Snow Globe Memories of Malls, Hairbands and a Scarlet 'S'

When pain is frozen in time, old memories feel fresh, raw and impossible to rebury. Stories need to come out. And pain deserves a proper burial.

The snow season makes me want to hibernate. Even freshly fallen snow feels too white and bright for me. And then it lingers—sometimes for weeks—looking dingy, crusty, and pollutant gray. When the snow finally melts as the temperature rises, the dampness in the air brings on a shivery cold that’s hard to shake off.

Snow’s combined harshness of cold, heavy, and wet feels as it is—miserable. Did I always feel this way? Probably not. But layers of bad snow memories keep piling up, never melting away. Memories feel snowed in and trapped, which may feel safer than treading through treachery to let them out. Snow makes me feel bad. And it reminds me of times I’ve felt it before.

I’ll never forget the many times I was stuck outside in the snow as a latchkey kid without a key. And I’ll never forget the stingy feel underneath my frozen, stuck-on generic Jordache jeans when I fell through ice in an alleyway ditch while walking home alone from school at age six. Snow is sneakily slippery and deceptively dangerous.

As I grew older, to put it simply, snow started feeling like death. My dad’s brought on by a heart attack just after shoveling the season’s first-fallen snow. His dad’s after a long cancer battle. And my brother’s November funeral—because here in Wisconsin, snow starts before the leaves are finished falling. 

Snow, ominous snow

Snow reminds me of my own deaths too. If cats have nine lives, people must have even more.  Most people I know feel like they’ve died and come back to life many times. I know I have.  

Like early in my second pregnancy when I was violently ill, unable to keep anything down for days. The swirly falling snowflakes framed by the windshield tormented me on the drive to the emergency room, and the sight still makes me feel sickly. 

Or like when I was sixteen and dragged across the frozen front lawn, barely dressed and with bare feet. I felt the prickly grass blades underneath the snow as they resisted the white, weighty wetness and as I resisted fruitlessly. I was taken out of my house in handcuffs, and taken to a psychiatric hospital where I ended up having nothing left to take.

That’s the story I planned to write about. But I didn’t feel ready quite yet. I needed to dig a little deeper into when the snowstorm began. This story includes a discussion of when I was sexually assaulted in high school. So please proceed with caution.

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If you need help, you’re not alone. Needing help is normal. I know I did. Talk to a trusted family member or friend. Discuss options with your healthcare provider. Or call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)—rainn.org.

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Snow globe possibilities

I’ve always loved snow globes. Flip them over, then back up and watch the floaty, slow-motion magic. Just like in life, a shake-up can sometimes lead to something magical. And the summer before high school, that’s exactly what I was expecting as I envisioned my soon-to-be life.

Fourteen and full of Catholic girl school energy, I was done with parochialism and ready to go public. And the fact that I’d be going to a new school where I knew no one seemed even better. For sure I’d find some group or identity or passion where I totally belonged.

Freed from the red plaid uniform, I needed a makeover. So a few weeks before school started, I took the Pace Bus with my birthday and summer baby-sitting money to find some high school-worthy clothes at Woodfield Mall—a place of oversized possibility.

Woodfield felt accessible and aspirational. After all, its name was derived from the founders of both Sears and Marshall Fields. From low-end to high-end, there was something to buy and something to dream for. 

By fourteen, I’d grown to like shopping alone. It felt easier. I had enough voices in my head. Any extra input only added confusion. Besides, I knew the fashion look I wanted—anything from A Different World.

I knew clothes couldn’t completely cover up my slightly weird, out-of-place awkwardness—that was part of the fixed scene in my snow globe. But 1988 fashion had a random asymmetry that made me hopeful I’d find something to help me find that perfect place between fitting in and standing out. All I needed was something with something extra: extra buttons, rips, pleats, or streaks of color.

This 8th grade graduation party home movie has my awkwardness on full display.

Woodfield Mall—”We have it all”

I started at Ups ‘N Downs, my junior high fave. After buying a loudly-colored cardigan worth two babysitting-day earnings, I was ready to move on from the tiny store under the stairs. I hit Madigan Juniors, 5-7-9, Express, Lerner’s, and what would become my high school fave, Contempo Casuals. I bought a pair of Z Cavaricci's, a flannel pleated skirt, a cheaper-version Guess denim skirt and studded jacket, pink acid-washed jeans with ankle zipper bows and jumper overalls. And for on-the-rag blah days, a comfy oversized sweatshirt I could wear over boxers, bike shorts or leggings. 

I ran out of money for accessories but had Caboodles of Claire's stuff at home. But there was one back-to-school accessory I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing: a backpack. Carrying a stack of books looked much cooler. And my purse was big enough for other essentials: a bottle of Rave and a Clicker cordless butane hair curler—it was still big hair in 1988, and defying gravity required midday pick-me-ups.

With thirty minutes before the next bus, I had enough time and money left for one last indulgence: a jumbo Mrs. Fields cookie, white chocolate macadamia nut, fresh out of the oven. I didn’t think twice about its caloric density.  But I hadn’t realized yet that I’d be starting high school already having my freshman fifteen to lose.  

On my way to the bus stop—through the brick tunnel and past the aquarium and waterfall—I found a place to sit on the brick platform beside the center court fountain. I dropped all my bags except the crinkly one with my cookie. 

With the sweet richness of the cookie filling my mouth, similar thoughts filled my mind as I stared at the glistening water with lucky pennies shining through. I scrounged around for a few of my own at the bottom of my purse. Then I sprinkled them in—making a wish and saying a prayer—and was on my way. With luck, faith and the right clothes, for sure I’d end up on the upside. 

Finding my people

I started high school already in a group, kind of. Summer was filled with cheerleading practices and overnight camp. And the squad was filled with girls from different junior highs and ready-made friend groups. Trying to break into those social circles seemed complicated. 

It’s fascinating how friendships form. Why do we feel a gravitational pull towards some people and not others?  How come some people get you, can read your face, and arrive at a similar conclusion, while others have no idea where you’re coming from and going? But they find their own friends who share their own sense and sensibilities. Of course, sensibilities aren’t entirely fixed. And that’s probably why it’s impossible to know what'll happen when life gets shaken up—sensibilities change too. 

It wasn’t just my school life about to change. A frenetic energy feeling of an upcoming storm was brewing at home as my stepdad's drinking was spinning out of control. Like a lightning strike, a switch suddenly flipped in me. Homework? Cheerleading practice? Getting to class on time—or at all? None of it seemed to matter.

If I’d be damned if I do and damned if I don’t—I’d choose to be damned and don’t. And I wanted to be around people who felt the same. 

Pretty soon, I found my place within a group of burnouts. They defied warnings from the Surgeon General, Tipper Gore and the red, suspender-wearing high school Dean. They took risks to feel seen and took cover by not giving a f*ck. And they had problems at home too—often far greater than mine.

I could feel normal and I could feel special. What could be better?

I traded my George Michael, Exposé and Tiffany tapes for Mötley Crüe, Cinderella and Skid Row. And I convinced my mom I needed new clothes as I dieted down to a smaller size—body-conforming was the one rule that even burnout chicks didn’t dare rebel against. Zipper skirts, fringe jackets, buckle boots. Leopard dresses, spandex, leather and lace. 

After school, I’d sit crisscross on the beige, Berber carpeting, a foot away from the family room floor-set RCA, watchfully waiting to hit play and record on the VHS above the moment I saw the start of a hairband MTV video I hadn’t yet captured. 

Over and over, I’d watch each glam-metal music video, copying the nameless eye-candy extras. It felt like a new version of pretend play, not that different from when I’d acted out soap scenes a few years earlier in front of my bedroom mirrored hutch, holding a pretzel-stick cigarette.

I can walk this way. Yeah Brett, I’ll talk dirty to you. Sure Sammy, I can finish what I’ve started. I’ll show you love like you’ve never seen Kip—if seventeen’s old enough for you, maybe almost fifteen is too.

I didn’t realize that if I acted like I knew what I was doing, many people would think I did. And soon they’d start expecting something.  

Schoolgirl power

In 1989, girls my age were jokingly called “jail bait.” Age of consent laws were a joke. And terms like “sexual assault” or rape were rarely used because victims were almost always blamed. And looking back now, it’s disturbing how normal it seemed then. You were blamed for whatever went on in a guy’s pants and made to feel guilty whether you said yes, said no—and even when he decided for you. Perpetrators were never held accountable. And oftentimes, they were even admired.

I grew up watching happy-ending fictional love stories that started with a guy pushing himself on the girl. And I watched countless grown men sing versions of “C’mon girl, you’re hurting me.” The message to young girls was: It’s not his fault he can’t control himself. Show him some sympathy.

“These girls hit me where it hurts,” I’d hear Brett sing in Poison’s hit song, “I Want Action,” on my bus ride to school.

Schoolgirl bodies were symbols of power, but holding power was dangerous.

You might be harassed: “I won’t give up, until they give in,” Brett warned.

Or you might not even have a say: “If I can’t have her, I’ll take her and make her.” 

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A year ago, I wrote about ‘90s rape culture. Even when “date rape” began being talked about, it still wasn’t considered real rape.

“The truth is, going anywhere alone with a guy had always been considered consent for anything that followed, and a reason for you to deserve any rumors that spread. The culture that blamed people who were raped, while protecting certain “would-if-he-could” kind of guys, was EVERYWHERE then. So many stayed quiet – so others could be protected. Pain became frozen in time.“

Behind closed doors, I heard family and friends talk about their sexual assault and harassment experiences. It was a fact of life, like a right of passage. Something bad that happens. You move on and try not to think about it. And that’s exactly what I did. 

But in my 40s, snippets of memory started resurfacing at random moments. They felt fresh and raw and impossible to rebury. Eventually, I realized I needed to put all the snippets together. What happened to the young girl inside me was wrong and she deserved to have her experience acknowledged. She didn't deserve that. No one deserves that. Period.

Sharing her story is my way of giving the pain a proper burial.

Highway to hell

Just after my fifteenth birthday, I canceled Friday night plans with my boyfriend after I found out he was trash-talking about me. I felt like my world had ended in an instant and couldn’t imagine feeling any worse, but I soon found out there’s always a worse. A last-minute decision to meet my friends at a house party took me to hell and back.

Early in the night, I felt so cool fitting in with the out-of-high school hairband crowd. I never imagined having my cup constantly refilled as anything other than hospitality. And I really believed that when my friends never showed and I needed a ride home, I’d actually be taken there.

As the party died down, someone walked me to the back of the house to a big, empty room still filled with people and a not-yet-empty keg. While AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” was blaring, I was connected to a ride. Instead of taking me home, he took me back to his basement. I was too tired and too drunk to do anything but go. And too naive to imagine anything bad would happen.

There’s a split second when you realize you’re in danger. And in that moment, as you feel your resistance being outmatched and see your options disappearing, you give in, giving yourself more reason to blame yourself. Soon, I went far into my headspace to escape. I could see it happening, but it felt like it was someone else’s body, not mine. And I did the same thing as it happened again and again.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of tiny footsteps coming down the linoleum basement stairs. Lying next to him on a ratty couch, I looked over and saw a little girl still in her jammies. I was afraid to yell out during the night, fearing who else might be upstairs. I never imagined a little girl was asleep above. 

Quickly switching into babysitter mode, I told her to go find a book while I discreetly dressed. She returned with a bouncy four-year-old’s energy, flipped on Barney, and climbed into my lap holding an ABC book. “I suppose I should drive you home,” the guy said as he came to. Feeling weird in the normalness of the interaction, “Sure,” I answered, because I didn’t know what else to say.

As we made our way up the stairs, the smell of a typical Saturday morning —bacon, orange juice, and toast—wafted into the stairwell. And to his dad and stepmom, the sight of their son coming up the stairs with a strange girl seemed like their normal Saturday morning. As they looked me over with sideways glares, I tried to impress them with my sophisticated conversational skills, to stand tall as they looked down on me.  

I owe you for last night

“This is our latest demo,” he said as he revved the engine after pushing his band’s cassette recording into the car’s tape player. But filling the air with his music wasn’t enough. He filled me in on every detail of how he kept his long locks looking so good. Working at a hair salon helped, he said, running through the list of his favorite products.

Halfway home, it started to feel like maybe a date. “Well, maybe it was,” I began to wonder then—which is so sad and painful to write. “Maybe I’ll give him my actual phone number. Maybe I’ll let him drop me off in front of my real house. Maybe a guy so full of himself might make me feel like enough.”

While I was pondering the possibilities, he stopped to get gas. After paying, he tossed me something as he hopped back in the car. “I owe you for last night,” he said, locking eyes with me for a moment. I felt the slippery cellophane as I looked down and saw the golden letters. A pack of Marlboro Lights? I died again at that moment, saying nothing out loud. Saying “you idiot”—to myself. And feeling so confused.

I couldn’t make any sense of that whole interaction then. But now I can see it for what it was. Not only were abusive men never held accountable in a “yeah she was asking for it” culture, they got to feel completely justified. And for something as small as a few bucks, they could even feel like “nice guys” who deserved to be thanked. 

My scarlet letter ‘S’

A few days later, I was relieved to see only one pink line after peeing on my stolen pregnancy test, having no clue about the two-week wait. Thankfully, pregnancy never happened. But something else did. Word soon spread that I was a girl who puts out—for anyone and anything. Give her ride a home; she’ll pay you back. And that branding gave me a scarlet letter ‘S.’ 

I knew it was a done deal. There’d be no mind-changing. No convincing, or defending or explaining that’d make a difference. I knew slut-shaming. It was everywhere, including in my own family.

It wasn’t about what you did or what you didn’t. It wasn’t about the clothes or music. It was about the only context that mattered: whether your existence was in any way challenging a male with any relative power. Did you make him uncomfortable? In that soupy mix of false pretenses, I grew angry and defiant. I’d seen women in my family carry misplaced shame.

“You can’t slut-shame me if I’m not ashamed,” I told myself, wanting to stand up for my mom and my grandma and countless other girls and women. I was ready for a fight. I wouldn’t backdown. And I was determined to not let them win. “If I have to wear a scarlet letter ‘S’—fine. I’ll wear it like a f*cking badge of honor.”

And I did, until I died one too many times.  

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I’ll finish this story in my next essay post. I’m turning fifty this year and my goal is to get stories like this out of me. I can’t hold them anymore. And if one person reads my story and feels less alone, that means the world to me. 

Interviews coming soon

Soon I’ll be posting an interview with pharmacy advocate and author Dr. Bled Tanoe. She shares insight about creating change, having difficult conversations, managing boundaries, and more. I’m SO honored to share her wise and inspiring voice with you.

Next month, I’m planning an interview with Dr. Aimee Eyvazzadeh—AKA the Egg Whisperer. She’s a Bay area reproductive endocrinologist and fertility awareness advocate. Can’t wait to talk peri with her!

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