Ricky Galloway gave me Gonorrhea

As you can probably tell by now, my history with boys is filled with so many ridiculously humiliating moments that it is hard to believe that I ended up with a completely normal, wonderful, loving husband. I think back to the beginning, the first boy that I found “ever-so-dreamy”, his name was Floyd Smith, and I loved him. I met him in kindergarten; he had brown hair and hazel eyes and could run very fast. He was perfect! You can imagine my glee when I found out that he was in my first grade class, as well. I was completely over-the-moon when he sat next to me in Reading Circle. Finally I gathered my courage, leaned over, and whispered “My sister thinks you’re cute” (do not ask me why I said this; my sister was only four years old. Oddly though this is not the last time I use this particular pick-up technique and it backfires every time) Anywho… I whispered, “My sister thinks you’re cute” and he said “too bad she’s black”. I honestly do not remember my initial reaction but he went on to say, “My Mom says your Mom is going to Hell for marrying your Dad” (my mom is white) and so naturally I said “My Mom says your Mom is a drunk.”

Now let’s fast forward to the fifth grade. By this time my romantic attentions had turned to Rolf Quam, yet another beautiful brown haired – hazel eyed boy. However, Rolf Quam had a biracial baby sister and therefore I was sure that he would love me. I just knew that he would look past the sinful acts of my parents, my early-onset acne, the muffin-top fat spilling from children’s plus-sized Jordache jeans, and one rainy day during an indoor-recess game of Heads-up/ Seven-up and notice my black-girl roller set version of the Farrah Fawcett haircut and love me. I think I was almost there…. really getting to him, when Ricky Galloway entered the picture. Dark and brooding (but still a white boy) Ricky Galloway seemed dangerous to me, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak. I mean his dad drove an old pick up and he wore baseball-sleeved tee shirts like Jackie Earl Haley from Bad News Bears who was quite obviously a product of a bad home life. (In reality Ricky lived ½ a block from me in nice subdivision and could very possibly have had a golden retriever named Butch). But I saw him as a bad boy and melted when he marched up to me on the bus home from school one day and said, “I know you like art. So I drew this for you.” I just sat there. Ricky had barely ever talked to me and here he was drawing this picture for me. As I opened the poorly folded piece of spiral notebook paper with the raggedy edges, I was touched, overwhelmed with the care and detail he had put into the “ship” yeah I pretty sure it was a boat of some kind. It was kind of hard to tell because art apparently was not Ricky’s forte. But it looked like ship, long and lumpy and covered in something, barnacles maybe, candle wax perhaps, and he drew it just for me. Not Lanie Honeyman, the prettiest girl in the fifth grade, or Stevie Reno, his adorable next door neighbor who was in my class but was only ½ my weight, he drew it for me. He even signed his name which assured me that he wasn’t trying to be my “secret boyfriend” he didn’t care if people knew. I showed some people my bus the picture and they just giggled (obviously jealous). I smiled all of the way home and went straight to my room and thumb tacked the picture to the wall bedside my bed.

Later my Dad came in and saw the picture. He suspiciously asked, “Did you draw that?” I sheepishly told him that a boy from class had drawn it for me (careful not to mention his name – I didn’t want my Dad teasing me about my new boyfriend). “Did he write that on the drawing?” he continued. “Yeah”, I smiled, “I think it is the name of the boat”. “So,” he asked “A boy… drew and titled that…. And gave it to you?” “Yep”, I was beaming now. My father was obviously impressed that his chubby little caterpillar had finally become a butterfly! “Take that shit down and give it to me,” he ordered and ripped it up. “And don’t take to that boy anymore”! I was sad but not surprised; it is always hard for a Dad when his baby grows up. But I will always remember when Ricky Galloway drew me a vessel and named it Gonorrhea.