It’s Changing?

Sometimes that little sneaky thing called change is hard to spot.
She slithers and slides around,
Doesn’t she?     

Personally?
I hardly see it in me.
That’s why I need you.

Culturally?
As Tony Soprano would say,
“For-get-about-it.”

Yet, here’s a memory from my childhood
That might suggest that cultural change can creep forward.
~~~
It’s after school.  Phew.  That’s over.
I rush home from my school,
John James Audubon #42,
Two fast blocks away.

The familiar empty echo meets me in the house,
But it doesn’t open that usual ache in my belly.
Not now.
Mom and Dad are at the store.
Of course.
Working.
Of course.

But I’m good
Because I’m leaving…
Just passing through.

I excitedly change out of school clothes.
I put on my dungarees, my play jacket.

Expectation is in the air.

Galloping down the basement,
I pull my bike effortfully up the back stairs.
We, my bike and I,
Make our way onto the street.
Arthur Avenue.
I gain momentum, 
Slide onto the seat 
And bike up the two hilly blocks.
No cars.
Never many.

Here is Nay Aug Park.
Almost across from our house.

The band shell sits in the middle of the huge open area.
Concerts come here—that’s not what I remember.

I remember
Me.

I remember
Me
Alone
Here
On my bike.

There are pathways like spokes
Circumnavigating the band shell area.

I love riding up and down them,
Up and down,
Weaving and turning,
Weaving and twisting,
Riding and riding.
Alone with myself
Alone with my fantasy:

I am 
A 
Royal
Canadian
Mountie.

I am.

My bike 
Is a horse.

It is.

My unform,
Scarlet red jacket
Yellow stripes on my
Cool blue pants,
Hold me close.

They do.

I have a sleeping bag,
My gear,
On the back 
Of my horse.

I do.

I am off
To save 
The damsel,
The woman
In distress.

I am.

I ride and ride
The hills,
The trails
Of Canada,
My horse and I,
We are destined
To find her.

We are destined
To save her.

We are.

And I find her.
I find her.
She finds me.

And I save her.
And she saves me

And we love each other.
And I am whole.

But, oh, no.
It’s not me.
Not really.

This is wrong.
This is bad.

I am
Pretending
To be a boy.

SHHHHHHHH.

Don’t ever let anybody,
Anybody know.

~~~
The deliciousness of this fantasy, even now, six-and-a-half decades later is alive with sensation.
I loved doing this—being this—imagining this—seeing myself—as this.  And yet, the experience continues:

As I take my bike down into the cellar, as I take off my jacket, as I walk into our house,
The house still silent, mom not home yet,
I feel the veil,
The fog,
The ocean
Of shame
Slithering toward me.
Inching toward me.
Creeping up my legs,
My young sweet body
Into my belly,
Shutting down my heart,
Clamping my brain
Closed.

Never
Tell
Anybody.

They
Can’t 
Know.

I’m not supposed to be a Royal Canadian Mountie.
I’m a girl.
I’m supposed to be the damsel,
The damsel in distress.

Don’t tell anybody.
Never.
ever.
Let them know.

Never.