The Move to Gulfport
That Little Voice
“Hey boy, grab my bag,” Dad called to a large cockroach scurrying across the hotel lobby, his way of adding humor to the reality we were about to stay in a no-star establishment.
Dad was sober. I can’t speak for the oversized insect.
It was late at night in Huntsville and we had been driving for hours on our way from a small town in the west Texas panhandle to the shores of Gulfport, Mississippi, a trek of 930 miles.
It was just the two of us, neither thrilled with making this journey, but not effective in our opposition to my mother’s insistence. In our household, ‘Mother Knows Best” replaced the popular television show falsely depicting members of the male species as head of the household.
August 1959, hot, silent, unanswered questions, luggage filled with new clothes, on my way to a southern girls’ school for my senior year in high school.
Why, why, and why were the unrequited reasons tossing my life around like a raging tornado.
I knew nothing about our destination. I didn’t even have a clear understanding of the whereabouts of Mississippi. And no clue why I was being jerked away from a year I had planned to fill with limited academic endeavors, and abundant social undertakings.
And I wondered why I was being shipped across the country?
This was not an unpleasant trip, just one of confusion, fear, bottled and bubbling anger. But, too late for reprisals, we were mere hours from a year of wearing ‘stockings’ to every meal, Sunday afternoon teas, reception lines, fancy balls with men in uniforms, eating fried chicken with a knife and fork, learning how to pass saltshakers at the dining table, watching roaches play tag in my desk drawers, and enduring humidity levels higher than the temperatures.
When we spotted the Gulf of Mexico along the southern border of Mississippi, I realized I might have gone down the rabbit hole of an alternate lifestyle. Gobs of moss hung from tree limbs and electrical lines, in contrast to the flat, barren, and dry landscape of west Texas. The ocean breeze felt softer than the harsh, sandfilled winds blowing daily across the plains.
Dad lugged boxes and bags up three flights of stairs after meeting my future roommate and her parents, and learning she came to this school because being from North Carolina, she liked to sail and ride horses on the beach. This was going to be a year of adjustment. My father was considered a bit uncouth, which would be a most exaggerated understatement. He had an engaging personality and a quick sense of humor, but lacked the ability to handle personal exchanges with his three daughters, leaving that task to Mother.
When it came time for him to drive away leaving me alone, standing in the shade of ancient oak trees, Dad rolled down the car window, and gave his first-time ever fatherly advice: “Remember, Margo, rape is impossible. A girl can run faster with her dress up than a man can with his pants down.”
I watched his car disappear from the school’s parking lot while puzzling if this was a joke or if he sincerely believed he was leaving me with a bit of reassuring counsel.
As I entered my new home, I looked to my roomie’s parents, hoping they would answer my question.
“What is rape?”