My dirty little secret

As far as I can remember (which goes back to around the 4th grade) I've loved reading. From Wayside School is Falling Down to the Sweet Valley High series, I was always at my "local" library. I say "local" because the library was actually 28 city blocks away and required a 20 minute bus ride. Many of my other friends didn't share this sentiment, as they preferred to run the streets and labled me a nerd whenever they saw me with a bulging bookbag following a library excursion. Back then, I really had no desire to be a writer. I watched a lot of MTV and was convinced that I would marry a rock star and become rock royalty. I had my sights set on one of the Gallagher brothers from Oasis...and that bassist from R.E.M...and the lead singer from Marcy Playground...yum...

But I digress.

Somewhere around the 6th grade, I made a very dramatic leap from quirky Louis Sachar books to more provocative writing, completely by accident. During the summer before I was to start the 6th grade, I spent the season in Milwaukee with my aunt, my cousin, my aunt's fiance and his two kids. Jason was the same age as me and Paris was two years older, but since she was a girl, we hung out constantly. They lived in a huge two-story brick house with FABULOUS hardwood floors, a wrap-around leather couch, large rustic dining room that no one ever ate in and the kids had the entire attic to themselves. Since they were spoiled rotten, the common area in the attic was cluttered with every toy imaginable.

One day, out of boredom, we decided to sift through some of the debris and maybe clean a little. I came across a book and thought it was a classic that had just been made into a movie recently. I opened it up and discovered that is was not the book I was hoping for. What I thought was The Secret Garden turned out to be My Secret Garden, the groundbreaking book of female fantasies written by Nancy Friday in the 1970's. I may have been young, but I knew dirty words when I saw them. And the force was strong with this book. Of course, I shared my finding with Paris, who told me the book belonged to her older, adult sister, and for the rest of the summer we'd read random passages from it and giggle like school girls. At the end of the summer, she let me keep the book, so long as I promised to return it when she came to visit at Christmas. I agreed...but unfortunately, this never materialized. Stupid me, I took the book to school and had it confiscated by a teacher who also thought it was The Secret Garden. My mother was called in, there was an embarrassing conference, it was locked away and I was forced to have "the talk" when we got home. It still makes my head hurt.

I could tell my mother wasn't really upset with me for having the book; she was more disappointed that I took it to school, since the teacher was very curious as to where I got the book. I 'fessed up to where I acquired it, but my teacher was still confused about how my mother could not know I had it in my possession. (perhaps because I had a mother who didn't snoop in my room because she trusted her straight-A student daughter...perhaps)

Following the conference, I had all but forgotten about the book until I started rummaging through my mother's room for something or another and found the tattered, worn book along with a copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin, a book which I still have in my personal possession. This was during my sophomore year of high school, so I figured "enough time has passed...she either won't notice or won't care." So I took both of the books, amazed at the frankness of the women in the Nancy Friday book, considering the time it was published. I wanted to share my fascination with this book with my close friend, Carla. So I took the book with me as I left for school one early Autumn morning. Being a goofball, and having learned nothing since the last time I was caught with the book outside of the house, I boarded the city bus with the book in my hand and not in my bookbag, where it should have been. I laid the book between my seat and the wall of the bus, so that the adults wouldn't see what I had. Unfortunately, since it was a long ride to her house (and very early in the morning), when I went to ring the bell and exit the bus...I completely forgot the book. And I didn't realize this until I reached her door.

And the thing that upset me the most about this was that the book was an original copy and despite how worn and tattered it was, that still meant a lot to me. I hope that wherever it ended up, someone appreciated it for more than just the "dirtiness" of it.

I bought another copy of the book a couple of years ago, but it's not the same as digging it up from the rubble all those years ago. I keep it in my bedside dresser drawer along with my mother's original copy of Delta of Venus. I never leave the house with it.