functions that might have given me a chance to nurture friendships. So I tried deliberate rebellion, like failing to produce homework in order to appear cool, even though I usually completed assignments within an hour after school was dismissed.
One day I tried to act cool in class by making fun of the teacher, Miss Mazie Myles, behind her back so the other kids would laugh at me. And I did get their attention as I pretended to scratch my chin and mouth her favourite phrase: I wasn’t born in a swamp yesterday, you know. Unfortunately my antics also caught Miss Myles’s attention when she turned unexpectedly. Everyone laughed, but when I saw the look of disappointment in my teacher’s eyes, a teacher who had treated me fairly, I felt stupid and ashamed. Miss Myles sent me out in the hallway to think about my behaviour, and I stood there in humiliation, realizing that a few laughs from the kids weren’t worth hurting a teacher I actually liked.
That year I befriended Donna Carpenter. New to our class, she had moved with her family to Geary because her father was enlisted in the army at Base Gagetown. Donna was everything I ever wanted to be: popular and pretty with long, straight auburn hair and a flippant attitude about everything. We were practically the same size, both short, with long hair, and had been born in the same month and year, so I fantasized that she was my twin sister. I jigged school a couple of times with her, but fear of my parents’ wrath ruined any fun I might have had on those excursions. Donna’s parents were much more lenient. Most of the time she didn’t even have a curfew. One of the days we jigged school, her mother actually drove us to Killarney Lake in Fredericton so we could swim.
I visited Donna’s home a few times. She’d let me borrow her clothes, but I’d have to change before I went home. My parents would have died if they had seen me dressed in bell bottoms and a halter top.
Donna and I managed to stay friends in spite of our differences. I still went to church and she had no religious beliefs. She often attended school dances or skating parties at the school. Most of the time I listened to the highlights of these events as she retold them. I figured I was banished to the sidelines to watch others have fun. I had to face the facts: I was destined to be a nerd. The only hope I held on to was my love of writing. I would be a famous writer and then I would be so cool.
“You’ll never amount to anything,” Mr. C told me one day, regarding me as if I were a loathsome creature he’d like to cast from his sight. “Those high marks don’t mean a thing.”
I was standing in front of my entire class. I had tried to pass a note to Donna while Mr. C. was teaching. His cutting words tore away what bit of self-confidence I had managed to cling to over my thirteen years. Something vital shrivelled into a cold heavy ball inside me. I had been humiliated again. The eyes of all my classmates were upon me, and everyone now knew how worthless I truly was.
By the age of fourteen, I started to change, but not physically; that had happened a long time ago in grade two. I started to embrace my anger and turn it on other people. My thoughts of missionary work on some distant shore, or helping the pagans live better God-inspired lives, transformed into daydreams of lying naked beside some woodland stream with Ray Stewart, the brother of my next-door neighbour. Ray was the first boy I ever loved. I dreamed about marrying him and running away to Prince Edward Island where his family had lived before moving to New Brunswick. I wanted him to love me back. His cool, detached manner only heightened my desire for him. I didn’t want to be a nice girl anymore. I wanted to be nasty. I wanted to control him with my body The body that held the power, the body that people wanted.
Being a faithful churchgoer hadn’t changed my life for the better. More than ever, I could never quite measure up. After being accused so many times of things I’d never yet experienced, I decided it was finally time to discover what I was missing, to fit the role, to bridge the gap between accusation and reality.
That was the year I willingly let Ray explore my body We were into heavy necking and petting, but I wanted to give myself to him completely. Only the terror of a possible pregnancy kept me from going all the way My mother’s fervent warnings reared up in my head. My mother’s sad life. My mother’s dark regret. It had found its mark in me. I couldn’t give myself over to my longings even though my parents were certain I already had.
A few months later Ray moved to the United States and joined the American army I was heartbroken. He kept in touch for a while, writing short letters on lined paper, talking mostly about his training. They weren’t romantic by any stretch. He even came back to see me once, showing up on my doorstep unexpectedly. He talked to my father about marrying me, which sent my heart soaring. When he was leaving, he kissed me goodbye, then said, “I’ll write and we’ll make plans.” But I never heard from him again.
A CAREER IN WRITING
Winning the essay contest when I was twelve encouraged me to write with more regularity. Geary Consolidated School produced a student newspaper and I was a frequent contributor before I eventually took over as editor. I entered every essay contest I heard of and often won a prize. I developed a deep passion for writing exposition and non-fiction. Determined to be a reporter, I asked my principal, Mr. Davidson, where I should start. He suggested I contact the two local papers, The Daily Gleaner in Fredericton and the weekly Camp Gagetown Gazette in Oromocto.
At the tender age of fourteen I was writing a weekly column in both newspapers. I covered school news for The Gleaner and the Social Scene for the Gazette. The editor of the Oromocto paper at the time, Don Sisson, was satisfied with my writing and didn’t hesitate to pass on his approval. Finding worth in his encouragement, I worked even harder to please him. When I became district representative for the Kindness Clubs, an organization dedicated to the prevention of animal abuse, I also began writing about the clubs’ activities.
The material I wrote for The Daily Gleaner was on a gratis basis, but the Camp Gagetown Gazette paid me a weekly salary of about $10.
A year later my yearning to pursue a writing career was bolstered when I won yet another essay contest. Out of several hundred young people who entered from all across Canada and the United States, I was selected as one of thirty-nine winners. My essay, “Submission to His Commission,” was based on Christ’s message to carry His word of love to all people regardless of their state or location. It was published in Young Ambassador magazine out of Lincoln, Nebraska, in 1966. I nearly went out of my mind checking the mailbox every day for four or five months, anxious to see my story in print. When the magazine finally arrived, my mom was the first to see it. She opened the envelope, then showed it to me when I returned from school. She also proudly flaunted it to all her friends.
Within a few months of my newfound success south of the border, I was picking up a few dollars by covering events in the Oromocto area as a correspondent for The Daily Gleaner. At night, before sleeping, I’d imagine what it would be like to have a full-time job as a writer. I’d picture myself travelling to exotic locales, covering stories for National Geographic and Life.
Again I considered a career in the Christian ministry. I saw myself as a helpful saint, rushing to the aid of children in Third World countries, or ministering to the sick and dying in some dingy big-city hostel.
The summer before I turned sixteen, I went to live with Hector McGregor, a French evangelist on the Gaspé shore of Quebec. He had been a visitor to our Geary church and had spoken about the need for people to help with his new Protestant church. Brother McGregor was calling for musicians and singers, anyone willing to join him for the summer. He also required a person to assist with his four young children. On the night I heard him speak I approached him and said I would be interested in offering a hand. I was expected to help with the children and the church services, and the family would speak French exclusively so I might learn the language in this do-or-die situation.
I rode the train from Fredericton by myself. My parents saw me off. The church had taken up a collection, so I had money in my pocket. They presented it to me the Sunday before I left, and Mom and Dad managed to scrape up a few dollars to go with it. After the return train ticket was purchased, I had almost