We are pleased to post the winning essay in this past winter’s Writing It Real essay contest. Our guidelines said the number 12 was to be somewhere in the essay in honor of Writing It Real’s 12th Anniversary. Our guest judge Midge Raymond, co-founder of Oregon’s Ashland Creek Press, chose Gillian Herbert’s “Three of Twelve” saying, “This deftly structured coming-of-age story portrays a young girl’s confusion—and, later, a young woman’s mix of bliss and fear—as she awakens to her sexuality in an era of intolerance. Vivid details, authentic dialogue, and a strong sense of time and place unfurl in each scene, highlighting the juxtaposition of safety and fear, of acceptance and alienation. The willingness of the author to lay bare her heart, soul, and body through her most challenging moments makes this essay such a beautiful read.”

Three of Twelve from No Telling
by Gillian Herbert

1 — Brownie Bravado

Thursday evening was always exciting because I went to Brownies. Away from my schoolteacher parents, I joined my friends, all of us decked out in brown dresses, yellow neck ties, brown berets and shoes. We ran, laughed, sang and worked towards our craft and sports badges. My friend and I lived close to each other so we would meet and collect other girls on our way to the church hall where our meetings were held.

We played hard, danced in our little groups, sang loud and repeated our promise to do our best.

To love my God,
To serve the Queen and my country,
To help other people and
To keep the Brownie Guide Law.

We followed that with the Brownie Guide law,

A Brownie Guide thinks of others before herself
and does a Good Turn every day.

The Pack was led by Brown Owl, a long suffering woman who understood her role was to give us a good time, get us to let off steam and lay the foundation for us migrating into the Girl Guides. At meetings end, Brown Owl saw us off with a loud ‘hoot’ and a reminder to walk home together for safety.

Often we would cheat on our route home – cut across the common land – to get home faster. Muddy pathways zigzagged among scrawny bushes and trees with scrub grass filling in between. Crossing the common was forbidden; unlit and sparsely travelled, it was considered unsafe for us ten year olds. But we did it anyway.

This Thursday evening was no different from others as we scrambled through the bushes. Until a couple of girls started to taunt me.

“You’re such a tomboy. You’re always wearing your brother’s shirts and shorts to play.”

It was true; my mother used the clothes my brother had outgrown for my play clothes. But I didn’t mind – it meant I could climb trees and play hard and dirty without getting into trouble..

“So what?” I yelled back.

One of them swung around with a sneer on her face.

“Bet you’re not really a girl with your page boy haircut and your brother’s sandals.”
I stopped and looked down at my feet, at my brother’s shoes. I looked up and saw the girls standing in front of me expectantly.

“I am a girl, so there!” I spat out through tears.

“Prove it then” one shouted.

I stepped back, lifted my dress and dragged down my panties.

“There!” I cried out. I proved it.

Their faces paled. The air hung still for seconds. They backed away, turned and ran. I adjusted my clothing and ran after them. As we scattered to our homes they sang out their ‘Good byes’ and I heard latches clicking as gates closed.

I walked up our garden path, round to the back door and into the kitchen. Mother was cleaning the work counter and laying the table for next morning’s breakfast. I ran past her up the stairs and into my bedroom. I didn’t talk to anyone. I never told of my pain and desperation. Or of my confusion at being thought a boy.

2 — Fireworks

“Hullo” she called out.

‘Hullo” I answered. No more. I didn’t even turn my head as she entered the room filled with four single beds and a bay window seat, where I was lounging. I didn’t want to be on this vacation with my parents at this hotel that offered a special price break if older teenagers shared a room The back light drew a line around me – one leg straight out, one bent – up as I leaned back against the window frame.

The stranger abandoned her luggage at the door and slowly walked across the room to the far end of the window seat where she looked out the window. “Beautiful gardens, aren’t they?”

I nodded.

She turned to me “I’m Jean.”

I lifted my eyes “I’m Gill.”

She stood with her legs slightly apart, hands thrust in the pocket of her drainpipe trousers, bouncing slightly on her toes. She smiled. “Have you explored the place yet?”

I shook my head. She waved her arms toward the door and said, “Come on; let’s go see the rest of this place.”

Reluctantly, I unwound myself, dropped my feet to the floor and stood up. I followed her out the door and down the corridor.

We wandered through the games room, past table tennis tables, through the dining room, tables set with white clothes, through the library, out on to the tennis courts and around the pool. We chattered ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Who did you come with?’ ‘What do you do?’ ’How old are you?’ ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’. I learnt Jean came from Birmingham, was an only child and taught games and physical exercise in an elementary school. Laughingly, she told me her parents had knocked three years off her age – 16-21 was the age range for shared rooms – to save money.

I told of my older brother – who wasn’t on this trip – my school teacher parents who’d brought me here, that I was seventeen and in my last year in a hotel and restaurant training programme.

Standing with our backs to the pool, we could see terraced gardens on the hillside below. Beds of roses climbed up over arbours along the winding pathways. Ambling down, we curled up on opposite ends of a bench. Our conversation was diffident. Jean did all the work, but slowly I loosened up and began to laugh. I remember leaning back, relaxing as I enjoyed her warmth.

A clanging bell, announcing afternoon tea, broke our chat. Back in the house, we parted as we joined the throng. Later, our paths crossed as we retreated to our room to dress for dinner, but time was short and we barely spoke.

The formal evening meal was followed by a social event in the main recreation hall. There was a small group of musicians and an MC who called the dances. It started out with country square dancing – adults, teens and children all mingling – much laughter and many missteps – everyone enjoying themselves.

About nine- thirty the musicians took a refreshment break. Children disappeared to bed and more adults drifted in from the bar, drinks in hand. The noise level dropped and quiet murmured conversation swirled about.

Around ten the musicians started playing softer, quieter music for ballroom dancing. Gradually couples took to the floor. With the children gone to bed, some older, more genteel guests ventured onto the floor. Young adults all the way through to silver-haired couples glided elegantly across the room.

I danced occasionally with my father. As a child I’d learnt to dance by standing on his shoes and gliding around the living room. In my early teenage years I’d had to stand on my own feet as he’d taught me the steps to basic ballroom dances. But most of the time he swept by with my mother in his arms. They cut a dashing couple, moving well and talking quietly to each other.

Occasionally, two women would swing by dancing together and a quick glance around the room made it clear there was a shortage of male partners. This was 1961 and the loss of life in WWII had cost England thousands of young men. There was a huge gap which aged along with the passing years and now showed itself mainly in the lack of men aged 30-40.

A quiet voice drew my attention back to our table. Jean had slipped into the chair next to me.

“Gill, I saw you dancing with your father. Would you dance with me?”

We edged on to the floor and were soon drawn into the circling throng. I got used to her arms around me, her body guiding me with a gentle touch. She danced well so I relaxed and enjoyed her chatter. We danced several times that evening and I really enjoyed the ease I felt with her. My gangly teenage awkwardness seemed to drop away and I laughed freely. I was delighted and surprised at myself.

When the event broke up, I kissed my parents and promised to be down for breakfast at eight-thirty. We went our separate ways as folk began to migrate upstairs to their bedrooms. Back in my shared room I grabbed my wash kit and dashed to the bathroom. I wanted to be in my pyjamas and in bed while still alone. Although I’d slept with other girls in dorms and tents at summer camps, tonight was different. I was shy.

Maybe I dozed. A few, small noises drifted by on the edge of my consciousness but I stayed hunkered down in my warm blankets. When the light went out, I relaxed more and let my mind wander over the day, full and interesting. I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

I started up when a hand shook my shoulder. I heard, “Gill, it’s okay. It’s just me, Jean.”

I sank back on my pillow.

“Gill, I’m really cold. Can I come in with you and get warm?”

Unthinkingly, I pulled back the bedding and motioned her in. As she curled around my back her arms slid across my chest and her head rested next to mine.

“Thanks Gill, I was freezing.”

We lay spooned together, chatting quietly. My body got used to her softness and warmth. Her hands gently stroked me and she ran her fingers through my hair. It was good to be held close, to be caressed.

I squirmed out of her arms and, with much giggling as I tried not to fall off

the narrow bed, I turned over. Now we lay face to face. I stroked her face and hair as she softly kissed me. I returned the kiss as I felt her body breathing into mine. Our kisses grew deeper as our hands roamed the other. I’d never done this before. Her hands drifted over my entire body until I knew nothing other than sensation. I was on fire and Jean moved quickly and decisively to release the fireworks.

I turned my head into her shoulder and lay still, still but still vibrating. We were silent. I was safe in her arms. We drifted off to sleep.

Hours later I opened my eyes as I felt Jean shift. The sky was lightening as dawn approached. Jean spoke softly,

“I’m going back to my bed now. Go back to sleep.”

I nodded drowsily.

“And Gill, you can’t tell anyone about this. You hear me?”

I nodded again, closed my eyes and snuggled down. I was cold. I knew I had to hide. I didn’t understand why, but I knew I was no longer safe.

3 — What’s In A Word

Our local library was a tall, dark building. Huge pillars, silent and pale, stood on either side of the entry stairs. Years of scurrying feet had worn dips in the concrete steps. Clutching piles of books, most trotted straight ahead into the brightly lit general lending area. Still, very quiet, ‘whispers only’ was the rule. A librarian sat at the central carousel taking in returned books and checking dates for overdue fees. Another librarian stamped due dates in books being taken out. The date stamp made a loud, metallic clacking noise every time she banged it down on a book, three books per reader. Clackity, clackity, clack. All around were huge stacks of books, close together, with high windows at the top of the walls, solemn and purposeful.

This was the first Saturday after our return from holiday and I needed answers. I avoided the main entrance and turned right through the swinging glass doors that read ‘Reference Library’, where it was even more silent, an inner sanctum with very little movement. A librarian sat behind a small desk next to a large catalogue file that stretched down the length of the room. She looked at me questioningly; clearly she thought I was in the wrong place. I ignored her and walked back along the row of files. I needed to do this on my own.

But how? I didn’t know the right word. So I decided to start with a word I did know. I knew that men who loved other men were called homosexuals. Slowly I made my way to the ‘H’ drawers, all the time keeping a covert eye on the librarian. No, I didn’t need any help, thank you.

Eventually I had scribbled enough numbers. I gathered several books, and retreated to a desk back in a corner. I switched on the brass desk lamp and slid onto the chair. I felt very alone as I sat in the bright circle of light, surrounded by relative darkness.

Periodically, I ventured out for a few more books, until I was reading about lesbianism. Now I had the word. I was a lesbian. My fingers caressed the deep grain of the oak desk top. The wood felt warm and smooth between the sharp ridges. I played with the corners of the book pages, repeatedly riffling them.

Leaning back in my chair, I gazed through one of the high windows at the grey sky with dark, looming clouds threatening rain. I remembered Jean laughing as she beat me at table tennis, and our yelling as we swam in the freezing water in the pool. We talked and told our stories as we took long walks. Our nights were filled with warmth and tenderness, wandering hands and lips, delights so recently discovered.

Isolated in my corner, I began to understand that everything I read was bad news. I didn’t believe I was ‘deviant’ or ‘perverted’ or ‘psychologically immature’, but I did understand now why Jean had been so emphatic with her “tell no-one.” Clearly she’d known lesbianism was unacceptable, how wrong it was, and how we needed to hide.

I re-shelved all the books, making sure they were in line with the rest. Walking home I scuffed and kicked at the gravel stones on our pathway. I struggled to reconcile the joy I’d experienced with the bleakness of the damning judgements I’d read. I knew my life had changed, I just didn’t know how much.