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“What is this self inside us, this silent observer, Severe and speechless critic, who can terrorize us And urge us on to futile activity And in the end, judge us still more severely For the errors into which his own reproaches drove us?”

—T.S. ELIOT, THE ELDER STATESMAN

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First kiss

When I was in kindergarten I had two boyfriends: Dark-haired Steve made me laugh and fair-haired Mark was kind. We were inseparable until one day Steve got mad and spat on Mark. Parents were called, recesses lost and I was startled by the whole icky mess boys made. In third grade I was labeled “boy crazy.” Something about me trying to balance my chair on two legs like the boys bothered Mrs. Roberts.

But it was sixth grade that brought first love. His name was Dennis, and all the girls loved him. He was larger than life and most of the other sixth grade boys. Popular, handsome, and confident, he wore aftershave because he actually had to shave: even if it was only a mini-stache.

I had just moved to the school the year before, so being his girlfriend was a big deal: a rite of passage for the girls in our grade. During late night phone calls, he sang Kiss songs and made me wish my name was Beth. I was the receiver of love notes and attention for the first time. I was beyond smitten.

As happy band geeks, we both played saxophone and challenged each other for first chair every week. Our band director warned me that boys wouldn’t like me if I challenged them, but I couldn’t resist testing Dennis. Even after I took first chair away from him, Dennis still wanted to be with me.

We started sitting in the back of the bus, holding hands and sharing simple, sweet kisses. Since Dennis had done this a few times before, at some point it came time for the first real kiss: the kind where his tongue would touch mine. Just as it happened, I panicked and pushed him away, causing the 8th grade girls behind us to notice and snicker.

In a flash, my mind screamed “this has happened before.” A wave of disgust and panic hit. I had been kissed like that before. I couldn’t comprehend it, but it was there. I had been kissed — like that — by my grandfather.

I fell apart in the seat on the bus. I couldn’t stop crying, and this young boy I loved didn’t know how to comfort me. The door to a memory had opened up, one I didn’t even know I had.

I was tiny, maybe five years old, and he was teaching me to play checkers. I’d sit on the floor and he’d sit in his rocking recliner with the checkerboard balanced on a footstool between us. I don’t know why he kissed me like that, but he did. I didn’t know it was wrong until the day my mom walked in the room. He had me balanced across his lap, my feet on one chair arm and my head on the other. He was rubbing my tummy, hovering over my zipper.

After that, I was never allowed to be alone with him again. He didn’t go to jail and no one ever talked to me about it. And slowly the memory faded into the back of my little-kid mind.

After Dennis kissed me that day, I tried to vanish. I went home and rinsed out my mouth with peroxide. I couldn’t brush my teeth enough, frantically trying to wash the taste away. After a night of tears, I broke up with him the next day. I think he thought he really hurt me; I never told him the truth.

I didn’t kiss another boy until I was nineteen.

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