Hello, my name is shithead
humor, non-fiction, short story
Published on:
February 28, 10:32pmWord Count:
1526Last Edited:
February 28, 10:43pmWork Description
This is a piece of creative non-fiction that I did in my sophomore year of college for a creative non-fiction workshop class.
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When I was three, I told people my name was “Goddamnittori.” Obviously, I knew “Goddamnittori” wasn’t really my name. I spent too much time with various family members writing out V-I-C-T-O-R-I-A and T-O-R-I on pieces of construction paper with giant crayons, to not know my real, birth given name. I also think I knew better than to say my name was “Goddamnittori” to people I didn’t know, but I did anyway because I liked when my mom would blush and tell me quietly in my ear “Children should be seen and not heard, sweetheart.”
For a while, they were two separate words; “Goddamnit Tori.” I don’t think it was her taking the Lord’s name in vain so much as her praying in those times, for strength to not kill me. Both of my parents were teachers, and after dealing with students all day, the last thing either of them needed, was a daughter who didn’t listen. As time passed and I became more and more of a problem child, the two words morphed into one drawn-out “Goddamnittori”. As the years went on and I became a high school student, “Goddamnittori” was replaced by “shithead” and that has been my name ever since.
My earliest recollection of
“Goddamnittori,” was when I decided it would be a good idea to put
my sister in a plastic comforter bag. (I didn’t know it at
the time, but about twenty-five reports of child deaths are made a
year due to plastic bags.) These comforter bags have zippers,
are see-through and depending on the size of a bed, can be quite
spacious. The perfect size for a small child and the perfect
size for my sister, Calin. Lucky for me, my sister had a
double bed, so the comforter bag was plenty big. I don’t
believe it took much convincing on my part. She was always
willing to do what I said, which got her into a couple of awkward
situations, and got me spanked or grounded a lot. I remember
the ease in which she sat in the clear, comforter bag, clapping her
hands and blowing her mouth on the side like a balloon. She
was giggling the whole time, probably because of the lack of
oxygen, but I was too young to know that kind of thing.
I left her in there while I went to get my mom to show her.
My mom was on the phone, so I kept talking about a bag and Calin,
to no one in general. I mean, I was only four. About
three minutes passed and then she put two and two together.
“You did what?!?”
“I put Calin in her bed bag. She really
likes it Mommy, come
see.
“Goddamnittori!” she yelled this as she
dropped the phone and ran up the stairs to our room. I
watched the phone hang from the cord on the wall.
“My mom’s going to look at my sister in a
bag. She’ll call you back,” I said to whoever was on the
phone, hung up, then bounded up the stairs.
Calin was still laughing as I watched my mom
pull her out of the clear bag. “See Mommy, she liked it.” As I look
back on it now, I see her movements slower and her eyes drooping,
but I’m sure that’s only my imagination.
When I was eight, I enjoyed picking on my sister. Not for any
reason in particular, but because I was older and bigger and I
could. I would pull her hair; I’d push her over. I was
pretty much an eight-year-old bitch. My mom was fed up with
my sister crying and me saying I didn’t do anything, so she grabbed
one of her cooking spoons and smacked it against her hand.
She had always used it as a threat of what could be, but up until
that point she only used her hand. I had become accustomed to
her hand, so it didn’t hurt anymore. My sister had wised up
and started putting magazines in her pants. I have no idea
how my mom didn’t notice the difference. Maybe she did, and
all my years of speculation were true, my sister really is her
favorite. That’s not the point. The point was my mom
was going to use her favorite Pampered Chef wooden spoon to spank
me on my ass. I thought it was kind of gross that she was
going
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This piece was brilliantly done. I loved it to pieces so much that I had to stop and retell the story to my bf and his roommate and it made them laugh. I am pretty sure I'm glad you didn't kill your sister. That would have been a downer. Any-ways.
Your descriptions of the events were wonderful. I could actually see what you were talking about in my head, without any vagueness about the scenery/events.
At first, I didn't like the ending, because it seemed a little too cutsie and such, but then I realized what that type of ending reminded me of.
And so I ask this question: Have you ever tried storytelling? It may sound archaic, but it exists, in coffee shops, libraries, conventions, etc. And it is an amazing art form. Your story is written so well, like a discussion with an audience, that I bet if you went to a storytelling event and performed it, your story would be the one to stay in people's heads when they left.
You have gift for taking your own experiences and conveying them to others. I hope to read more of your works!
I didn't get to read this but the title caught my eye!
You know what's funny is that my mother named my little sister Victoria JUST so she could call her 'Tori' for short. Why, oh, why she didn't just name her 'Tori,' I'll never know. She's now four years old, and while her vocabulary isn't as developed as it should be, Mom says 'Goddamnittori!' all the time, and what I'm worried about is that with all the swear words that are said around her (most of which she repeats) will suddenly blurt out of her little annoying mouth everytime we visit my mother's very, very religious father. This is an absolutely brilliant story, and when she's older (like 13 or so), if this story is by some chance still here, I'm going to read it to her. In fact, I might just read it to my mother tonight, hahaha.
There were a few grammer errors, but nothing serious. I just like to nitpick. *smiles sheepishly*
This was kind of an adult version of the Ramona books by Beverly Cleary. Maybe theres a need for an ongoing series such as your story as well. Your story has great content and visuals. It's honestly funny. As a parent I found myself shaking my head and laughing at the same time. Thanks for sharing these exploits with us all.
As in one other critique written of this story, I was appreciative of how you managed to do what you managed to do with it without any schlockiness. It's hard to write things like this and get appreciated for it if it doesn't sound like Hallmark Hall of Fame. Why do people forget that? And why do they not appreciate that this time in life can be pure hell without any lurid things being done to the kid? I expect writing this was, stylistically a lot harder than it looked.
As someone who was once a child, and a mischevious one at that, i enjoyed reading this story. I loved the part about putting magazines in your pants to ease the pain of the spaking, as that was i trick i also tried. Instead, it resulted in extra spakings, but still, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I think childhood exploits are something that far too often, writers ignore and almost refuse to write about, and i think that this is a mistake. What better point of view is there to write from than from that of a child, experiencing new things and learning new things every day?
I loved the critique who compared this to a Beverly Cleary story, because even before i read that critique, that was my immediate thought. I also really enjoy how the terms "Goddamnittori" and "shithead," typically negative, become positve terms of endearment, almost pet names that signify the special bond between a mother and daughter.
I definately gave you five stars! That was a great story. The title grabbed my attention and made me want to click it. You seem like you were quite the brat. It just makes for good stories to write about.
The part with the bleach on the pants, reminded me of something similar that happened to me. I was actually doing laundry though and accidentally spilled a drop of bleach on my favorite pairs of pants I was wearing, on the thigh. Then the next week I wore them, despite the fact that there was a white spot on the front. I bent over & heard the denim rip. Good thing I didn't spill bleach on the seatbecause I was at school when it happened. Well that's what your bleach part reminded me of. Just thought that I would share.
It's refreshing to read a story about childhood memories that isn't sodden with sentiment, so needless to say I really enjoyed this. The title enough was enough to reel me in, and the tight prose kept me interested. I think anyone with siblings is going to enjoy this read thanks in no small part to the wry humour you've infused it with. I'm looking forward to reading a lot more for you in future so keep up the good work and thanks for the light, funny read. the part with the wooden spoon had me giggling having recalled a similar incident.