Tour of Homes, PK Style: Rome

This post is one in a series of posts where I revisit the towns and parsonages that I once lived in as the child of a minister. The first post may be found at Tour of Homes, PK Style.

It was the advent of The Preppy Handbook and MTV. My next door neighbor and I spent hours in the basement den of the Rome parsonage watching one music video after another. My two favorites were Juice Newton’s, “Angel of the Morning,” and The Tubes, “She’s a Beauty.” I had just moved from Elberton to Rome, and would be starting middle school in the fall of 1982.

The split level house was in Maplewood Square, the only subdivision my family and I would live in. Woodpeckers often dined on the brown siding of the upper level where the three bedrooms were. The main floor, like most split levels, featured a tiny kitchen and dining room. I thought the house was quite wonderful. I’d never lived in a home with stairs and for some reason I associated stairs with a level of fancy that we’d never experienced. It was in Rome where I began to understand the complexities of class, and how it plays out in life. My first lesson started with a kind father who visited the parsonage to provide pest control services. He introduced himself to me and told me about his daughter, who would also be in seventh grade at East Rome Jr High. I thanked him and memorized her name so I could introduce myself. 

Author, Seventh grade

After lunch one day I walked up to her. Before I could even say my name, she looked at me with angry squinted eyes. The only words I recall are I bet you think you’re better than me, and it became evident that she had an immediate, visceral dislike for me. I was taken aback. It was years later that I realized she was embarrassed by her father’s job, and she assumed I thought less of her for it. I walked away, mute, not knowing how to handle such a situation at 13 years old.

Class and rivalry were also on display in the makeup of our  Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) group. In the early 80s, Rome City Schools had not yet been formed. Instead, public school East Rome Gladiators and West Rome Chieftains were the majority of the youth group, with a sprinkling of private school kids from Darlington. The Gladiators and Chieftains disliked one another in the feverish way that sports rivals detest one another. The Darlington kids seemed to breathe a different air. They were the first to have trendy jewelry (gold add-a-beads) and expensive clothes. Putting us in a room together was contentious from the get-go, and small cliques were the norm. Even so, there were moments of peace and fun throughout the year, such as a trip to Cumberland Island where I was astounded to emerge from the woods onto a bright, pristine beach.

But like the daughter of the pest control employee, I, too, had resentment boiling under my docile surface. Moving from rural Elberton, where the average salary was $12,000 less than the average salary in Rome, I experienced culture shock. I did not have a Cabbage Patch doll, and children younger than me would often carry theirs down the aisle to communion as I enviously looked on. My parents did not spend extra dollars on trendy Izod polos, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans with the swan on the rear, or gold Pappagallo buckles that came with interchangeable belts to color coordinate an outfit. Peer pressure and materialism clouded my view, leading me to think that my worth was based on fashion, not character. I began to turn my nose up at the large bags of hand-me-downs from family friends that had once given me joy.

The other discrepancy was in housing. Because Rome FUMC was so large, it had both a Senior Pastor and an Associate Pastor. My father was the latter, and our house on Maplewood Square was not as large or as finely furnished as that of the Senior Pastor. As I continued to mature in the church, the pecking order and favoritism became quite obvious. Many pastors who served large, metropolitan churches seemed to get a pass because they weren’t moving as often as we were. These pastors also made more money. In order to get those appointments, or to even stay in the church one was serving, a pastor had to engage in quite a bit of political play. Satisfying the conference big wigs went a long way to receiving desirable appointments. Keeping a prominent family in a church happy also worked to a pastor’s advantage. Piss off the congregant who paid for the new sound system or donated a playground? Start packing. It did not matter who was in the “right;” it only mattered who had the power. I was in my formative years witnessing this behavior. Both then and now, I am appalled by the sycophantic behaviors of others, especially in the church. It seemed to me that the overall mission of loving God and caring for others was put aside for one’s own political and financial gain, and I could not stomach it.

But in Rome I was just beginning to understand all of this. It was the dawn of Reaganomics, and the majority of my free time after school and on weekends was spent at Riverbend Mall. When we weren’t in the arcade spending quarters on Centipede or PacMan, we were in line for a drink at Orange Julius. I made friends at school by joining the marching band. I had no clue how to play a clarinet, but the band director, who often turned scarlet-red while conducting a room full of hormone-laden kids, took pity on me. An older student and I were placed in the equipment room, where she patiently taught me how to handle a reed, clean my instrument, and move from the lower notes to the higher ones. She did such a good job that I was second chair by the end of the year. Strangely enough, East Rome Jr High also had a steel drum band that many of us played in. The large drums were painted to resemble Coke cans,and I played double tenor drums. Our most notable venue was Sea World, where we played roughly a month before I moved to yet another town.

Note in Yearbook

From the outside, it probably looked as if I fit in. I attended sleepovers. I went roller skating, to the movies, attended school dances, and swam in the pools of various friends and neighbors. But the two short years we were there felt like ten long ones. I was 13, horrified at the hairs popping up on my body. I read, Are You There God? It’s Margaret, countless times. I wished, like Margaret, that my period would finally arrive, until it did.

It was at church where I met my first mean girl. She, too, had moved into the area before me. I had wrongly assumed that she would be an immediate ally because of this shared experience, but that was not the case. Maybe I was too eager to make friends. Maybe I was naive. Maybe I was just a normal 13 year-old. But this girl, a year younger, managed to sweet talk me into sharing personal details (such as who I had a crush on or the details of my changing body). She would then share my secrets far and wide, laughing at my humiliation. One image stamped in my psyche is from the end of my eighth grade year. We were on the bus and she was sitting next to my best friend, whispering in her ear while looking my way. At some point my bestie turned to me and gave me the most hateful look ever, having believed whatever mistruth had been fed into her ear. I harbored a great dislike for this girl until I realized it wasn’t me who had the issue. It was her. Whatever makes a child a bully is often something painful, and I was the target for her hurt or anger. However, I learned then that I needed to be more discerning on who I trusted, and it has taken years of practice.

While friendship and fitting in was hard, there were fun times, such as the Friday nights spent in the basement of a classmate’s home. His parents didn’t seem to mind that 15-20 seventh and eighth graders were gathered in the dark, listening to music, stealing kisses on a regular basis. It was a rush to go to those parties and slow dance. First love came and went to the tune of “Best That You Can Do,” from the film, Arthur. 

The highlight of those two years was the MYF ski trip. At first, I did not want to go. I was and still am afraid of anything fast (snow skis, water skis, race cars) and have an awful fear of heights. Why would I want to go sliding down a snowy hill in Gatlinburg, TN? When an adult church leader pulled me into his office and asked me if I planned on attending, I shook my head and whispered no. It took a lot for me to say that to this adult. He was my parents’ age. I was nervous, and I did not understand why he was interested in my weekend plans. He proceeded to ask 13-year-old me if the reason I was not going was because my parents could not afford to send me. I had no idea of the details of my parents’ finances. I knew I didn’t have over-priced trendy clothes, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t pay for the trip. After all, why did they even have to pay? My dad worked there! I stood there, tongue-tied and sweaty. With great pomposity, the adult said, I’ll take care of the cost so that you can go. 

I don’t know if I ever told my parents about this conversation, or why I caved and went. Maybe it was because I was a child being coerced by an adult. Maybe I felt I had to, since this adult had put out the money, and I was one to follow rules. Most likely, the gesture was really about him, to make himself feel generous or to persuade my parents to feel indebted. 

Our youth minister drove a van full of us to Gatlinburg. I’d never been in the mountains and was fascinated by the glistening stream that ran alongside the curvy road. All that staring out the window could not distract me from my queasy stomach, though, and I became car sick very quickly. There was nowhere to pull over. The majority of my lunch became a projectile that flew  into the shoes of the mean girl, who promptly yelled in disgust. To this day, that memory affords me a laugh — payback for her meanness. 

To my surprise, I found myself a natural at ice skating. After basic ski lessons and a scary ride on the lift and descending the bunny slope, I decided I was done skiing and spent my time in the outdoor rink. For hours I skated round and round, listening to piped-in Top 40 hits. I taught myself to swirl around in circles without falling. That night, the youth all gathered in sleeping bags on the floor of the condo, watching the horror film, The Beast Within. My inability to sleep was not due to the film, though. It was due to the fact that I had crawled into the sleeping bag of my blue-eyed boyfriend, and even though he fell asleep quite promptly, he did so holding my hand. 

***

I returned to Rome for my personal tour of homes in mid-March. I had just had a speaking engagement at the Cartersville Area Writers’ conference (loved it and met many wonderful folks), and instead of driving immediately back home, I took the short drive from Catersville to Rome, circling Maplewood Square. The parsonage’s former brown wood siding is now a cheerful yellow, pairing nicely with the blonde brick. I drove slowly through the subdivision twice, letting each home bring forth memories: piano lessons at one, the pool at another. The two-story where I would walk by and see contraband cigarette smoke coming from the bedroom window of a high schooler.  

Rome FUMC

Downtown, I parked and walked around the church, taking photos. The church takes up an entire block and the architecture is lovely. I did not attempt to enter; I did not want to talk to anyone. However, I was surprised to recognize the name of the pastor. After googling her, I confirmed it was the same person that was a childhood friend of mine at Hood Avenue Elementary when we lived in Inman. The world tends to shrink as we grow older, and this was one of those moments where it was quite evident. Later this spring I will be in Fayetteville, so it will be the next stop on my tour of homes. Stay tuned for more.