angelawd:

“Mamma?” says Jenn. “Can I write song lyrics on my bedroom walls?”

“Uhhh, with what?” I ask.

“Marker.”

“Nooooo. Oh no. Nope.”

I say this so forcefully that Jenn and Joe both look surprised. After all, I’d already let her paint the room Rock star Red, and only vetoed a black ceiling because I was sure we’d never be able to cover it up. This is exactly the reason why she isn’t writing on her walls.

When I was in junior high, my family moved into a house that was simply a frame, unfinished on the inside. All the rooms were either bare drywall or wood studs. Since we’d be painting someday, my mom
let
me and
my friends cover
my walls
with graffitimy mom let me and my friends cover my walls with graffiti – about 3 years’ worth.

There were hearts all over room announcing our crushes-of-the-month and angry comments about our current frenemies. I wrote scraps of lyrics from bands like the Commodores, Pat Benatar, Abba, and Styx (“Pieces of Eight” was the first album I ever bought). I tested my nail polish colors on the walls and later made drawings in oil pastel that were REALLY hard to cover with primer. I used to produce a little graphic novel series for my friends, called “The Adventures of Regna”; and some of the characters ended up doing silly things on the walls, like acting out scenes from the movie Jaws and learning how to do gymnastics in a dress. Sadly, I’m not aware of any scrap of Regna that has survived.

When family life got really ugly, I’d hide in my door-less closet behind my clothes and write poetry in tiny letters in the corners.

My little sister was born when I was 14, soon after the bedroom was painted light blue. Bethie took my bedroom and I moved into a corner of the basement. A few years later my parents were divorcing; within two weeks I was packed and living in a new state. It was ten years before I came back to my hometown, and I convinced my boyfriend to drive up the dirt road to see my old home.

A teenage guy came out, and I told him I used to live there. I showed him the corner of the garage where Sheryl and I scratched our names in the concrete right after it was poured. It was the bicentennial year, and I had made a little star-comet flying off the ’76.

“So which one are you?”

“I’m Angie.”

“Angie? Wow, my sister had your room. We read all about you when we were remodeling.” He shook his head. “Man, you liked a lot of boys.”

JUST what you want the new boyfriend to hear.

“Jenn,” I say,”You can write your lyrics in chalk.”