The Day of the Jackhole

The Day of the Jackhole

Celebrating 40 years on this earth

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1974. I hate dolls. (Not really, shhhh!)

November 2, 2011

Christmas, 1974. I’m a total tomboy. Disappointing for my mother, I’m sure, but she does her best with the dresses and frilly socks. But my truth is Matchbox Cars. Cops and robbers. Riding a 44-gallon drum and pretending it’s a horse. I live in isolation on a farm and I have a brother who lives for playing a game called ‘fights’ and wrestling and shooting cap guns right in my ear. What hope is there for me? Of course I’m a tomboy.

But it’s Christmas and I get a doll. I name her Samantha. She is blonde and has a white shirt, denim skirt and jacket with red trimming, and looks a little like Cindy from the Brady Bunch. Cindy, whom I adore and want very much to be. Secretly.

Much as I am a tomboy who likes making roads for cars in sandpits, I quite like this doll. I comb her hair, tell her she’s pretty and allow her to sit next to me for important things. Like watching TV or traveling in the car. Our conversations are secret and serious. But in the presence of others, I pretend that she’s just, you know, allright. She’s ok. For a doll.

I want a denim skirt with cowboy trimming, like she has. I don’t get one. I could pretend that this is a huge slight, and that it’s terrible how I never got stuff I really, really wanted. But the truth is, I always assumed I would never be allowed these things, so I just never asked. You can bet I held an irrational grudge, though. Sorry, Mum. I always really wanted a Barbie, too. But I guess you couldn’t read a selfish mind.

 


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