Early Beginnings, Dedicated Despite Limited Materials
For as long as I can remember I have kept notes on myself. Today as a woman I am so grateful the little girl that I was saw this as something worth doing. Initially I wrote on whatever was available: envelopes, scrap paper, on the back of my mother’s old bingo cards. She only ever kept the ‘winners’, or ‘near winners’ for show and tell. “Look I only needed B16 to give me the sputnik to split the $1500 jackpot!” she’d exclaim.
The bingo card would get taped to our fridge with the winning or last needed number circled proudly or regrettably in fuschia pink dabber ink and left for all to marvel. Or perhaps it was a point of focus for her. A reminder of what needed to be done the next time at Delta Bingo to reach her goal? I suspect this is where I as the athlete got into the habit of placing the time I wanted to run obsessively on my own fridge during college.
My sophomore year every morning, noon and night as I would eat my staple meal of Cinnamon Toast Crunch would see “12.7x, 12.7x, 12.7x….”. My only regret is that I didn’t have a fuschia pink bingo dabber back then.
Willing to Change With the Times & Upgrade Methods Used
As I grew older I become more organized, going to the dollar store and buying my first journal to keep all my thoughts in one place. I would hide my diaries in my underwear and sock drawer, hoping no one would go there. However, I have three sisters and no one out rightly owned their own under apparel back in those days in our house.
With one of my first collections it became clear to me someone was reading my thoughts. In one entry I wrote about not liking something about myself. Of course my diary was a private forum, or so I thought, therefore I unabashedly unleashed on myself. The following day one of my sisters made reference to this personal short coming! Not making fun, but in fact praising me about it. The girl was trying to verbally and publicly inject me with insta-confidence and acceptance of this perceived flaw.
Today I think, what a beautiful thing to do for a sibling. But back then all I could think was: “That literary peeping Tom, how dare she!” I went to my mom the next day and put in a request for one of those diaries with the flimsy locks attached. It was there seven months later at Christmas. Go Santa-Mom.
A Chignon & Pocket Protector
In grade three we had to go to school dressed as what we wanted to be when we grew up. My mother dressed me as a writer, because this is what I proclaimed I wanted to be one day. Always supportive and always one to make a way, my mother dressed me as best she could to reflect what a writer must look like. Smart, professional, poised with glasses and a chignon!
Perfect.
I walked to school with a book and a pocket protector, so proud to reflect my life’s calling. However, when I got to class Mrs. Raine and all the other teachers and student’s kept calling me a secretary!
Ugh.
Shy at that time and very small of voice (boy has that changed), I didn’t say much but was heart broken. Aware of my disappointment at being judged all wrong, my teacher graciously afforded me a name tag, it read thus: “Perdita the Writer”. It was perfectly brilliant in its simplicity and had me beaming for the rest of the day!
First Paid Gig At Age 8! …Well, In Merit vs. Moolah
That school year I was picked for the Literary Guild as the only student in grade three who got to read amongst the best grade four students from all the schools in the region. My mother sent me on the bus headed to the guild sans pocket protection this time, but she rightly kept the chignon and I no longer needed that name tag.
So, as you can see writing has always been there, it was my first love and second now only to my racing. And while it is true I am far more hurdler than writer, I am hoping the old me will one day be grateful the young me saw this as something worth doing. And it sure beats hiding my notes in an undies drawer, even if I do live alone.
Welcome to my blog and I hope you visit often as I finally chronicle the many adventures sporting life affords me.
Cheers,
Perdita Felicien
