The First Time I Ran Away

Fight. Flight. Freeze.

These reactions catalyzed in our reptilian brain by challenge or crisis. By age fifteen, I was fluent in psychobabble, a dubious benefit of being the child of my parents.

And I knew I was an escapist, even if I could not fully comprehend the reasons why.

You know my backstory. It’s the stuff of adolescent legend, cheapened by half a dozen tawdry coming of age films, and sentimental made for tv docudramas. Divorced, bickering parents, a seemingly perfect younger sibling, the cruelty of adolescents, the ugly pimple faced reflection greeting you in the mirror, the barbs in the hallway, the bad poetry, the maudlin song lyrics scrawled on the soles of your gym shoes, the half-assed flirtations with suicidal thought, the loneliness, the underachievement, the way it seems so laughably common now. . . and to think I though I was the only one who felt that way.

It’s easy to feel like a pariah when you’re fifteen.

I ran away because I hated my father.

His divorced fueled antipathy toward my mother with me as pawn in a long-winded, often pointless argument. He manipulated her by making inequitable, capricious decisions that affected me directly. That day in the car, in early July, coming over Sam’s Gap from a family reunion in Bristol, Virginia, he casually turned his head back to me, plugged into Walkman playing Life is bigger It's bigger than you And you are not me and motioned for me to remove the earphones. “Ali,” he said. “I think that whole prep school idea was a bad one. I’m not really up for paying for that right now. I think it would be a better idea if you spent next year at the high school.” I turned down the volume. “You’re kidding right?” He shook his head.

I ran away because I thought I had nowhere else to go.

This prep school thing—his idea—gestating over a number of months plagued me at first. I’d been reluctant to acquiesce to the scheme, citing numerous reasons why that idyllic campus with its strict rules and select student body would suffocate me. But I’d stopped breathing months ago at public junior high. I was a retrograde somnambulist, drifting zombie-like from class to class, losing stride with every step. It removal from was my only salvation. A clean slate--we all want that--some variety of supernatural white-out to gloss over the disappointments. When informed of the school's decision in early February, I'd spent the rest of the academic year doing whatever the fuck I wanted, saying anything to anyone figuring I had spare bridges to burn. My promised deliverance denied, I went a bit apoplectic, fingering the volume on my walkman stuck on that's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my religion. It had been my favorite song that spring, but I remember thinking--how weird I finally understand what that means?

"You take things too seriously," said my dad, the pot, to me, the kettle. "You'll be fine." But the underlying message was: Go home. Tell your mother. I know you will. Tell her she brought this on herself."

I followed the curves in the road with my body--loss of control: a physical interpretation by Alison J. Fields. I closed my eyes, and sniffed, because I didn't want him to see me crying.

And somewhere near the bottom of the mountain, I hatched my plan.

If you're an impulsive, frantic, fifteen year old with no friends, no car, and limited available funds, you go through the checklist:

Hmmm

Suicide--formulaic, and unglamorous in its execution.

Sex--where? with whom? who am I kidding?

Drugs--(count money) two dollar and seventeen cents . . .

Running away . . .running away . . . I really liked On The Road, and it would be something of a challenge--I like challenges, and tommorow, when my father wakes and must report to my mother that my body has miraculously evanesced over the night--that will make a statement. And where will I go? New York? San Francisco? Arrive with no connections, battle off pimps and drug dealers and live with some guy named Spike, wait tables in a scummy diner, serve coffee at three am to lonely people on rainy nights under buzzing fluorescent lights. Becoming nocturnal. And I'll harden, become tough as shit, acclimate to my acrid new environment, let no one distress me, live in the outer margins, tattoo something angry on her upper arm. Set the scene stomping home though puddles, shoulders slouched, dull ache from hunger, from loneliness, from affected anger, past graffiti manifestos and trash scattered like confetti. And I'll find fame. I'll romance Peter Pan and start a rock band with the lost boys, impressing them all with my bluesy, throaty yowl--accomplished after smoking too many cigarettes--I'll have to smoke cigarettes, many cigarettes. I'll become an icon, and then they all--my parents, my schoolmates, everyone--can line up to kiss my ass. San Francisco it is. It's warmer there. And lack of alternatives clears the mind.

The most amazing single attribute of parents is their "something is up" sensor. Sensitive to a fault, a simple "fine," answering their "how was your day?" can turn an ordinarily sweet mother into a ranking officer of the Gestapo--what do you mean by fine? Conversely, the "something is up" meter, sensitive and high-tech, as it may be, occasionally breaks. Such was the case that night. I spent the bulk of the evening making mixtapes in the bedroom at my Dad's apartment, and making minor alterations to my wardrobe in preparation of new lifestyle. THOSE JEANS NEED HOLES. (Rip) THAT DRESS NEEDS NO SLEEVES AND A JAGGED HEMLINE (CUT). THOSE TIGHTS NEED RUNS. You get the picture. By seven-fifteen that night I was admiring my reflection in the mirror.

My father must have taken my glow as meaning I had forgiven him for the car comments, and awkwardly tried to deal with my radiance (equal parts excitement and fear) over takeout from Boston Pizza. I ate enthusiastically, and got a little misty-eyed: This will be my last dinner at home for a while. So long security. So long father. So long, old, pitiful, Alison Fields.

I thought he would never go to bed.

My sister went first--at 9:15. I'd stowed my packed bag behind the washing machine, and placed all of my final details behind the toilet paper under the sink to facilitate ease and silence of movement.

At ten fifteen, my father patted my shoulder, as I watched videoclips on MTV. "Goodnight, buddy. I'm off to bed." I smiled, nodded, sighed. Self-assured son of a bitch won't know what hit him.

I gave him twenty minutes to drop off, and took the cordless phone into the shower stall. Dialed Greyhound, put on my best adult voice: "Due to a family emergency, I need to get to San Francisco soon. Do you have a bus leaving tonight?"

"Uh, we got one going to Atlanta. Leaves at 12:30. You kin get anywhere from Atlanta."

Ideal.

In the bathroom, I changed out of my pajamas. In the back of the cabinet was a small jar of brilliant red hair dye shoplifted several months ago from the family pharmacy. I hadn’t used it for fear of being labeled poser by the local population of cool kids. I grabbed it. Applied Liberally. Waited. Rinsed. Standing in front of the mirror my hands and ears stained brilliant red, I stared at my reflection in awe. Not quite incognito enough. I swallowed hard, and in some fit of adrenaline, angst, rebellion, and desperation for someone to notice I WAS PISSED, I systematically cut off my hair--a feat accomplished by drinking a couple tablespoons of straight Scotch (rebellion!) and sliding my fingers against the scalp and cutting off everything an inch or so over my knuckles. Hardcore. This act of unbridled bravery (and self-destruction in the true sense of the word) was immediately followed by me grabbing my backpack and tip-toeing into the living room to steal my father's wallet and half smoked pack of Winston Lights (he was trying to quit).

I left my hair in the bathroom floor, the flame colored tendrils spread against the still wet linoleum, as symbol. Better than a note. I was into shock value.

Outside, standing under a crescent moon in the apartment complex parking lot, I played with the short hairs on the nape of my neck and forgot--for a moment--that I had called the cab at the end of the drive.

The driver smiled when I got in. He wore his hair slicked back like Elvis with fat mutton chop sideburns. I concealed a laugh, though I thought it was admittedly cool that he wore sunglasses at near midnight.

"You all dressed up for a party?"

"No." I said it too fast and sudden, defensive. He jumped a bit in his seat. "Where you headed?"

"Greyhound."

I settled into the seat, feeling the warmth of the vinyl through my jeans. My head felt literally light. New sensation. I thought about what California would really feel like.

He played the oldies station on the Radio. Motown. I know you're gonna leave me, but I refuse to let you go. I was glad it wasn't The Beatles. "She's Leaving Home." Too cliché.

We didn't speak on the way.

At the lights of the bus station, I paid him (20$ from my father's wallet, including a twelve dollar tip).

I rushed inside, liberated at last, and approached the ticket counter.

The woman inside looked me over in honey-coated disgust.

"I'm here for the bus to Atlanta."

She yawned. "You missed it. Left five minutes ago. There will be another tomorrow."

Stunned.

I turned, suddenly unfamiliar with my surroundings, completely empty of ideas, and walked into the bathroom. It smelled like ammonia, or urine or both. I turned on the sink and tried to smoke a cigarette. I coughed and put it out. My mutilated reflection stared back at me. I looked completely, utterly ridiculous. Not tough. Sad. Sorry. Late. Pathetic.

I slid down the wall to sit beneath the towel dispenser and cried, ripping brown paper towels into particles--my breadcrumb trail. The second mess on a bathroom floor. I cried for what seemed like hours. I wanted my mother.

Finally, I pulled myself slowly off the floor and blew my nose on the back of my hand.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and I didn't relish the walk home.

Outside the door, my cab still stalled at the curb.

"You didn't leave," I said

"Neither did you," he said.

"Yeah." I snorted back phlegm and crawled into the backseat.

"You okay?" he asked.

I'm tough. I'm hard. I'm angry. I'm . . . "You want the truth?"

"Naturally." He pulled out of the parking lot.

"No."

"What's wrong?"

I blinked hard to quit crying. "I'm a stupid, stupid kid. I hate my father. I want to leave. I have no friends. I just about went to California to get back at my dad. I stole dad's wallet. I don't know what to do now. My life is over and I look like total shit, all thanks to myself."

He shrugged. "I think you look kinda cool."

I opened my eyes. "Really?"

"Uh-huh," he said. "Sorta different. Like a rock star."

"Great," I said. "Super."

He stopped at a light at leaned over the seat. "No. Don't underestimate it. I mean, rock and roll saved my life."

I laughed.

"Seriously," he said. "I don't know what I woulda done without it. Nothin good, that's for sure." His hair shined in the passing lights of cars.

When he pulled into Dad's driveway, he refused to let me pay. "Just go on in now. It'll get better."

I got out of his car watched the cab roll away. Then I started laughing. I laughed as hard as I'd cried then I cried again, and then I laughed. I knew I couldn't go back upstairs, so I took off through the midsummer night to walk the three miles or so to my mother's house.

I materialized on her front porch at two am. She answered the door in her nightgown, and screamed: "What the hell have you done to your hair?"

"I don't know," I said. "I think I hate it. And we need to talk."

Delayed Adolescence

Being twelve years old is all about making choices.

Not the complicated, compromise heavy, change of life choices you face at eighteen or twenty two or thirty. I mean, suburban kids in America have to be pretty fucking bad ass to be making those kind of life or death, tough calls in the seventh grade. Despite the media's propensity for highlighting those admittedly rare cases when adolescents gaze into the mouth of a revolver and emulate Hamlet, or squat sniper style above the playground and muse over the possibility of blasting the entire cadre of middle school assholes into the afterlife, the reality is much more mundane.

For example

The average American twelve years old can go apoplectic over having to choose between what pair of blue jeans to wear on the first day of school. Unless you are fortunate enough to be one of those elusive popular kids, chances are you did not get the memo on what brand of denim the popular kids will be wearing on the first day of school. And then, if you get the brand correct, what about the cut and color? Is it boot-cut dark or tapered acid washed? Even if you get that right, you're faced with an even more serious dilemna: Will I be considered cool if I wear these jeans, or will I be nothing more than a sychophant? Am I really cool enough to wear these jeans? Do I deserve to suggest that I shop at the same stores as the middle school aristocracy?

The answer is usually no.

Such questions are not worthy of lengthy debate. Clearly we're all adults here, and these concerns look trivial and petty, as well they should. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to assume these choices feel any less than crucial to the average twelve year old.

(Our collective developmental landscape is marked by the gradual shift into caring about something a little more than what brand of jeans we wear. This is "coming of age," and though we may have shifted our focus onto issues of greater import, we've never really left the seventh grade behind. I mean, can you honestly say you don't care what you look like? Didn't think so.)

I started the seventh grade in 1988, and thus it is my misfortune to report that I was susceptible to every grotesquerie of the late eighties aesthetic that rolled off the runway into my local mall. This penchant for being hip and in with the mainstream went deeper than attire and hairstyles and impacted musical taste and my early conception of politics (I was a Bush supporter in the 1988 election, because my friends were. Fortunately, I was too young to vote). I am loathe to report such perversions of self-respect won me few points with the middle school hierarchy, and my inability to maintain my former elementary school social status went unmediated by any attempts to correct the situation by imitiation and self-effacement.

I'd like to think that my seventh grade pariah status was decided early on by some secret joint committee meeting of the popular kids, during which time I was deemed just too rebellious, too smart, too anti-authoritarian to hold rank in their elite corps. I can imagine Erwin's living room, popcorn and sleeping bags strewn, a stack of John Hughes Rental Videos beside the television. Her mother comes downstairs to take last minute requests for hot chocolate and cookies, and seeing her daughter's slumber party guests happy, contented, and fading fast to the closing credits on "Pretty In Pink," she bids them all a "Goodnight" and goes upstairs.

The house silences and as soon as the parental element is settled all snug in their bed, the girls push the sleeping bags aside, take their seats at the shiny dining room table, and brew coffee in preparation for the arrival of the Male Coalition.

They arrive at quarter after three, led by spokesman, Chris, and carrying overflowing brown legal boxes. "After considerable effort," he says," we were able to appropriate the necessary materials."

Erwin takes her seat at the end of the table. "I would like to call this meeting to order."

The committee sits.

"Ladies and gentleman, we are hear tonight to consider the case of one Alison Fields, onetime committee member and Arts Subcommittee chair, who has moved to renew her status as "popular kid," at Hill Street Middle School. Chris, co-chair, and head of the male coalition, has been kind enough to put together these case statements for our consideration. Thank you, Chris."

What would follow would be a careful study of all my breaches of protocol over the sixth grade year, especially, but not limited to:

· My increased tendency toward underachievement, which would damage the Elite Corps' status as beautiful and smart.

· My increasingly awkward appearance--including bad hair (permed), bad skin, inability to reach any close proximity of puberty (no breasts), and recently added twenty or thirty pounds to my already chubby physique.

· My complete lack of athletic prowess (and ignorance of skiing)

· My waning self-confidence

· My poor fashion choices

And

· My close association with school weirdos.

Charts would be shown illustrating the downward slope of my GPA. A copy of

my recently read list would cite highly subversive source material. Perhaps even a video clip shot from a covert camera revealing one of my impromptu dance recitals, spells of talking to myself, and/or physical clumsiness. Two pots of coffee and several hours later, votes would be cast and my sorry ass would be unanimously voted out of the club

As the early morning light blue tints the windows outside the house, the crowd disperses, after inventing a secret handshake and swearing an oath to never reveal to me the nature of the proceedings. And that would be that.

The following Monday I arrived at Middle School only to be greeted by my pretty, ex-friend Katie: "Um, so you know how I invited you to my birthday party? Well, that's not going to work out."

Two weeks later, as I hid out in the girls bathroom stall, having received a laundry list of all my bad qualities crumpled on my lunch tray--"You're fat. You're Ugly. You're boring," I am forced to reconsider my status.

Excommunicated.

I'd like to say, hindsight being 20/20 and all, that this moment of realization was a real turning point in my life. That I was able to wipe the tears away, and stalk out of the bathroom with a new, improved fuck-all, tough girl attitude. That I reemerged days later flush with anti-authoritarian fervor, a working knowledge of Marxist politics, improved taste in fashion and music, or if nothing else, a smart ass comeback or two.

This was not the case.

In fact, the next few years would be an extended exercise in self-flagellation. I was twelve years old. I had no self-respect. The only thing I knew to do was make myself as obsequious as possible to the social forces that be and hope they rewarded me for my shit eating.

It's predictable as hell, but if you want to get to the bottom of why I am the way I am, you have to understand that the predominating emotion of my adolescence was pissed off. And in order to understand why I was pissed off, you have to consider the seventh grade.

The irony is: I didn't even realize how pissed off I was until sometime later.

But that's a whole other story.