Keep Them Away, Please!

I was seven or eight and we had lived in a trailer court for as long as I could remember. I had seen home videos of our old home in Oklahoma where I had room to run and play without being constantly accosted by other children who always acted the way I wasn’t supposed to. But that was a hazy dream. People always wanted my Mama—maybe they wanted to push me out. So in my way I would push back.

Mama would say to me, “You are the oldest” (that was true, I thought proudly, all the other children were younger than me); “so,” she continued, “you need to be an example to them of how they ought to act.” So I tried with all I had. When the skinny, hyper-active, copper-haired girl next door was over with her sister playing dolls, I would be nice and patient and use all my skill to keep bad words and fighting out of our play.

I was big and my sister was little, and she copied whatever I did. She would copy my attitudes, posture, work, everything! She’d copy me in how I played with the children on the outside. And if she was copying me doing something wrong, Mama said it was nearly all my fault.

The skinny, copper-haired girl’s mama was always coming in our house, except when Daddy was home in the evening (inside herself she must be scared of him, I thought, or else she wouldn’t go away). She must want my mama for herself, I decided; all the children want my mama—they asked if we would trade mamas and take mine. I don’t want their mamas! Quickly I’d push away that horrid thought. But still the fear would linger, what if they’d get her after all? I’d be all forgotten. All alone.

One day the last straw was pulled by Brandi, the mama next door. For a reason I now can’t remember, we were under her watch, Mama was around but very occupied with helping someone or something, and us children had just agreed what we were going to play—Legos. My sister and I had the most because Daddy must have loved Legos just as much as we did, and gave us little surprises every so often. Legos were important to me, as fun to play with as playing house or school. So it was our Legos we children decided to play with since we had the most. Brandi was getting impatient, a very common occurrence—all the children rattling around and she had work to do. So she took the two Lego bases, six inches by six inches, and broke each into quarters and shoved them at each child. I was horrified! Being a quiet child, I was rather mild toward others, but when she did that something inside me snapped. Those are my bases! I mutely screamed, and you—the one that wants to take my mama away—have broken them into tiny pieces that I can’t ever use again. I’m the oldest child and have handled this group before (and didn’t need your help, either, just my mom’s) and I had a plan how we all could peaceably work on two bases. I was going to make a bridge, a kind of long, wide one, and we all could build houses on top of it. I was going to make it work; they would have listened to me, they think my ideas are great because I’m bigger than they are and they like to copy me.

Mama didn’t seem to think it was any big deal when I told her at home and solemnly showed her the broken bases. She said that I was right not to yell at Brandi and make a scene, and that, no, it wasn’t right for her to break our Lego bases without asking; that I had been a good example. Basically, she was proud of me for doing what was right. That assurance stayed in my mind until I remembered the look that passed over her face when I said Brandi had broken it without asking me anything—just took it and broke it like it was hers. Did Mama think Brandi was taking over? Was she going to become my mama and I would have to do what she said? I felt sick. I’d had a plan for those Legos, and it would have worked. I didn’t feel safe anymore; that lady could just reach into whatever she wanted.

I began to resent her and her little girls. They were always with us when we picked berries or peaches or went to the park. They’d can fruit and vegetables with us; always they were with us, dividing us from Mama, making me be a good example for the unruly offspring of the impatient mama next door. Mama wouldn’t listen to me; well, she listened, but she wouldn’t do the important thing—send them away. At least Daddy could send them away; he was strong. He didn’t even push them, or say, “Go home.” His presence would make them go away.

One afternoon, it was quiet; the sunshine was coming in through our large, living room windows. I went out of the kitchen to find Mama.

The laundry room was dark compared to the light from where I had just come, but Mama was there doing something on the dryer. “What are you doing, Mama?” I asked, cozying up to her; she felt so comfortable. She was cutting fabric with her pinking sheers. One was green gingham, another yellow gingham, and the other was white. Maybe she is cutting out hearts, I thought, but she wasn’t. Just large squares. Why ordinary old squares? Were they curtains for my dollhouse? No, they were too big. “Are they for our dolls?” They could be a blanket for Jane.

“No,” Mama said, smiling, “they’re not for your dolls.”

“What are they for?” I said. Maybe it was a surprise for Abigail. “I can keep a secret,” my expectant voice rose in triumphant hope only to hear Mama’s pleasant, “You’ll see.” My sister and I followed her outside to the paper box. Inside I was hopping up and down; I had to figure out this mystery.

Mama took a clothes pin and pinned the square of cloth to the stake that held up the box for the newspaper man. The cloth draped over the stake; it looked disappointing. In fact it looked kind of forlorn there all by itself. “It’s a flag,” Mama said. “When we have a story with the children we will put up the white flag—white because Jesus can make us white inside. When we have play time together we will put up the green flag (we smiled); when it is school time or time for just us, we will hang the yellow flag.”

“But they don’t look like flags,” I said. Flags go out straight.

“It will be alright,” Mama said. I wasn’t as sure as I walked back into the house, looking over my shoulder at the yellow cloth hanging on the stake. It looked sort of tacky.

Maybe it was the next day, but I was behind Mama when she answered the door. Who wanted her now? The important question: would it take very long?

It was the children outside. “No, you can’t come over right now,” I heard Mama firmly say. She always has to say that, I thought, disgustedly. Why can’t you guys find something else to do than always hang around here? But then I heard her say, “See that flag down there? When it turns green you can come play and when it’s white we will have Bible story time. Okay?!”

I could feel their disappointment where I stood, four feet from the door, as they turned and tramped down the old stairs. But I stood still, feeling a warm glow spread through me—the flag had worked; it kept them away!

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