The Making of Ada 2.0

My ankle began to cramp after the first minute of standing on tiptoes as I stared out the window of our 1970 white and brown sided trailer house at the throng of people in our front yard.

23 girls stood properly in the grass, shoulders tucked back, their heads held low in humility. Every girl out there wore a matching dress in a variety of bright colors. All had been hand-sown by their duty-bound mothers. Every girl old enough to be a mother stood nearby just as properly, though they had their own dresses that matched each other with nursing flaps sewn into the bust for the babies on their hips.

I was supposed to be out there with the other girls by now. I just couldn't quite get my nine-year-old legs to move to the door. I myself had donned a matching dress. Mine was a bright yellow striped thing that I hated.

I'd begged for a red one, (my favorite color) but my father had only frowned and given me another lecture on the color red being one of Satan's colors. I couldn't quite fathom the idea of Satan owning a color but who was I to know? I was a mere girl in the world of men who ruled our people.

We weren't allowed to wear red. Some of the kids in our community wore it. But the parents who allowed it were often sneered at by the rest of the adults for being worldly and viewed as teaching their kids to allow the devil's temptations to reign.

Having been reminded once again that red wasn't an option, I would have chosen one of the pastel pink, purple, or even the turquoise color that many of the girls wore. My mother was nothing if not a frugal woman and she had pertly informed me that most of the girls hadn't wanted yellow and thus she'd offered for me and my sisters to wear that color.

It was the first time I'd ever worn a new dress. I should be excited. Most of my dresses were 2-3 time hand-me-downs that came from my four older sisters. I tried to enjoy the feeling of wearing something new at least, even if the brilliant yellow did make my skin look gaunt and my cheekbones hollow as I caught a glimpse of the laughing men outside.

The men strolled about casually having light conversations. Bitterness poured through me as I watched the waiting women. Through the open window with the half-hanging screen that no longer kept out the flies, I'd heard my mother tell father that the meal was prepared. Most of the mothers were nursing and likely starving and I could hear an occasional cry from the small children asking for food.

Holding my breath, I waited for father to give the command for everyone to kneel in a circle for the blessing. My stomach growled as I considered sneaking a piece of cheese and bread from the fridge and slipping into the closet to read a book I'd managed to purchase under the radar of my mothers watchful eye a week before at the thrift store.

It was a fantasy novel and I loved the colorful picture on the front cover of a girl transforming frame by frame into a wolf. We weren't allowed to read such things but even at nine, I was a rebel, which father never failed to remind me.

I glanced at the yellow aged refrigerator with hope, wondering if I might be able to sneak thirty minutes of reading in before anyone outside noticed I was missing. The girls would all sit in groups on the grass and talk about proper things. I hated it. I was born with an imagination as wild as the Idaho forest itself and I had a bad habit of telling funny stories or dirty jokes that almost always got me in trouble.

"Ada, get out here, now!" my father's voice cut into my reverie. I jerked up onto my toes again and glanced out guiltily at the man standing just below, his straw hat tipped back as he studied me with a fierce scowl.

Glancing wistfully toward the spot I'd hidden the book, I sighed, "yes, Father."

As I dragged my feet through the trailer and out the door to take my place in line I did the math once again. At nine years old, I had only nine more years to go before I could claim my freedom. My father was adamant that we were not allowed to choose the world until we were eighteen.

I knelt next to my cousin as we said the blessing, then looked up at the window wistfully as I opted to sit alone under the apple tree on one of the half buried tires that lined our huge garden, and picked at my food. Us girls and the women had spent all morning preparing the Easter Feast. Later, the men would give lectures and father would lead us in hymns then read several chapters about the price Jesus had payed for us to be worthy of life.

My mind wandered as I stared up into the apple tree, eyeing the green fruit that was just beginning to grow and thinking of William Tell and the apple he'd shot of his son's head. I wanted to learn to use a bow but it wasn't allowed. Something soft brushed my arm and I turned to see three of my cousin's had sat in a small circle around me.

Lucille, the eldest smiled and asked softly, "will you tell us a story?"

I thought of the men, the trouble I would get into if I got caught, the extra chores that would take up more of my reading time. Her blue eyes sparkled with hope and I sighed, "All right, but just one. And none of you can tell the men or our parents."

A serious round of nods was approval enough for my excited heart. I began, "Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in the woods all by herself."

Wide-eyed looks passed in front of me and then Lucille asked, "Where were her parents?"

I made a face, "Her parents died when she was just nine years old but she didn't want to go live with someone else who would only pick new rules and tell her what she could and couldn't say, or what colors she could wear so she stayed in the forest to be free..." I let the words trail off as the girls glanced around nervously to see if we'd been overheard.

Having ascertained that the coast was clear, I continued. "She found wild berries and nuts and talked to the squirrels. She lived all alone in the forest for three years. Then one day a pack of wolves came to attack her and as the alpha wolf howled at the moon she suddenly became a shiny grey wolf herself."

The girls around me gasped in surprise and wonder. Then the youngest one in the group looked up at me, "Do you think there are really girls out there somewhere that are free?"

I grinned with absolute conviction. "I know there are. I know there are because as soon as I get the chance, I'll be one of them."

Lucille frowned, "That's wicked, Ada! You shouldn't say things like that."

I smiled, "Neither should I have told you a story and yet you asked me to. Secretly you want to be free just like me."

And despite the quick disapproving shake of her head I knew that just as I had, one day soon, each of them would begin to realize that the prison we were in was only as limiting as we allowed it to be.

P.S. I found a way to get out by time I was sixteen and though I've lived a troubled life, I've never been so free and happy as I am now. My imagination is still as wild as ever.