Today I am thinking of Theresa.
I see her with her dark straight hair, smooth dark skin, living in a land of Wonder Bread. In my mind, she is surviving with her brothers and parents, moving from place to place, always starting over. I see her catching the bus, eyes cast to the ground, hoping no one would notice her.
I can see her yet, a small teenage girl, shivering with anxiety. A dark skin among a sea of all white, Theresa was drowning.
It was strange then and even now to me.
On Friday near the end of May, our Yellow Bus had bumped down a dust and gravel road, everyday passing a weedy patch, hiding a rusted and faded single wide mobile home. With weeds almost engulfing it, this tin can of a home for years had been empty, with overhead wires feeding it power, and buckets to carry for water.
Then, on Monday there parked by the battered trailer was an equally rusty station wagon.
On this Monday, Theresa stood waiting where gravel met weeds. She ducked in quickly, and scooted over in the seat behind bus driver. She shrank down into her shell, dark straight hair shading, covering her face.
Days careened into each other, until Yellow Bus stopped to release Theresa on the last day of school. And that seemed to be it, no more stops and hiding behind her hair.
Carnival! Yearly Carnival weekend arrived for its annual weekend of wonder and excitement! Lights and games and rides--glamour and side glances at the exotic carnies!
In the middle of rides and games stood a booth for choosing "Queen of Carnival". A photo of each candidate hovered over a gallon glass jar, where one could drop some coins. The winner would be the one with the most coins, meaning not just pennies, but some silver as well.
I looked at each familiar face, lovely young women all of them. Donna? Betty? Maryanne? ...and then there was a photo of Theresa over an almost empty jar. Theresa? Is that you?
Theresa and her family walked around the Wonder Bread street. Whispers followed them--India? My dad was in India during the War... Dark skin and oiled coal black hair, deep brown eyes were proud, defying, almost angry.
The sun set on a last night when a queen would be chosen and crowned, culmination of all the lights.
In the moments before the jars were to be collected, Theresa's brothers carried bags of coins to pour into an almost empty jar sitting beneath the photo of Theresa's smiling face. Handfuls of coins rained into the jar, over and over, until overflowing.
Judges walked around and looked at each photo, at each jar. Stopping at Theresa's coin filled jar, each nodded. One took her photo and walked up steps of park's bandstand. Standing at the foot of the steps were Theresa's family, dark eyes reflecting bright lights as only a carnival could have.
When her name was announced, Theresa stood tall, a queen in Wonder Bread land, walking up steps. A crown was placed on her dark hair while Theresa cast a brilliant smile across the town. Her father stood proudly, tears down his face. His daughter. His girl was queen.
For the entire summer, whenever Theresa and her family ventured into town to shop, she always wore her crown. Every single time that homemade crown-- made of cardboard covered with heavy duty aluminum foil, caked with glitter and shiny sequins--perched upon her dark hair, now pulled back away from her glowing face.
When it was time for Yellow Bus to begin making its its daily journey, the car was gone, leaving the trailer, new weeds growing.
Queen Theresa moved somewhere, taking a glow of one night when she was crowned.
Where did she go? Does she still wear the crown?
This is a post from May 2016. Carnivals are and were big events in every small rural town. I can still smell the cotton candy, suck out the syrup from snow cones, and try to throw the ring. We raced around, chasing each other, until our parents had had enough.
Usually when pulling out a re-post, I do rewrites, correcting verbs, etc. Sometimes that means lots of re-writes. But in this post, I could not. We had just visited home and drove by this rusted yellow single wide trailer. The image of that one event is so invested in my memory with its images, sounds, odors.
Last time I drove by that dusty driveway, the trailer was gone, with only pieces of rusty twisted tin laying about.