I See London, I See France

Over the weekend, I got a couple of searchies (that’s my new term for search engine visitors) looking for photos of girls in school uniforms. Mostly my take on such things is this: Whatever floats your boat, or your peter. But I have my limitations.  Once you start looking for girls, you’re a full-blown (I know, bad choice of words) skeevy loser.

So I thought I’d take the opportunity to tell them so by bringing more by this site. Let them really feel the disappointment of their poorly worded perv hunts by writing about catholic school girls, uniforms, and underwear. (By the way, if that’s you, you’re a perv and a loser and pig.) 

I went to a catholic school from kindergarten to fourth grade, until our family moved out in to the country and there wasn’t a parochial school in sight. When I look back and try to search through what I would assume are endless memories of my formative school years, I don’t actually come up with that much having to do with learning. I remember the method we had to endure to learn cursive writing and falling in love with a book I checked out of the library about Amelia Earhart.

Amelia aside, most of my school memories involve the social hierarchies challenged and protected on a daily basis. For the most part I was a nerd who didn’t care about such social formations. I liked to play. And so school, for me, was about recess and not much more. But nothing brought out demonstrations of one’s social position like the playground at recess. Much of what I remember from those years have me standing square in my black and brown plaid, Catholic school girl jumper at recess. Or should I say, standing almost square on the outer bounds of the white lines delineating our beloved four-square game. 

Four-square was not only recess to me, but it was the main reason to even go to school everyday. It was life. I tried to replicate the thrill at home by spending hours upon hours hitting the red four-square ball against the side of the house in the driveway. Sadly, however, much of my time reveling in this staple of lunchtime recess was spent in waiting. Along with most of the other girls in my class, we lined up at the edge of the four square to wait our turns, that glorious moment when someone was bounced out and finally, our chance to ascend the social ladder of our classroom arrived when we set foot in square number one. All we had to do next was bounce out the other three players to earn square number four, the top square.  Olympic excellence. We’d be queens of the playground.

There was a problem, though. The obstacle most of us faced in these social aspirations were the Reeds and the Nortons, two sets of identical twins. Each set was separated in different classrooms, but at recess they came together as one mighty, nepotistic playground powerhouse. They’d team up against other girls until they each stood in one of the four squares. Then they’d gingerly and carefully bounce the ball to each other for the remainder of recess so as not to bounce themselves out and afford playing opportunity to one of the dredges on the sidelines. 

Once this happened, the rest of us realized our trampled underdog fantasies would have to wait for another day and picked up the jump rope. But jump rope was fun, and only slightly more repetitive than the bouncing of the four square ball. On one particular afternoon, the Reed and Norton twins, in their horrible abuse of power, missed out on one of the most momentous playground occurrences of all my four years there b/c it happened at the jump rope among the dredges.

There were rules to the jump rope—rules that maintained its proper post-lunch functioning. We’d wait our turns, arrive at the front, jump with the person in front of us if invited, take our turns, then, upon missing, become a rope spinner for two turns, and finally return to the end of the line to start the process over. After waiting at the four square, you were lucky to get through one full rotation by the time the sisters rang the bells to go back inside.

One sunny afternoon towards the end of the school year, for none of us was wearing a jacket or sweater but only our jumpers and short sleeves (and knee socks), I took my place in line three spots behind Susan. Susan, for reasons I cannot remember now, annoyed me more than even the boys in the class. She was best friends with Mara, the girl who ate her boogers, and so I teased her relentlessly for being short. It was the only tangible “fault” I could find with her. And b/c Susan was the youngest of sixteen or seventeen or some enormous number like that, she was already, at the ripe old age of seven or eight, someone’s aunt. This earned her the nickname, Ant Aunt. This was my contribution to the social order of the playground. I thought it quite clever, actually.

My teasing was limited to this name, and mentions here and there of her height. I suppose it was a lighter variety of teasing than found in schools today; still, I’m not at all proud of the name calling or teasing. So if you ever come across this Susan, I’m very sorry and feel just terrible about it. If it makes you feel any better, once a public school boy punched me in the stomach on my way home after calling me holy, holy underpants (what we Catholic school girls were known as in the wider, mainstream circles).

Susan was probably much smarter than the rest of us for having such a large family. While the rest of us walked our short distances home or got rides from our parents, indulging in after-school snacks with our mothers a mere ten minutes after getting out of school, Susan waited after all the kids left for the city bus and rode it for some distance alone before it stopped at another school and picked up her older siblings. Street savy or not, however, having siblings numbering in the teens had consequences. Consequences visible on a catholic school’s playground one sunny afternoon at the end of the school year. 

As Susan’s turn approached, someone suggested the version of the game, whose name I cannot recall, in which we each ran in, took a few jumps, then ran out, all the while keeping the jump rope moving. This was fast-paced and fun, and far more egalitarian than four-square with the Reeds and Nortons since we all got multiple turns. And it was even more fun when Susan took her turn. 

Susan, probably totally self-sufficient at that age, no doubt got herself dressed and out the door to ride the city bus to school. On this morning, which makes me, now as a mother, totally feel for her, Susan didn’t have any underwear. Lost in the shuffle of ten or so other kids getting dressed, lunches, and off to school, Susan didn’t find a pair of clean, or for that matter dirty, underwear that morning and just went without. Her jumper was long, so it really wouldn’t have mattered, except that she played this particular kind of jump rope at recess on this particular day. 

When her turn came she glided effortlessly under the rope, jumped her turn, and then it happened. She hopped and ran her way out of the rope, and as the rope, still spinning, came up her backside, it caught the edge of her jumper and lifted it. Bare to the world, little Susan’s butt made its first public appearance, much to the delight of all of us girls standing behind her. We squealed with delight, still feeling the sting of recess hierarchies at the four square with the Reed and Norton twins, and poor Susan whirled around, pulling her jumper down behind her. 

She didn’t stop though. She kept running to the back of the line and then taking her turn, each time exposing her tiny butt, which I can still see in my mind today, to the rest of her class, who was now standing side by side so as not to miss the flash.  The remarkable part of the story to me now is not that Susan was able to escape her house without her mother noticing she wasn’t fully dressed under her uniform or even that Susan would rather go without any underwear than put on yesterday’s pair, but that at that young age Susan was already able to take risks. She would rather flash her class, risk the teasing and embarrassment no doubt to come once back inside, than miss out on one single moment of fun that afternoon. I don’t think I have that kind of dedication and determination even now. In fact, I can think of few things less horrifying than the idea of my A) jumping rope on a playground, B) wearing a jumper of any kind, and C) flashing my butt to any portion of the world. But then I can’t exactly say that I have a cute, little but anymore.

Comments

[Foolery]

The last time my butt could be described as cute and little, it was still swaddled in cloth diapers. Sometime during the Taft administration, I believe.

Great tribute to that feisty little girl -- and I know what you mean about seeing things now through the eyes of a mother. I was ready to cry.

[Tami]

Good for you. Show them that they are exactly that: LOSERS

[Hallie]

Is it possible that some mother somewhere was simply looking for pics of a girl in a school uniform in order to sew her daughter a new one?

I'm just sayin.... :)

Hallie

[Sarah is Ok]

Yes, Hallie, that's totally possible and thanks for ruining my post for me:)

It occurred to me that it need not be sexual, but I'm just that jaded. I assume the worst first. It's one of the things that makes me so charming.

Actually, I think it's all Britney's fault. Ever since her video (Oops, was it?) school girl uniforms can never be the same again.

[kaylee]

LOL I love this post :)

[Annie]

You mean to tell me that you couldn't take on both sets of twins by yourself? I find that hard to believe.

[Coal Miner's Granddaughter]

I once had a searchie find my site by Googling, "where's my cat's clitoris."

Seriously.

[MamaMo]

WOW! What a strong memory! My only recess memories -- 4th grade: tether ball and standing along the fence with my best friend singing (not so well, I can assure you) "Half Breed" by Cher. And that's all the detail my poor little memory has to offer me.

[Sarah is Ok]

OMG, OMG, OMG! and Jesus! CMGD, that's the biggest laugh I had all day. I don't know, though, if I'm more amused or grossed out. And I seriously have some catching up to do at your blog if they ended up at your site.

[jessicab]

Poor Susan. That girl have balls.

I have had some rather disturbing search engine visits lately. It leaves me feeling rather violated.