Leggy Blonde: A Memoir Read Online Free PDF Page A

it on crutches with an exposed stump.

• CHAPTER TWO •
Flamingo in Manhattan
    I went to Ethical Culture, a small private elementary school at 33 Central Park West. I had to wear a sock over my stump and use crutches. I hated it. I didn’t want my friends and classmates to gawk at my leg all day. I felt conspicuous and uncomfortable. I just wanted to be one of them, not the freak everyone stared at. The teachers and administrators at Ethical Culture—chiefly, Allan Shedlin, the headmaster—really lived up to the school’s name. They handled the situation brilliantly, and any success on my part I owe to the school’s community and administration.
    In those prehandicap law days, there were no wheelchair-accessible ramps or lifts. The only way into the building was a set of doors at the top of a hundred steps. Scaling those steps on crutches was like climbing Mount Everest. Mom insisted on carrying me at first. I couldn’t stand that. But she couldn’t stand not to do it. It was too painful for her to watch.
    My teacher that year, Mr. G, had shaggy hair and round John Lennon glasses, a real urban hippy. Most of the teachers had a similar look. It was a progressive Manhattan school, after all. But Mr. G was a standout. He made the rest of the Kumbaya crew look like Gerald Ford. On the first day of the year, he had all the students in my class sit cross-legged on the floor.
    “Let’s go around the circle and tell a story about our summer,” said Mr. G. “Aviva, why don’t you start? Will you tell everyone what happened to you?”
    Five seconds into the day, Mr. G dove in—foot first. It was exactly the right thing to do. By putting my stump front and center, the curiosity and questions would be dealt with immediately. I was on the spot, but relieved to get it out in the open. My parents had been in charge of telling the story to doctors and nurses, their friends, and my friends’ parents all summer long. This was the first time I’d been responsible for telling the story.
    “I was sleeping over a friend’s house. We went into a barn and my foot got caught in a machine. I got an infection and had a bunch of surgeries. And now I’m missing part of my foot,” I said. I was missing the entire foot above the ankle. But I thought it’d be easier for my friends to take the news if they thought I was closer to whole. “I have my leg all the way down to here,” I added, touching the end of my stump. “It’s all okay. I’m okay.”
    Intuitively, I knew it was my job to make everyone else feel comfortable. To do that, I had to act like I was completely at ease, like the amputation was no biggie. That was the only way I’d ever be treated like a normal kid.
    Mr. G said, “Thank you, Aviva. Who’s next?”
    And then another kid took his turn to share. The spotlight moved away from me for the first time in months. I had been dreading thefirst day back, but now that I was sitting in that circle on the floor like every other child in my class, the relief I felt was indescribable.
    There was an elevator in the building, the old-fashioned kind with a gate door inside that had to be pulled open and closed manually. The operator was an older black woman and she made it her mission to keep track of my movements. Whenever she saw me, she’d snatch me out of line, bring me to the elevator, and transport me to the cafeteria or art class. She was acting out of kindness. But by singling me out, she foiled my plan. Every time I rode the elevator, everyone was reminded about my foot. I just wanted to take the stairs like the other kids, to keep my place in line. I blamed the crutches as much as the operator’s kindness. How could I blend in if I was hobbling around with those damn clunky poles?
    My best friend was Joanna. She also lived on Central Park West. Compared to mine, her house was totally traditional. My mom spoke with a German accent, and wouldn’t leave the house without perfect clothes, makeup, nails, and hair. My