My Almond Eyed Teacher

The first daughter of my grandmother was born with almond-shaped eyes, a weak heart, and persistent congestion.  As Yvonne was their first child, and as medical advances were not what they are today, my grandparents didn't know that something was not right, not normal, for quite some time.  In fact, Yvonne was well into her second year before the doctors broke the heart-breaking news to my grandparents:  she was mongoloid, "retarded," and, for the sake of the young family and the additional children they were sure to have, they should consider institutionalizing her.  

My grandmother refused.  As a result, Yvonne lived in a home filled (eventually) with six brothers and sisters, love, work, energy, and chaos.  She never attended school; instead she stayed at home and took care of her baby dolls, her magazine collection, and her room.

To her brothers and sisters, Yvonne, Bonnie as they called her, was both the oldest and the youngest child.  Although she was theoretically the oldest, her siblings were fiercely protective of their almond-eyed little sister.  They shielded her from everything harmful: teasing, danger, fear, difficulties--in essence, the outside world.  My mother claims that the Johnson kids evaluated the worth of a person based solely on the way they treated Yvonne. She also claims she knew my dad was "the one" because he immediately bonded with her big, little sister.  In fact, Yvonne fell in love with him first, which was revealed when her almond-shaped eyes lit up each time he came to their home.

My first recollection of Yvonne doesn't involve her physical presence.  Instead, my older cousin, John, and I were playing in grandma's back yard and he told me about her.  He whispered she was a "blue baby" and when I didn't seem shocked, he added that she drank Draino.  My 4-year old mind didn't know how to process and connect these pieces of information.  I envisioned a smaller version of her playing under the kitchen sink, drinking Draino, choking, and turning blue.  I even imagined her foaming at the mouth.  I knew by his tone and secretive glances that he probably shouldn't be telling me, but it didn't dawn on me that he was explaining the reason for her problems.  In truth, I hadn't yet recognized that she was different. Because she loved to play dolls with me and functioned well at my level, I just thought of her as my friend--someone like me.

But that conversation planted a seed and I began to study her.  I began to catalog her differences: she was the biggest person in the primary class, outsiders struggled

understanding her speech, she did not run and play with my cousins and me when we played outside, no-one bossed her around, and my grandpa was gentle with her in a way that he was not with the rest of us.  His love for us was demonstrated brusquely and unexpectedly, but she was never the recipient of gruff whisker burns, a heavy swat on the behind, or a quick jerk of her legs just when she had sprawled out for a nap or an hour in front of the television.

When I was five, we moved in next door to grandma and I subsequently developed a need to protect Yvonne too.  After kindergarten one day, I invited a friend over to play. Yvonne walked from grandma's house to ours for a surprise visit.  Although it wasn't more than 100 yards, her weak heart struggled from the exertion.  When she arrived, she was panting, her face was purple, and her typically slurred speech was more jumbled than usual. My friend looked at her, backed into a corner, began to cry, and said she wanted to go home.  I don't know if I felt shame or anger, but I too wanted her to go home. From then on, I carefully selected friends--friends that had already met my special aunt, friends that didn't notice that she wasn't a large five-year old child.

She died when I was 8 years old.  I heard my parents talking in the middle of the night and I knew something was wrong. I eavesdropped for a few minutes and heard her name, so I got up and questioned them.  When they told me, I cried.  It is my first memory of tears.

She died before I could really understand how different she was.  She died before I knew that it was not normal to have giant children as friends.  She died before I could categorize her as "other."  But she did live long enough to retard my own development of the fear of difference.  She was for me, I now believe, an almond-eyed, weak-hearted, unexpected, and most valued teacher.

Written February 15, 2015