Tough Cookie

I was pretty young when it happened... When I met the love of my life. I’ve always been a tough girl, even then. The silly boy stole my toy in the sand box at our public park in the small Southern town of Batesburg-Leesville, and he inadvertantly stole me heart. I don't know how things would've turned out for me - for us - if he hadn't.1

My Daddy had always wanted a little boy. A son to take huntin’ and muddin’, and to teach to spit. He wanted a Donald Johnson Jr. Instead he got me. But that wasn’t gonna stop him. I’m as tough as they come, with no thanks to any personality I was born with. I was brought up to be tough. It was beaten into me. When Mama, Daddy, and I sat around at the table everyday at 7 PM precisely, we didn’t ever talk about the news or world affairs, or any of that “pussy shit” as my Daddy referred to it. We didn’t talk at the table until we were all finished with our food. “Talking is a real good way to fuck up a good meal.” is what Daddy always bellowed when we had guests who wanted to make dinner conversations. But we didn’t really have guests that much anyway, ’cause Daddy didn’t really like people. But after we were all done eating, Daddy would tell us about his day at work. “God damned yuppies are takin’ over this town, I tell ya. Fuckin’ Yankees need to go back where they were brought up. They took advantage of us during the War of Northern Aggression, and they’re taking advantage of us again. Fuckin‘ go back to North Carolina where you came from. I don‘t give a flying fuck if you from below the Mason Dixon line, you ain‘t no Southerner as far as I‘m concerned.” Daddy had usually had a couple Jack Daniels by then though, so he never really made much sense. Mama and I just sat quietly while he rambled on about the Yankees. After our post-dinner conversation (if you could call it that... I don’t really think it’s a conversation unless more than one person talks) Mama would clear the table and do the dishes, because a Southern woman’s place is in the bedroom and the kitchen. Daddy didn’t treat me like a woman, though. I was a son to him. I was just missing the penis, something he seemed to overlook with ease. Daddy didn’t take any shit from me, and I rarely gave it to him. I wanted to be the best son I could for him.2

So like I said, I’ve always been one tough cookie. When the fat, curly haired, yuppie lookin’, little boy came over to me and tried to take my toy shovel away from me, I knew instantly with all of my 5 years that I hated him. He was the pussy my daddy had trained me to despise. No way was he gonna take my shovel without a fight. But goodness, it was such an easy fight. One good smack to the nose and he was down. I’d won. My Daddy would be proud. Except he wasn’t. It’s never good when your daughter beats up the boss’s son.3