Chapter 1: The Impact of Loss

After the passing of my grandfather, I found myself adrift, unsure of my identity. My closest companion had disappeared, leaving a void. As the regular academic year wrapped up, I faced the prospect of summer school. Unlike previous summers spent in Milwaukee with my cousins, this year, I remained home to attend junior high summer school.

Due to our rural location, I was assigned to Clement Junior High in Northside Redlands, the most underprivileged of the three junior high schools in our area, situated in a neighborhood predominantly inhabited by low-income families of color. The once vibrant orange grove where I grew up had been replaced by a sprawling mobile home park.

During the first week, we were all placed in orientation classrooms. I recognized only a handful of students. I cannot recall my misdeeds, but it was clear my young teacher held a strong dislike for me. After a few days, I was summoned to the principal's office—not Mr. Nease, but another man with unfortunate 70s hair and a clip-on tie, who informed me that my teacher deemed me "hyper" and assigned me to a special needs class for the summer.

The following day, a short bus arrived to take me to school, already carrying two students. One was a chatty girl named Jeanette, who had cerebral palsy, and the other was a silent boy in a wheelchair. Upon arrival, an aide was ready to assist the boy while I was tasked with pushing Jeanette, who filled the air with her chatter until roll call.

Our class comprised about 20 students, many in wheelchairs, while others struggled with vision or hearing impairments. It was disheartening to see that several of my classmates seemed to be struggling academically.

At lunchtime, I spotted Cindy, a girl from my elementary school. I sat down next to her, and her first comment struck me: "Why'd they put you in the room with all the MRs?" In 1975, this was a common term, shorthand for "mentally retarded." I could only reply, "I don't know," as Jeanette waved at us, prompting Cindy to leave in a huff.

I spent the remainder of lunch with Jeanette, who continued to talk incessantly. After a few days, the teachers recognized that any special need I had stemmed from the loss of my grandfather and the subsequent emotional distance from my grandmother, who barely spoke to me. She had ceased cooking and shopping, and I soon discovered she had stopped paying bills as well, preferring to sit in Bampy's rocking chair, lost in thought.

In an unexpected turn, one of the special education teachers suggested we tackle household management in class. I confided in her about my home situation, and she encouraged me to bring my grandmother's checkbook and bills, offering to help me fill them out for her signature.

I never disclosed to my classmates or teachers that when our food supply dwindled, I would drive the Firebird to the grocery store nine miles away. I suspected my grandmother was aware, but her refusal to allow me to take Drivers Ed or drive three years later had more to do with her own struggles with mental health.

One recess, while pushing the silent boy, Billy, I noticed a slender girl sitting alone at the edge of a tree ring. She wore a lovely pink dress and had a white ribbon in her hair—far too elegant for the surroundings. I, on the other hand, had adopted my typical teen attire: Levi's 501 jeans and a plain white t-shirt.

Gathering courage, I approached her. "Hi, I'm Amy. What's your name?"

She looked up and softly replied, "Estrellita."

That summer, Estrellita became my sole friend outside of after-school activities. Most kids called her Star, as her name was difficult to pronounce. Estrellita's father was a professor, and despite her intelligence, she faced ridicule from wealthier classmates due to her ethnicity and appearance.

Being labeled as one of the "MRs" limited my ability to defend Estrellita against the bullying. One of the most vicious girls, whom I'll refer to as Tina S., was particularly cruel. Estrellita also found herself at odds with the Chicano kids, who viewed her as a snob despite our shared history.

As summer came to a close, I transitioned to my actual junior high, Moore JHS, where I reconnected with Estrellita, though our bond was not as strong as it had been. Mr. Nease was now the principal, and he recognized I didn't belong in a special needs class.

I quickly formed friendships at Moore, including with Cathy, who would remain my best friend. I joined the school newspaper, participated in band, and played tennis, while my peers began exploring romantic relationships.

Amidst these changes, there were whispers about a classmate's pregnancy and abortion. I spent time with Brian, my friend and fellow band member, and formed a trio with Ann and Diana from the gifted program, though our dynamics were often tumultuous.

Eventually, I became friends with Martha, who raised animals for 4-H and lived in a bustling household. Unfortunately, Estrellita faded into the background of my life.

Reflecting on my experiences, I realized all the friends I had made were predominantly white, living in wealthier neighborhoods. The separation by race and class was stark; there were no students of color on the tennis team, and a few peers were already eyeing careers in professional sports.

Amidst these social divisions, I was merely trying to survive each day, clinging to the hope that my grandmother would eventually open up to me. My nights were often spent at friends' homes, escaping the worsening situation at home.

Despite efforts from my counselor, Mr. Long, and Principal Nease, my home life became increasingly difficult. One day, my grandmother, in disbelief that I had been at Cathy's house instead of with another friend who had run away, burned my palm on the stove.

After the incident, I sought refuge in my dog Freckles’ comforting presence. Once composed, I called my father, expressing my desire to move in with him. He readily agreed, and soon I was living in Hollywood with him, my stepmother, and half-brother Danny.

I maintained connections with friends from school, particularly Estrellita. She shared her own stories of the bullying she endured and revealed troubling news about our hometown, including thefts and serious crimes. She even uncovered newspaper articles about my mother that I had never seen.

"Star, thank you," I said, touched by her kindness. "You make me emotional."

We discussed the superficiality of some girls who had tormented us both. "I always thought you were more beautiful than them and much kinder," Estrellita remarked.

Being labeled as a child with special needs was a crushing blow to my self-esteem. Yet, perhaps my experiences in assisting my classmates fostered empathy within me.

It took years to comprehend that despite the divisions in our school—socially, racially, and economically—we all shared a profound emotional poverty and stunted development.

Tragically, Estrellita passed away from cancer last year, and her son notified us through social media. I know she would appreciate my sharing this story.

Our town prides itself on being a quintessential small town in America, yet the reality is far more complex.

In a contemporary note, my husband Bruce has faced significant health challenges, including severe arthritis and surgeries, and has struggled to walk unassisted for nearly a year. Recently, he managed to walk across the house with my support.

This experience brought back memories of that long-ago summer on the short bus.

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