Home is where the Army sends you, Part III

It's been a long time since I wrote the last installment ... I've been too tied up with politics and the election that the next chapter of my childhood story got pushed to the back burner. When we last left off, I was living in Panama ...

After three years in the jungle, my family found out its next place of residence: the booming metropolis of Washington, D.C. — quite a contrast to our quiet quarters and the poor country just beyond the base's gates.

We lived about 20 minutes outside our nation's capital in Springfield, Virginia, renting a townhouse in a pretty neighborhood that was mostly made up of large homes. It amazed my brother and me because it had three floors (the third was actually a finished basement, but to two kids who had just come from a cramped, one-floor ranch, it was mansion-esque). My bedroom had a window seat that overlooked our back patio and the woods just beyond it (occasionally, our golden retriever, Blazer, would sneak up there, and I'd know because I would find his hair all over the pillow). I was in heaven.

For our first Christmas, it snowed — and for it to snow much in northern Virginia is pretty amazing. Still in our pajamas after opening presents, my brother and I dashed outside to let that white miracle fall upon us ... in the humid jungle, remember, we were riding our bikes on Christmas morning.

Now, before I go any further, let me preface that at this point in my life (seventh-and eighth-grade), I was bordering on dorkiness. You'll see why in a moment. I think this mostly has to do with that awkward transition from elementary school to middle school — and having to do it completely alone ... well, at least not with close friends I had known all my life. Anyway, don't judge — I'm being brave enough to reveal all of this.

After we moved, for some reason, I became very into Victorian decor: flowery wallpaper and bedspreads, anything pink, roses (I dislike them now) and hat boxes where I could store all of my pen pal letters. And I wanted it all in my bedroom. My mom made it happen, and my grandfather even made me a shelf with pegs from which we hung old-fashioned baby dresses. I also was into piano music, which made for the perfect backdrop to my imaginative world. I even wanted to change my name to Victoria Rose (stop laughing).

During this phase, my mom passed down some nightgowns of hers — they were actually more like long, sleeveless cotton dresses. I wore them all throughout the summer. One day, I stepped outside in one to greet my mom and grandparents who had just pulled up (they visited a few times during our two-year stay) and immediately regretted it. They (minus my grandma) had a field day, laughing until their stomachs hurt. If my grandpa was around today, I'd still be unable to live that moment down ... me and all of my Victorian greatness.

I was petrified on my first day of school ... I had really short hair, a mouthful of colorful braces (you'll notice I haven't posted any pictures of this – for good reason) and an insecurity I hadn't experienced before. The girl I left in Panama was cheerful, confident and pretty hyper. Where she went is still a mystery to me today.

My middle school, Washington Irving, was named like others in Fairfax County: after poets or writers of distinction. It had a famous rock from the '60s that today must have at least a thousand coats of paint on it. In its lifetime, New Year's welcomes have covered Christmas wishes, which have covered awareness symbols and class competitions. Yellow ribbons during wartime have topped peace signs from the early '70s. And goodbyes were sweetly spelled out at the end of another school year.

For those first few months, I mostly hung out with the girls I met on the bus ride to school. One of them, Erica, lived at the end of my street — her family had an enormous sheepdog on whose hair seemed to cling any meal her mother ever cooked — and the other, a red-headed, Kurt Cobain-adoring, grunge devotee named Nicole, in a neighborhood up the road.

On days when my mom picked out clothes that I didn't want to wear — one in particular was a bright orange blouse that bore the phrase, 'My name is Panama,' which kids in my new town would find not cool — I would sneak over to Erica's and change in the bathroom. My scheme worked for a while, until her annoying younger brother caught me pulling clothes out of my backpack and squealed to my brother, who then tattled to mom. I think I was grounded for a year (ok, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit).

At Erica's house, I also became addicted to Nintendo and Sony (I loved playing Sonic). We never had video game systems, so when I went over there, it's all I wanted to do. She quickly became bored with that.

The friends I made throughout both years were few, but the relationships were meaningful. I played the clarinet in seventh-grade — a mistake, because you could hear my squeaking during the winter concert — and left it behind in eighth-grade to join choir. My Vans-wearing friends and I got to go to Hershey Park — the air does smell like chocolate — to sing and perform with glittery top hats. I took a keyboarding class, looked forward to studying history and dreaded gym. We had a locker room to change into uniforms, which meant we were going to be doing a lot of moving. On days that we had to run the mile, our gym teacher would wear his silly bear head hat. Rumors would spread throughout the day if someone early in the morning saw it — I hated running those four laps. I had my first boyfriend in eighth grade — the funniest thing is Ben and I never really talked. We passed notes, but he was so incredibly shy that he clammed up whenever he stopped by my locker. Needless to say, that relationship didn't last too long. A kid named Jared moved to the neighborhood the summer before eighth-grade and we added him to our little gang. I think I had a brief crush on him, but he also had a smelly pet — a ferret that I could never warm up to. During those warm nights, we'd all grab our flashlights — including my little brother and his friends — to play hide and seek or capture the flag in the dark. The woods always made for a great hideout place.

In eighth-grade, one of my teachers assigned us to shadow a professional for the day. Now by this time, I was enamored with Washington, D.C. My dad worked down at the Pentagon and we'd done all the big tours: the Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson, the Washington and the Capitol (do you know it has a little metro in its basement?), as well as the popular museums, including the National Museum of American History. My favorite section was dedicated to the White House (I wanted to live there) and the First Ladies. All of their inaugural ball dresses were on display. I'd go into a trance staring up through those glass cases, imagining what it would be like to spin around on such an historic floor.

Anyway, when I got the assignment, I knew exactly where I wanted to "work:" the White House. There was a number in the phone book (how about that!), so one afternoon, my mom called and asked if I could shadow the secretary to the president (at the time, it was Bill). I wasn't quite that lucky, but they did allow me to work with the woman who handled all of the mail the president received from children. Her office in the Executive Office Building was filled from floor to ceiling with letters. I don't know if I really had a specific task that day. Instead, she took me on a tour of the White House — I thought it was going to be the one that employees got, but instead I just cut in front of visitors in line. I wasn't terribly excited because we'd already done that, and at Christmastime. She did take me through the kitchen to get to the line, though ... ooooh. During my lunch break, I found a spot outside on the stairs that looked over the west wing of the White House. There were all kinds of media out that day, as well as the military color guard, and then I saw why: a limo pulled up and out stepped the president of Zimbabwe. On the other end of his handshake was the president himself. He looked much taller than on TV.

The woman I was shadowing later took me on a tour of the EOB and tried to introduce me to Al Gore, but he was tied up in a meeting (That's fine; he probably would have just taken credit for something during our conversation). Then, she was going to get Hilary to stop by. When she couldn't do that, they sent the next best thing: the stupid cat, Socks (nothing against cats here, people!). I tried to show excitement, reaching out to hold him. Then I realized that this cat might not be so dumb: in every way I tried to cradle him, he somehow wedged his claws into me ... my shoulder, my arm, my hair. When I got home, I declared to my parents, "He must have known I'm a Republican!"

I think it was the experience of being so close to D.C. and the White House that day that fueled a dream that I have long let go of: becoming the president's speech writer. I told my parents about it years ago and they still try to hold me to it today. Whenever I listened to W. talk or Clinton before him, I would always think, "I totally could have written that speech." One night, I caught a special on TV about the actual speech writer ... his small, windowless office is somewhere down in the basement of the White House. During the interview, he snuck out to Starbucks for a short time, and then returned to the dungeon — not quite as exciting as I imagined. I always pictured him as Michael J. Fox's character from "The American President."

We lived in the D.C. area once before I was in middle school, but I was too young to remember. That time, we were stationed on the military base, Ft. Belvoir. Then, after I graduated high school, my parents and brother were sent back and my dad worked in the Pentagon once again — until he retired in October 2001. I've gone back a few times since (during summers in between college breaks and for a wedding) and I've determined that it is my absolute favorite place to be — at least in this country. There is so much to do, see, be a part of ... the bustling city itself, Old Town Alexandria, preppy Georgetown, historic Williamsburg, and, of course, Pentagon City mall :)

Maybe I'll end up back there one day, after all. For good.