Missives from Wonderland

This is my entry for this week of therealljidol (LJ Idol Survivor). The topic this week is "You Shook Me."

As I punched in at the blue-plated metal time clock, Alistair* strode toward me with his long legs, intoning my name with a sing-song pitch that could turn anything into an insult. My skin crawled.

I slipped my time card back into its slot as quickly as I could, intent on slipping away to the dish room. But I wasn't quick enough. He stepped in front of me, asking me with a sneer what I'd done last night. It felt less like small talk than an accusation, and I didn't understand why. Something in his tone turned a simple question into an interrogation.

Alistair towered over me, his square jaw set in his long face, his limp brown hair falling in his eyes beneath the white dining hall cap. I wanted nothing more than to get away from him.

"Have fun in the dish room," he snarled after me as I scurried away. "I'll send some dirty trays your way." Alistair was a busser, which was a coveted position. Unlike the dish-room people, who were rooted to our spots and spent our shifts wearing plastic aprons that got splattered with other people's half-eaten food, he wore a clean white cloth apron and bustled about the dining hall, filling empty soda machines, and bringing clean racks of dishes and glasses from the dish room into the dining area as needed.

This evening, I was stationed in the dirty section, where we took trays from a conveyor belt, banged them over a trough, and placed them in racks to go through the automatic dish washer. Usually, I preferred the clean side, where you pulled the steamy-hot dishes off the automatic line and stacked them in rolling boxes to be delivered to the food line. Tonight, however, I was glad to be thumping dirty plates over a trough, because it meant I wouldn't have to deal with Alistair.

Whenever I was stacking clean plates, every time he passed through, he found a way to get in my face. He'd "accidentally" bump into me when my back was turned, so that I was in danger of dropping the heavy, stoneware plates and breaking them. While we didn't have to reimburse the dining hall for broken plates, we did have to immediately shut down the line and clean up the broken shards. Fortunately, I'd never dropped one, but that was no thanks to Alistair.

If he wasn't physically invading my space, he was staring me down with a predatorial gaze, throwing off a sneered comment, sometimes half-heard in the din. At least, when I was bullied in grade school, I'd had options. I could run away, or find a friend, or rush to class to sit in my safe assigned seat. But working here, I was locked into one location, designated by the manager to stay a sitting duck for the entire three-hour shift. And since the dish-stacking station was for a single worker, I didn't even have witnesses.

It had gotten to the point where I dreaded coming to work. Each time the weekly schedules came out, I frantically scanned them to see if Alistair was working with me. If he was, my stomach turned itself in knots for hours before I had to turn up. I thought about quitting.

One night, he was waiting for me outside the locker room, right after I changed for my shift. "Nice pants," he snarled, gesturing at my baggy red jersey pants, which I wore because I didn't care if they got covered with hamburger bits and salad dressing.

"Whatever," I threw back, walking briskly past him down the empty hall.

"Why are you walking so fast?" he asked. "Afraid of me?"

Yes, I realized. I felt a desperate need to put distance between myself and this man. My fellow co-workers had already gone upstairs to clock in. I'd been delayed because my locker wouldn't close right. Would anyone even hear me from down here in the basement, through the thick, brick walls and concrete slab floors?

As I picked up my pace, he did, too. My legs no match for his stride at walking pace, I began to run. He picked up the pace, too, and my heart sank into my stomach.

"Stop running!" he yelled. He was only a few steps behind me. In another few paces, he could have grabbed my arm.

As I turned a corner, I nearly bumped into Laurie from the Cook's Help station. We often worked together in Cook's Help at Saturday breakfast, where I got to work with food on the more appetizing side of the process. Even though Laurie and I didn't normally chat much, I cheerfully asked how she was doing. How was the Art History class that she loved to talk about? I steered her into conversation about the Renaissance period as we walked up the steps to the hallway behind the kitchen where the time clock resided. Frustrated, huffing loudly, Alistair ambled past us. He turned to throw me a glare as he passed.

I dallied with Laurie near the time clock, asking her if she'd be on shift Saturday, making chit-chat about the weather, until Alistair had no choice but to proceed to the Busser's closet to pick up his apron and check the clipboard for his tasks.

Dropping my card briskly into its slot, I called "See you later" to Laurie and walked with purpose down the hallway to the manager's office. Knocking on the light-wood frame of her open door, I asked, "Can I talk to you?"

Mrs. Hanlon++ had always intimidated me, with her no-nonsense attitude. Her ash-blonde, straight hair pulled into a long, shapeless ponytail, her large rounded glasses perched on her aquiline nose, always wearing a baggy suit in nondescript earth tones, Mrs. Hanlon clearly had no time for frivolity. Nothing so pointless as a smile ever crept across her thin lips, at least not in my months of being her employee.

"Yes?" she said, with the air of someone who had just been interrupted from something terribly important.

My hand trembling involuntarily, I took a deep breath and muttered quietly, "It's about Alistair."

Mrs. Hanlon's stern visage melted subtly, and I saw concern creep into her eyes. "What about Alistair?" she asked.

"He's -- he's been bothering me," I confessed.

Gracefully, she hopped to her feet, gesturing me to take a seat in the blocky wood upholstered chair in front of her desk, as she swept to the door and closed it with a quiet click.

Back in her seat, she said simply, "Tell me what happened."

The words tumbled out of my mouth: the threatening air he exuded, the way he hovered around me like a vengeful ghost. (In those days, I didn't know to call it stalking.) I ended the saga with, "I didn't know if I should say anything. He never threatened me, or made sexual jokes, or hurt me. I didn't know if it qualified as harassment."

She said simply, "It's harassment if it makes you feel uncomfortable." Reassuringly, she told me she'd take care of it. She promised me that he'd talk to him and that, if he ever did it again, she'd fire him on the spot.

I exhaled.

In the weeks after my talk with Mrs. Hanlon, our schedules changed. I rarely, if ever, got a shift that coincided with Alistair. When I did, he looked through me as if I didn't even exist, briskly walking past me, all business. I still got a sinking feeling in my stomach when I caught sight of him, but at least I knew I was no longer alone. Mrs. Hanlon had my back.

~~~

Though I rarely think of Alistair any more, I think of Mrs. Hanlon every time the issue of harassment surfaces. I've repeated her words to many people who may have needed to hear them: "If you feel uncomfortable, it's harassment." And while my memories of the exact details of what Alistair said and did to me have faded like a long-ago scraped knee, I can remember the exact quality of light in Mrs. Hanlon's office that afternoon. I can remember exactly what she was wearing and how her face softened, looking at young adult me, a little wavy-haired 19-year-old, trembling in the late afternoon golden sun through her many large windows.

Because of Mrs. Hanlon, the moment that shook me did not break me but only shored up my foundations.


*Not his real name

++ Not her real name

Me participating in the Penn State Monty Python Society's Mall Climb in the spring of 1990 with (left) Damon Buckwalter and (right) Pete Uoth. I don't have a lot of pictures handy from the time this story took place, so it's sort of ironic that the one I do have shows me loosely tied to Pete. I assure you, though, it was consensual, and he and I were just friends. You can see he carefully kept his hands in his pockets.

Findlay Commons at Penn State in 2012, before renovation. It looked like this when I worked there in the late 1980s to early 1990s.

This is my entry for LJ Idol Survivor,. This week's topic is "Touchy Subjects."

In my hometown, you learn what not to say, especially when you're a chubby, glasses-wearing girl geek. I had enough going against me. No need to voice an unpopular opinion; make myself a more prominent target.

So I stayed quiet when I was the only one who voted for Jimmy Carter over Ronald Reagan in the mock presidential election. On the playground, they took their aggression out on the class scapegoat instead: the small kid with out-of-date clothes. I knew I should speak out, or tell a teacher, but I was afraid they'd turn on me next.

I stayed quiet when I witnessed behavior I knew would make my Sunday School teacher frown. I should have ratted out the bullies, but I worried. I should have spoken up when people told off-color jokes with racial slurs, or homosexual insults, for punchlines. Instead, I stopped hanging around such people. I walked away from the haters before "cancel culture" had been invented.

Even being quiet didn't always work. Some perceived my silence as arrogance. If I stuck my nose in a book between classes, it must be because I looked down on everyone. But that's not true. In those days, like any kid, even from behind an Emily Dickinson book, I wanted to belong. One day in junior high school, I learned that would not be my destiny.

In the mid-Eighties, when Day-Glo colors reigned, I talked my mom into buying me a bright orange sweatshirt, which I paired with electric blue faux parachute pants, in a cotton material with zippers on the thighs.

All day long, my classmates let me know how ridiculous they thought I looked, though my outfit was tame compared to the eye-bruising color combinations routinely seen in our halls. That's when I realized I'd never fit in by trying to do what was popular. So, I figured, I might as well be myself.

When most of the other girls went with big hairstyles, I asked my hair stylist to give me the shortest look possible, then had him add a "tail" in the back. (For those born after 1985, that was a hunk of hair that hung down lower than the rest of the haircut and was typically worn in a little braid. Honest, it was kind of a trend.) My favorite shirt was a mint-green one-sleeved top that looked exactly like a normal shirt with one sleeve removed. I loved how wrong it was.

In high school, I wore a man's knit fedora all winter long, Boy George style, and practically wore out a blue flannel shirt long before the grunge movement made flannel cool. I wore a giant silver peace sign necklace, the heavy weight of it making me feel grounded, so often that when I graduated, the "Remember when" page included the snarky remark, "Alice Wilson's peace movement." (They managed to hide it from me, even though I was yearbook co-editor.)

Fashion became my superficial shield: a distraction from the differences that mattered. In those days, I didn't always speak up when I should. I didn't call out prejudices, or defend the weak. I did, however, try to be kind. And when the class scapegoat, hiding behind his own shield of long bangs, discovered Prince's music, I talked to him before class about our favorite songs. I raved over the artwork he produced for his art electives, and I took proud photos of him for the school paper.

At the newspaper, I finally found a niche. Our phenomenal high school journalism teacher taught us more than how to write articles and design pages. She taught us how to use our voices, and how to listen to the voices of others. I'd write my questions, steel my nerve, and approach the people who had cowed me for years. Through telling their stories, I learned more about them. I learned who they wanted to be, how they wanted to be seen. And I helped convey that to the rest of the school.

Turns out we all have insecurities. For many of us, it's taken years to admit to things we'd never have confessed in school, from who we love to what we believe. I'm proud to say that the people I shyly approached back then, so many of them, have turned out to be greater and braver than I ever could have imagined.

One of them, our class president, spoke out during the 2020 presidential election. As former chairman of the county Republican Party, he spoke out in several newspaper editorials as well as on local talk radio, urging his fellow Republicans to take a stand against the unprincipled, dangerous, autocratic-leaning incumbent president. That could not have been easy. Among his supporters: my beloved journalism teacher, along with two of my fellow high school newspaper alumni.

The artist formerly known as the class scapegoat has publicly expressed support for his gay son, not long after his son revealed his truth. I told him how wonderful that was of him to do, since my own mother struggled with being out in an area that, while there is a strong gay community, also harbors a lot of small-mindedness.

Another classmate speaks out forcefully against racial injustice and corruption, going toe-to-toe with her own family members when they try to trot out conspiracy theories or rave against mask wearing to prevent COVID-19. I cheer her on, even if I still choose my battles and walk away from those who are hopelessly brainwashed.

Who would have thought, all those years ago, that my thoughts were not so different from many of my classmates? Imagine what would happen if we all spoke up?

Me in the one-sleeved shirt; sadly the one sleeve is hidden by the cake

My senior photo, short hair, blue silk shirt and pink Venetian blinds. Wish this were in color!

ETA: The voting page is now up! My fellow Luzon team mates are: bleodswean, bsgsix, murielle and n3m3sis42.

https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1081213.html

---

Darkness. Days of darkness. A cough rattles in a curtained corner. From her nearby cot, Mary grabs my hand. Her skin is cold. I shiver.

"I want Mama," she cries.

I squeeze her hand tight and lie, again. "Mama will come for us after we land."

In murky blackness, I can just make out her face. She frowns. The fib no longer fools her. Perhaps she can tell I no longer believe it myself.

Down here, we roll with the wind. I can hear it, angry like a hungry dog, yowling above. The windowless outer walls, frosty and damp. The crew call this place "between decks." Stuffed in, we are, like fish at the market. Below us, the cargo hold, above us the deck where we may not go. If we do, we could be swept overboard like John Howland. The crew caught him before he drowned, but they say no more going up for the rest of us.

Days without windows. Without sun.

~~~

Mary may not remember, but I do. Before being "between decks," we lived between houses. Moved one night, while Mama slept, to live with strangers.

I heard the pounding on the rough wooden door. Mama's voice howling, like a wounded wolf, "Let me have my children! I do not know what he paid you, but I can pay you back with tears and blood. Wretched monsters!"

Sounds of flesh hitting flesh. The man we lived with ducked inside, slammed the door shut. His shirt hung off his back, torn asunder.

~~~

In dim morning, while Mary sleeps, I tell Master William how she wept all night when she thought I had fallen asleep.

"What can we do?" he says. "The truth is harsh sometimes but better than falsehood."

I nod. "Mama will not be joining us later, will she?"

Sadly, he shakes his head, places his soft hand on my shoulder. "No, Richard."

I call him "master" because I have been told that is his role. Not father. Not uncle. My master until I am old enough to be alone, he says.

Though my nose burns with the cold, I can smell the sickness that surrounds us. I think of the rock-hard biscuits, the salty meat, the crying and the constant coughing.

I have only one word for it all: "Why?"

"Someday," he says.

~~~

Whether or not Mary remembers, I remember the yelling. Mama and our father, who said he was not our father. "I will not raise bastards!" he screamed, the day he shut her out of the house.

That time, she came back in. But not for long.

None of us were long together.

~~~

Some day, William will tell me what he knows. But for now, I am just Richard, son of no one. Chilled in the darkness. But far from alone.

~~~

According to FamilySearch.org, Richard More was my first cousin, 11 times removed. My direct ancestor, Maria More/Moore, was sister to Richard's mother, Catherine. Catherine was forced into an arranged marriage with her cousin, Samuel More, when her brothers died, leaving no male heirs to inherit the estate. This ensured the lands both stayed in the family, and with Catherine. But Catherine, according to court documents filed at the time of their separation, continued a relationship with her prior fiance, Jacob Blakeway, a tenant on her family's land.

Her husband, Samuel, believed that the children Catherine had during the marriage were not his but Jacob's, and according to Samuel, the children bore a great resemblance to Jacob. After accusing Catherine of adultery, Samuel removed the children from the home and placed them with tenants in Linley. During that time, Catherine went to the tenants' dwellings and fought with them to try to get her children back, with witnesses stating she, "in a hail of murderous oaths, did teare the cloathes from their backes." Sadly, she was unsuccessful in reclaiming her children.

Finally, Samuel invested 100 pounds -- an extraordinary sum in those days -- with the Virginia Company, putting the More children on the Mayflower, originally destined for Virginia, where the children were to be used as laborers. Bad weather, however, resulted in the Pilgrims and "strangers" (non-Pilgrims and tradesmen) being pushed extravagantly off-course and landing in Massachusetts, instead.

Before they boarded the ship, Samuel More entrusted the children with some shady characters, including two men who would eventually become a smuggler and an enemy of the Crown. Then, two Puritans who planned to make the journey, John Carver and Robert Cushman, took it upon themselves to find the children guardians among the Mayflower passengers. Elinor, 8, was assigned servant to Edward Winslow and died soon after arrival in Cape Cod. Jasper, 7, was a servant of John Carver. He died of an infection aboard the Mayflower while the ship was docked in Cape Cod harbor. Mary, 4, was a servant of William Brewster and died in the winter of 1620-21. Of the four children, Richard, who was 6 and assigned as a servant of William Brewster, was the only one to survive into adulthood.

In Brewster, Richard most likely had a father figure. The only university-educated passenger, Brewster was a senior elder of the colony and religious leader. He was described as "tenderhearted and compassionate" by William Bradford, whose accounts of the passage and the colony's early history provide many of the known details about those days.

Richard stayed with the Brewsters until mid-1627, when his indentureship expired. By 1628, Richard was employed in trans-Atlantic trading, settling in Salem. He married Christian Hunter in Plymouth in 1636, and the two had seven children.

Perhaps paying forward Brewster's kindness, Richard was the mariner who rescued colonists from the newly-established colony at Cape Fear in 1665, where they were dying of starvation after a supply ship failed to arrive. In addition, Richard later took on responsibility for the three children of a sailing friend who was murdered. Not a surprise, perhaps, that a man who had essentially been made an orphan would take pity on them.

An old gravestone in the Salem burial ground gives his death date of 1692, an extraordinarily long life for someone who lived through such a harsh childhood.


My husband, incidentally, is descended from 6 different Mayflower passengers, as well as having another ancestor with a non-biological parental connection to 3 others. One of his Mayflower ancestors, Giles Hopkins, was a half-brother of Oceanus, born during the passage.

Details about my husband's Mayflower connections can be found here:

https://alycewilson.dreamwidth.org/5583.html


Historical information about conditions aboard the Mayflower:

https://www.history.com/news/mayflower-journey-pilgrims-america

More on Richard More:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_More_(Mayflower_passenger)

More on William Brewster:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Brewster_(Mayflower_passenger)