Childhood.

My first memory - hazy like in a dream, blurry details, feels warm, I am loved, people laughing - I am dancing in my dad's singlet. It's like a dress on me. I love it! Its soft from years of wear.
I am doing a hula dance in the middle of a group of my family and my mother's friends, sitting around making hula skirts and leis out of crepe paper; all of whom are laughing. I feel great. I'm a star! In a dress. Doing the Hula!
Suddenly I am picked up from behind as if someone has bent right over me, lifting me upside down, up and up and up and over! I am spun over to sit on my father's shoulders. I am king of all I survey. I am a beloved princess in the tower looking over her many faithfull subjects.
I am a princess! Princess Ricky of Waiheke Island!

"Good Mooorning Mrs Blaaah Blaaah!" I'm surrounded by kids and thats what we just droned out in a very sing songy way. We're sitting on the floor with our legs folded looking up at the teacher. She's not pretty but she's kind. Firm. But kind.

I'm six and running in the playground. Playing 'Chasey'. I have no idea how but the rules suddenly turn into 'if I catch you, I am going to kiss you'. What the hell!? I am running after the boys with the girls to catch and kiss them. I think its lots of fun. The boys, mostly, are all mock terror at the 'girl germs' coming after them and completely bewildered at why I am behaving like one of the girls. I have no idea its not what I am supposed to do until I kiss one of the boys and he squeals in disgust and horror. Everyone else including the girls are pointing, laughing, squealing - teasing him!? eeeeooouuuu! Yaaaaackkk! Riiiiichaaard! - teasing Me!!! Laughing, now that I think of it, with no trace of malice (that comes later).

"Are you a boy or a girl?" The little girl interrogating me looks smug and self-satisfied, well, as much as a nine year old can.
"A boy!" I say indignantly. 'Isn't it obvious, ya big dummy!' Really, its not. With my pageboy haircut that my beautiful, glamourous, famous older sister got her beautiful, glamourous, famous hairdresser to do.
My sister took me out specially to get my haircut where she gets her haircut. Mum said it cost her an arm and a leg but I have NO idea whose arm and leg were involved; she still seems to have hers.
Mum dressed me up specially so I was wearing my brown shirt with little white peacocks and my brown corduroy dungarees. I went to the Saloon and a pretty girl washed my hair and kept the water out of my eyes. She said I had 'lovely hair' and 'I was a very good boy!'
My sister in fox furs draped around her neck, looking, for all intents and purposes like a dark Stevie Nicks chatted and fussed around.I was king for a day!!! All the assistant hairdressers fussed around too. One of them pinched my cheeks. "You're such a pretty boy! Adorable!"
'I am ADORABLE!' Aren't I?
I think it's supposed to be a secret.
I am too pretty to be a boy as well. Thats what everyone says. 'He's too pretty to be a boy!' they say to Mum. She just shushes them or tells them to 'Shut-Up!' like they are lying. I can never work out if they are. Maybe I'm not pretty at all. There is a lot of shushing going on around me especially when I am near or I walk into a room. I hate the shushing. It un-nerves me.
Shushes can be deafening. My Mother shushes people a lot around me. Praise is obviously NOT allowed.
"Pretty." Shush.
"Gorgeous." Shush.
"Adorable?"
'Aren't I adorable?' At home, obviously not! Just a lot of shushing. The shushing eventually gets worse. Like a vacuum cleaner on in another room. Something at home is always left unsaid. Some dreaded fear that sits like an elephant in the corner of the room, not saying anything but it's presence, ominous.
My Daddy, my hero, goes from picking me up and putting me on his shoulders with pride to barely saying hello to me when he comes in.
I watch the TV.
I love the TV.
I am going to have square eyes like the TV.
I sit too close.
At least the TV doesn't shush.
It doesn't focus on me.
I focus on it.
It doesn't whisper about me. It says what it needs to say. It's never about me.

My Daddy says nothing when comes in. He's been drinking down the pub.
I'm in bed. I've been crying. Wanted my Daddy. To read me the story.
My Mummy's crying talking to my Daddy, crying as she talks about 'the poorkid.'
My Daddy comes in to my room to kiss me good night. He kisses my forehead and I pretend I'm asleep. He smells of beer.
He rubs his hand over my head gently.
"Nite, nigh, Swee -dreams." He slurs.
He's trying to tip toe out but trips over a toy.
"Fucking, Jesus!" He yelps falling out the door.
"Shush!" he says to himself, then giggles.
Mummy says something, then, 'bloody idiot.'
I hear nothing else as they go into the sitting room.
Nothing more to say.
Shushes gone now.
Nigh nigh, swee-dreams.

At school things are being said. I get a lot of 'Boy or Girl' questions.
The teasing starts in earnest after that.
It reaches its crescendo, when I am about eight and I tell my best friend that I think I'm in love with a beautiful ten year old boy.
He's the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.
I think I'm in love.
I get butterflies whenever he is near.
I think he's beautiful.
I think he's beautiful, until I am dragged by my best friend(I hate her!) and another boy (I hate him) drag me away from my play time to face the boy I love.
They are screaming.
It sounds like screaming.
I can't hear straight.
"Richard luurves Blah!Blah!"
I'm screaming, fear, desperation surging through me. Desperate to get away, embarrassed, crying I finally break free and run into the empty classroom. Empty except for Miss Bitch. All she says to me is, "Richard, you are not supposed to be in here!"
Miss Bitch is plain too, but not fair.
I struggle through my tears and hyperventilating to explain what happened. She doesn't care. Rules are rules. Children are not allowed in the Classroom's at Playtime when its not raining! Desperate I slowly make my way to the cloakroom. I look out the slit of a window.
"Out now!" Its Miss Bitch yelling from the Classroom.
I look again. No ones there. Obviously my torturers have found some other prey.
My eyes are still red.
Other kindhearted children ask if I am ok.
A teacher comes along and asks briskly "Whats up? Why've you been crying?"
I'm too embarrassed to say.
I determine never to tell anyone ever again who I love or even who I like.
Never.
I like no one.
Never again.
I shut up!
My 'best' friend says, "It was just a joke." She and the other boy are laughing as if I am being silly.
Silly billy.
Something though is broken, not to be fixed for a long, long time.
It's a little bit dead.
I'm a little bit dead....and she's NOT my best friend any more.
I never forget.
Never.
And when one day years and years later, she tells me of her broken heart.
She's pregnant.
She's my friend - I don't hold a grudge, I'm concerned.
Whats she going to do?
Has she told her Mum yet?
Her Dad?
She's my friend and she's upset.
She's my friend, but I am a little bit..... glad.
Forgive and forget.
I don't hold a grudge.
But.
I am.
A.
Little.
Bit.
GLAD!
Theres an eight year old whooping it up quietly somewhere in the back of my...head?
Ha haaaaa!
Where is it?
HAAA! HAAAAAA!
No, its coming from down below.
From above my instinct and below my voice.
"Serves you right, meany! Serves you right for killing me! Now your heart is broken and you are pregnant! Boo! Hoo! It hurts doesn't it?"
I'm embarrassed.
I don't hold a grudge.
I'm nice.
I got a Certificate to prove it.
Awarded to 'The nicest person in the class.'
I'm a nice boy aren't I?
I am nice aren't I?
I am nice?
I AM NICE!
Bugger it.
I can't think straight? - that bloody eight year old is still screaming in the background squealing with glee!