My Story Read Free Page A

done it. I hadn’t. But the old Indian-fighter wouldn’t believe me, and I was sent back to the orphanage in disgrace.
    Most of my troubles were of this minor sort. In a way they were not troubles at all because I was used to them. When I look back on those days I remember, in fact, that they were full of all sorts of fun and excitement. I played games in the sun and ran races. I also had daydreams, not only about my father’s photograph but about many other things.
    I daydreamed chiefly about beauty. I dreamed of myself becoming so beautiful that people would turn to look at me when I passed. And I dreamed of colors—scarlet,gold, green, white. I dreamed of myself walking proudly in beautiful clothes and being admired by everyone and overhearing words of praise. I made up the praises and repeated them aloud as if someone else were saying them.
    Daydreaming made my work easier. When I was waiting on the table in one of the poverty stricken, unhappy homes where I lived, I would daydream I was a waitress in an elegant hotel, dressed in a white waitress uniform, and everybody who entered the grand dining room where I was serving would stop to look at me and openly admire me.
    I never daydreamed about love, even after I fell in love the first time. This was when I was around eight. I fell in love with a boy named George who was a year older. We used to hide in the grass together until he got frightened and jumped up and ran away.
    What we did in the grass never frightened me. I knew it was wrong, or I wouldn’t have hidden, but I didn’t know
what
was wrong. At night I lay awake and tried to figure out what sex was and what love was. I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but there was no one to ask. Besides I knew that people only told lies to children—lies about everything from soup to Santa Claus.
    Then one day I found out about sex without asking any questions. I was almost nine, and I lived with a family that rented a room to a man named Kimmel. He was a stern looking man, and everybody respected him and called him Mr. Kimmel.
    I was passing his room when his door opened and he said quietly, “Please come in here, Norma.”
    I thought he wanted me to run an errand.
    â€œWhere do you want me to go, Mr. Kimmel?” I asked.
    â€œNo place,” he said and closed the door behind me. He smiled at me and turned the key in the lock.
    â€œNow you can’t get out,” he said, as if we were playing a game.
    I stood staring at him. I was frightened, but I didn’t dare yell. I knew if I yelled I would be sent back to the orphanage in disgrace again. Mr. Kimmel knew this, too.
    When he put his arms around me I kicked and fought as hard as I could, but I didn’t make any sound. He was stronger than I was and wouldn’t let me go. He kept whispering to me to be a good girl.
    When he unlocked the door and let me out, I ran to tell my “aunt” what Mr. Kimmel had done.
    â€œI want to tell you something,” I stammered, “about Mr. Kimmel. He—he—”
    My aunt interrupted.
    â€œDon’t you dare say anything against Mr. Kimmel,” she said angrily. “Mr. Kimmel’s a fine man. He’s my star boarder!”
    Mr. Kimmel came out of his room and stood in the doorway, smiling.
    â€œShame on you!” my “aunt” glared at me, “complaining about people!”
    â€œThis is different,” I began, “this is something I have to tell. Mr. Kimmel—”
    I started stammering again and couldn’t finish. Mr. Kimmel came up to me and handed me a nickel.
    â€œGo buy yourself some ice cream,” he said.
    I threw the nickel in Mr. Kimmel’s face and ran out.
    I cried in bed that night and wanted to die. I thought, “If there’s nobody ever on my side that I can talk to I’ll start screaming.” But I didn’t scream.
    A week later the family including Mr. Kimmel went to a religious revival