Living Eulogy: Tracey

By V.V. On June 15, 2007 · 1 Comment

Tracey lived down the block from me when I was a young girl. She was loud and crass and intriguing. I spent grades 1-3 repressed and shy in Catholic school and had yet to encounter someone like Tracey.

I’ll always remember our first encounter. My family had moved to a quiet court in the less-affluent side of the suburb that spawned Debbie Gibson and Amy Fisher. I explored the grid of its sunny blocks on my Powder Pink Rider, my dirt bike, in a Kids R Us dress– a purchase that included a replica fitted for a Cabbage Path Kid. Tracey approached me from her side of Eglon on her ten-speed snidely asking “Who are you?” My JCPenny-permed head sensed danger and fled. Who was she? Why was she so mean to me? Her forwardness and hostility was alien to me.

4th grade, Mrs. Rodriguez’s class, my first year in public school. Tracey rang my doorbell in the morning and asked if we could walk to school together. It baffled me. Didn’t this girl hate me? I accepted her invitation to walk the couple of blocks together. I don’t remember our conversation. It probably consisted of my answering yes or no to her questions. I was so shy. Her dress had rhinestones. She didn’t cross the street at the corner (gasp!).

Despite our many differnces, we became friends. We had to… she lived 4 houses away. My parents disliked her because they thought that she had somewhat corrupted me. I knew it was a necessary rebellion. I became comfortable with being adversarial and difficult at home… a tsker, sucking my teeth constantly. My parents had blamed Tracey and banished her from the house. My spacious closet be her plush recliner and, at the crank of the automatic garage door, the carpet of the stairs like a hosed Slip & Slide.

Elementary school gave way to a period of complete physical and social awkwardness and confusion: tween angst. She was there, too; her juvenile delinquent syndicate expansive and with resource. She continued to develop into a terror. Me, less so, but I often came along for the ride. Vandalism, petty larceny, mail theft. We rummaged through her parents’ coats and drawers for clanking loot like pirates. We gawked at her brothers scantily-clad Budweiser girls. Womenhood, we thought. We were so far from it.

It still doesn’t seem like it’s here.