pellet-like poop that ran the length of the building, until it dawned on me that not cats, but things that RHYMED with cats, were inhabiting the home.
“They are God’s creatures too,” David Bratman reminded us, in his soft, lilting voice. “But I will remove them without causing them harm, don’t worry.” I stayed quiet, imagining David leading a Rat Exodus like Moses parting the Red Sea for the Israelites, but what I really wanted to say is I didn’t give a Rat’s Ass if they were God’s creatures or not! Rat Genocide would suit me just fine AND give me less nightmares. I kept my mouth shut, and we trudged along the red, shag, rat-shit-bedotted carpet until we found our rooms. Glancing out the windows, I caught a glimpse of tennis courts, with weeds growing through the many cracks in the green painted cement.
“Are those OUR tennis courts?” I asked excitedly.
“Oh, yes,” my mother gushed. She took on the dreamy voice that told us she was likening yet another dump to a Barbie Dream House. “We have tennis courts, an acre of land to roam, and best of all, a huge classroom for your school! You’re going to be home-schooled by Judy!” As weird as that prospect sounded, Alysia and I were flooded with relief. We wouldn’t have to bust our asses to fit in at a new school.
After we got settled into our new digs, the rat poop was cleaned up, the pee smell was almost eliminated, and the rats had mostly disappeared. (I’m still not sure how). We soon got acclimated to our new daily routine. Breakfast, followed by Science, Math, Spelling; lunch followed by recess; and Hebrew, Music, and Art. Sister Helen taught the Art portion – ever since we’d met her, she’d been teaching private art and pottery lessons, and that’s how she was able to eke out a living for herself.
During recess, we got plenty of time to roam around outside. These were prime occasions for giving Roberta and Jaclyn my own sort of home school, or “Profanity 101.” I taught them every curse word I knew, claiming they were Ohio colloquialisms, but instead of conveying to the girls each word’s actual meaning, I made up more entertaining definitions.
For instance, “shit” was another word for someone’s boyfriend or girlfriend, e.g., “I am sooo lucky! My shit took me to the movies last night!” “Damn” was a synonym for the word “treasure,” e.g., “I discovered gold coins in this Damn Chest!” A “bitch” was a type of ice cream topping, as in: “I’d like a double scoop of chocolate ice cream topped with bitches and whipped cream, please!” Since the girls already knew from the Nativity Story that “ass” was another word for “donkey,” I was kind enough to impart to them that an “asshole” was a place to keep your donkey or farm animals, similar to a barn or stable. For example, “The donkeys and horses settled down to sleep in their asshole for the night.” The girls listened with rapt attention and seemed to suspect no tomfoolery. Since my lessons were really for my own amusement, I never thought too deeply about them coming back to bite ME in the asshole. Until one day, they did.
We’d been living with the Bratmans for about six months when the girls started to live up to the first syllable of their last name. Roberta and Jaclyn’s parents thought they were angels, so whenever there was an argument among us, the natural conclusion was that I started it. That probably had something to do with the fact that I had a horrific temper and zero lack of self-control, but they were the ones always pushing my buttons. One fateful day, something happened that would lead to the undoing of our living situation with the Bratmans. It was a weekday, so we were in school, drawing animals in Art class. Sister Helen walked out of the room, so Jaclyn felt free to be her jerky self. She kept snickering at the alien-looking blobs I was drawing (they were supposed to be cows).
“I can’t believe you’re OLDER than me and you draw like that,” she sneered as I drew a square with a triangle on top of it for a barn. She didn’t notice Sister Helen walking back into the room behind her. “And what’s that supposed to be, an ASSHOLE? You couldn’t even fit one of your weird cows into that little asshole!”
Sister Helen’s face turned bright red, her mouth dropped open, and she grabbed Jaclyn by the ear and yanked her out of her chair. Dragging her out of the room, presumably to report her vulgarity to her parents, all I could hear were the echoes of Jaclyn’s confused protests as she was pulled further and further down the hallway. Roberta ran out of the room after them, leaving Alysia and I alone. I sat for a moment in stunned silence before exploding into uncontrollable laughter, doubling over and nearly falling out of my seat. Alysia interrupted my delicious fit of hilarity with a sobering prediction: “You are so screwed.”
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Ashley Allen is a frazzled, multi-task dysfunctional mom of three boys, including a set of twins. (She has a lot of balls to juggle). She writes a circusy, irreverent, humor blog called Big Top Family about her childhood and adulthood, and how the bridge between them is not as long as you might think. She can also be found on Facebook, Twitter@bigtopfamily, Pinterest, and Google+.
23 Comments
omg that’s amazing! Great read!
Thank you so much, Andrea – weird childhoods are entertaining. (Usually). 😉
You’re terrible and I love you.
Haha, I don’t know if that was directed to Kristen or me, but either way, you’re right and thank you! 🙂
Absolutely hilarious!
I can honestly say I’m torn between slightly horrified and creepy curious about your childhood. Just…a NUN!?!
Lol, thank you, Chris! You can read a little more about it on my blog – just go to the Old School Circus category, which contains all the childhood stories. I’m not promising you it will be a rational explanation – still doesn’t make sense to me! – but it might give you a little background, Stay away from The Night the Devil Chased My Mom if you don’t want to be creeped out anymore, lol.
Oh jeez, I can’t fit ANY cows in my asshole! I love this. I did not peg you for the Jesus tour type, and thank God you’re not 😉
Haaa, thanks for not pegging me as the Jesus Tour type. Never heard that one before, I like it! Thanks so much for reading, Chrissy. 🙂
BWAHAHAHAHA! Hysterical! If only I had your wit.
Thanks, Awesamsauce! But I was only witty as a child. Now I’m dull and boring. 🙂
No, you’re not boring!! Don’t ever “think” like that!! Think positive!!
As always, you’re fabulous, Ashley. Hilarious story well-told. I love your terrible-ness. 😉
Thanks for encouraging me to write it, Foxy!
HA HA HA HA! OMG! I was also told shit like this! This is awesome!
Phew, Crystal, I was really hoping that I wasn’t the ONLY one! Thanks so much for reading. 🙂
Hey, there’s nothing wrong with ice cream and bitches. This reminds me of the time when my son was 6 and he asked me what a lesbian was. I told him the truth. One of my friends asked me why I did that, and I told her, “Well, if I told him it was a candle, he would go to school and tell everyone that his mom got lesbians for Christmas.” 🙂
Omg, Lisa, you are so funny. Thanks for reading, lady. 🙂
Well you were a clever child, huh?! And hilarious to boot!
I was a thug, Stacia, if we’re being totally honest! But I think I had my reasons. 🙂 Thanks so much for reading and laughing. 🙂
Why you little “barn,” you!
You really nailed Jaclyn with that little trick! So funny!!
Lol, Darcy, maybe we should just come up with our own little glossary. If I’m a “barn,” then you are my little “girlfriend.” 🙂 Thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment!
That. Is. Hilarious.
You were a clever child.
By the way, my parents were Jesus freak charismatic Catholics as well. We belong to a special tribe. Although it sounds like yours was a little more invasive than mine.
Thanks, Michelle! Nice to know that there are “Others” out there like me. It was invasive, considering Mom let people LIVE with us! 😉