greenchristine

Initiation

Ten was gangly white legs, in brown flared cords. It was 1977 in the Pacific Island nation known as Aotearoa, New Zealand. On weekday mornings I felt the wrath of Marilyn’s small, determined hands; brush strokes, tearing my scalp, in an effort to contain fuzzy blonde hair. Marilyn cared. Like a farmyard rooster, she broke our sleep, forced food down unwilling throats and groomed unruly bodies. Marilyn resided over the high gloss, canary yellow kitchen, with faux natural flooring and matching wooden handles. Marilyn also held court in the beige lounge room, between the olive, Sanderson drapes, cheap, European Old Masters and velvet upholstery.