Shannon
Shannon lived just around the corner from my family in a cozy middle class neighborhood in Wisconsin. She was a few years younger than me; and when you are a child, those few years are a vast chasm; so I never knew her very well. In fact, I don’t think I ever even knew her last name. Despite that, the memory of Shannon is deeply imbedded in my recollections from childhood.
Shannon stood out in the neighborhood because of how different she was from the rest of us. She was unkempt and messy, and so dirty that her white skin could be considered brown. Her clothes were as filthy as she was; her hair incredibly straggly and at least once filled with lice; her clothes more than one size too small. I didn’t like it when Shannon came around. To be truthful, I was a little scared by her filth. She lived around the block just three houses from mine. I was scared to go past her house. It was intimidating to go past this dirty house and messy yard. I was also a little scared her parents might be outside. They were rough-looking characters in my timid opinion as a little girl. Most of all, I was scared that Shannon would be standing there wanting to play with me.
Shannon’s parents, although mostly unknown to us children, were quite infamous in the neighborhood. When they wanted Shannon to come home at the end of the day, they would stand on their back step and yell at the top of their lungs, “SHAN-NON!” We all knew that soon Shannon would be making her trek home for the evening and it would be safe to play in the front yard without being bothered by her. We also knew that if she didn’t get home post haste, we would be able to hear her mother yell at her quite strongly when she did arrive.
Shannon would often knock on the doors of people in the neighborhood looking for some child with whom to play. How I resented my mother when she would make me go in the yard and talk to or play with Shannon. Couldn’t Mother see how “icky” Shannon was? Why would she make me do this? Then one day something happened that brought both shock and revelation to me. I was probably around 9 or 10 years old when I came up from playing in the basement to find my mother standing at the back door, handing Shannon a graham cracker with frosting on it! You need to know this frosting was the thin, glazy kind that my mother would make simply by adding a little milk to some powdered sugar. Certainly no treat I would covet as an adult, but as a little kid that was a big deal in our house. What on earth was she doing? Why would she be giving Shannon a treat and not me, her very own daughter? I was furious inside. After Shannon went away, I asked my mom if I could have a graham cracker with frosting and why had she given Shannon a treat and not me? My mom paused and had a conversation with me about Shannon that I have never forgotten.
