the detritus of childhood

Last weekend I was listening to Howard Zinn's People's History and puttering around, and I thought I might clean out all the markers, scissors, crayons, and other little items in this IKEA thingy.  

It is time to begin dismantling the schoolroom.  This week I will be sorting, selling, and giving away books and educational materials, and all that stuff. But I like to tackle these projects in small chunks, and I had a little time between work shifts. This seemed doable.

Something about that particular chapter on slavery and catching sight of the knobs I don't even like reminded me of that woman in the home improvement store who sold me the knobs.  It's been more than a decade, but I remember so clearly that she was a beautiful, friendly, outgoing African American woman.

I just wanted knobs.  But there was a bewildering assortment of choices.  She asked whether the drawers would be in a public space, because, if so, I'd want something a little more fancy.  That surprised me.  I described the project, and then, perhaps because she was lonely and bored, she asked where I work. And when I told her I worked at the university, she lit up; her entire affect changed.  

She had just been to hear Anita Hill speak on campus.  

And then she poured out her story.  She had worked for a prominent organization in town, and had been sexually assaulted by the director.  She described exactly how he manipulated and threatened her.  It was horrific.  She described how empowering it was to hear Anita Hill's story, how she whipped out her checkbook and gave Ms. Hill money right there.  "It wasn't much, but I wanted her to have it."  


I had arrived at the store late, just before closing.  It was winter, dark, and there was something surreal about the entire encounter.  But also something so authentic, so extra-real about her openness, her need to tell me about her abuse, her honesty, her passion.  

I felt both privileged and inadequate.  I listened, and hoped that listening was enough.  But I wanted justice for her, and, gosh.  I had no idea how that could possibly happen, or what to say.  I'm just a mommy here, trying to sort out my kids' crap.

All these years later, that piece of "furniture" has become part of the background, crayons not figuring very prominently in our daily lives anymore.  I had forgotten about that woman. But these knobs, they have a story.  A whopper of a story.

And that is the hard thing about clearing out the detritus, isn't it?  Every item reminds me of this or that time, this or that person, who I was, who we were, during that other chapter, the chapter that is coming to a close.