Cerebral Palsy

Truth Hurts

 1964 -Truth Hurts  (West Side Story)

Going to the camp on Good Friday epitomized “Lassiez les bon temps rouler!” for me.  A  pre-Easter family reunion meant cousins running all around Grandma Keller’s camp, fresh fried catfish, a softball game in the afternoon, and Stations of the Cross led by Monsignor Jeanmard in the morning, plus the main attraction: about 200 pounds of hot boiled crawfish! The relatives all fought for good standing room when fresh batches were poured over newspaper-covered tables.

Grandma closed the picture show to celebrate with her large family on this special holiday.  I wondered why Catholic considered eating seafood on Fridays a penance. Were not shrimp, crab, and crawfish three of the best delicacies on earth?  On this Good Friday in 1964, I did not consider the rationale or rules of being a Catholic. Everyone I loved went to mass every Sunday and various holy days of obligation, accepted the necessity of confession, prayed to the Virgin Mary, gave up something they liked during Lent, and went without beef, pork, or chicken on Fridays. And thank you, Jesus, they had crawfish boils on Good Friday!

About 6:30 p.m. I was in the car with Momma, Gayle, and Kelly driving back home. Kelly was fast asleep on the backseat next to me, and Gayle sat in the front seat, as usual. Dad was driving back later with Claude Emile since the males helped clean up all the outdoor cooking mess.  

I stared out the back window and Gayle bounced a bit on the front seat.  “She’ll be coming around the mountain, when she comes,” she sang, and Momma half-heartedly joined in.  I mouthed the words as if the lyrics were a secret.  

The day had been 82% favorable.  The softball game made insecurity settle in my eight- year-old heart. When the team captains were choosing kids, I heard a third cousin tell a first cousin, “Don’t pick the crippled one.” 

I was used to being last picked at school, but some of my cousins did not know I ran fast despite my weak left side.  These kids had known me all my life, and I usually felt at ease with them. Plus, the camp was my favorite place to be. 

A few minutes earlier Gina, my closest cousin, had pulled me by my right arm over to the crowd of cousins waiting to be picked.  The tallest leader picked Gina early on since she and her eight siblings were known for their athletic skills.  

The third cousin’s comment made me hold my stupid left arm behind my back. After several minutes of tense team choosing, I stepped to the side of the other two unpicked kids: a nose-picker and a crew cut cousin who had just then decided to join the game.  Third Cousin picked the crew cut latecomer, and one of my popular first cousins chose the nose picker.

I  walked head down to third cousin’s side and hid behind the tallest cousins.  First cousin’s team was first at bat, and cousin Chickie began arranging the batters from youngest to oldest. Gina took my good hand and led me out toward third base. My team’s captain was the third baseman, and Gina walked past him and pointed to a distant pine tree, “You go play left field for us,” she said and gave me a pat on the back and a soft shoulder nudge.  

I kicked pine cones and  needles on my way to where the ball never went. I could barely make out my little sister Gayle getting ready to bat at home plate. Overhead, a woodpecker did what it does and the lonesome sound of a fiddler playing mixed with the bird’s taps in a zydeco…zydeco…zydeco way.

I walked down a city street toward a fence-enclosed playground. I wore new navy jeans and a cool red jacket. As I walked, I snapped the fingers of my left hand. My feet kept the beat of a song in the background.  My short black hair was slicked back to stay in place.  Two boys with similar hair joined me on the street and picked up the rhythm of my snaps and steps. In unison V  the Sharks and I kicked, twirled, and jumped to the band’s expectant music.  My left leg extended high at hip level and I spun like a ballet performer while my crew and I approached a basketball court. Some kids shot baskets, but the guy with the ball froze when my crew came close. The Shark on my right grabbed the ball and passed it to me. I completed a perfect pirouette and made a basket!  The Sharks continued their snapping, side kicks, and twirls towards an alley.  

“Look out!” said the guy to my left.

I saw the softball fly over two cousins’ heads and head straight towards me. I held out my ungloved right hand but closed my eyes.  The ball plopped a yard to my right. 

“Get it! Throw it!” yelled voices.  I picked it up and aimed it at jumping Gina, but it landed a few feet from where I stood as the batter headed to third base. I felt every player stare at me and I silently cursed my stupid left arm.  

Gina ran to get the ball and threw it towards home plate. I went back to my position and took a knee to pretend to tie my shoe.  

Three hours later driving home, I relived my dismal first and last time to join the Good  Friday softball game. At bat I struck out both times I was up, and another ball never came close to my outfield area.  “I will never ever in a  hundred million years play that game,” I promised myself.

“Your turn,” said Gayle. “Pick a song.”  My usual optimism brought me back to our car ride home. At least singing didn’t require two good hands, so I choose my favorite song: “You Are My Sunshine.” Gayle and Momma joined me for what I believed was a rousing rendition.

The crawfish boil had disappointed my momma in different ways than it did me. Kelly did not keep still for a second, and Momma had time for maybe five crawfish for herself after peeling several for her youngest daughter and having to help the other mothers with organizing the dessert table. Dad stood around with other crawfish boilers and laughed and talked sports. Momma could hear him entertaining his crowd of men with long jokes that included both Cajun and British accents. When Momma finally got a reprieve from two teenagers who scooped up Kelly to play in the sand box,  she had hightailed it to the fried catfish spot where Lee Esther was already cleaning out the cast iron Dutch oven. “You missed the last of it,” Aunt Fanny told her.  And the skinny widow walked off with a paper plate full of catfish.  Once home she would face a kitchen full of dirty breakfast dishes, baths for three overtired girls, and a load of laundry to fold. Her own mother’s words “It never ends” echoed in her head.

Now driving home the girls’ off-key singing added to Momma’s hunger headache.  She made a right turn onto the road that led to Eunice and sighed.  

“Ginger, you can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” she told me. She did not notice my quivering  bottom lip when I slumped back on the seat and stared out at the pine trees that lined the ditches of the highway.

Gerry and Reginald, 1982, The Calcasieu River