Chapter Fourteen

In this chapter Jackie is unable to live with her abusive father but she solves the problem by joining the airforce! A delightful chapter as out heroine grows up and moves out.

Hovering Above Myself—A Memoir

by

Jacqueline D’Acre

Chapter Fourteen

Stephen, my Ghanian nurse, came today. I asked him what was going on in the outside world. He told me he’d gone to a movie called Black Panther. I immediately thought of the Black Panthers from the Sixties and how intimidating they were. I was living in San Francisco when they were at the peak of their power and their headquarters were not far from our apartment. We always drove slowly and respectfully past their headquarters. Nobody wanted to rile the Black Panthers. Even though they stood about dressed in sexy, menacing, black leather they were a very good organization. Not only did they give black people hope, they quite practically organized school lunches and breakfasts for inner-city children who often went without.

Well, I was seventeen, a high school dropout, and ostracized by my family. From Honour Student to non-student. A complete failure. I could not concentrate well enough to study. It was just not possible for me to go to the farm anymore. I could not be under the same roof as Father. This meant I was cut off from my brothers and sisters. This was devastating. I adored my siblings. I thought they were the smartest, funniest, best looking children ever and I wanted always to be around them, see them grow.

            One night I found myself driving around in Grampa’s old grey Chevrolet. Somehow I had met a boy and he was riding in the front seat next to me. He was dressed in the blues of an Airman in the RCAF. He was quite an attractive man. We talked and talked. I just drove around. I remember going down Prince Arthur Boulevard past the tiny park with the giant willow trees Billy Rancourt and I used to climb. I drove on, no destination in mind, the journey was the destination. It was dark, intimate, in the old car. But we never touched. Just talk. This man regaled me with stories about the Air Force. How basic training took place near a small town just thirty miles from exotic Montreal. Travel! This enchanted me. The mystery man really liked it. He told me obeying orders wasn’t so tough. And one was completely taken care of. It made me think. It sounded like a safe place to be.

I saw the therapist out at the mental home several more times. She was so serene it was impossible to be overly-excited around her. I told her of the mysterious Air Force man I had just met and about all he had told me about the Air Force. I asked her:

“Do you think this would be a good thing for me to do?”

“Jackie. It’s a wonderful idea. It’ll get you away from your father and you’ll be taken care of. Because right now you aren’t capable of taking care of yourself.”

It was close to Christmas so I would just have to survive somehow until I reached my eighteenth birthday, February 24. The RCAF wouldn’t take girls until they were eighteen.

            The remaining year passed by in a fugue state. I lived at Gram’s, I worked in the store and at Loblaws but I wasn’t dating anyone in particular. Somehow I was in various cars going to dark places and drinking. Yes. I had begun to drink alcohol. Hated the taste of it but enjoyed the effect.

I lived on Pepsi and Old Dutch Bar-b-que potato chips—still on the diet pills. I wanted to be slim at the outset of my new life. Look good in blue.

At Christmas I got money as a gift. I dressed up and went out alone and drove around. I went to a restaurant downtown. A fortune teller sat in a back booth. I was on the brink of a huge change, so what the hell—what did my future hold?

She shuffled Tarot cards—which I had never before seen. She laid them out in a pattern and then she began. What I remember is she said I would live in a foreign country near salt water in a hot climate. I was very creative and would go on to do creative things. I would marry more than once and I would have three children. I would go through many tribulations, but in the end, all would be good.

One of the things I had to do was have an interview with the recruiting officer and also to take an aptitude test to see if I was smart enough to be an airwoman. The night before that meeting I was up all night on the diet pills, writing poetry in Gram’s kitchen. When it was time, sleepless, I dressed carefully in a suit, got in Grampa’s Chevy and drove to the recruiting office. Inside I was given the test and a pencil. It was mostly general knowledge, mainly multiple choice, and I whipped through it. Then I was asked to wait.

Finally the officer, smart in his dress blue uniform, called me into his office. There was a Canadian flag behind his desk and a picture of the Queen. He indicated a chair I should take. He sat opposite me and gave me a wide grin.

“Well, Miss Cryderman, you certainly did quite well on this test. A very high I.Q. I’d like to ask you to consider officer training once you are enlisted. You are officer material. We can arrange for you to take high school equivalency exams and then you’d be qualified for university and officer training.”

I was so flattered! Maybe there was a way in the future to go to university, something I now dearly wanted.

The officer behind the desk extended his hand. I reached across and took it. He shook and said: “Miss Cryderman. Welcome to the Royal Canadian Air Force.”

I’m having a problem with my digestive tract or something in my abdomen. I’ve been nauseated for over a month now. Jennifer has chided me about not going to the doctor, still, I dread it. What I should do is go to Emergency at the hospital. Then they will do whatever tests on the spot, no running around to various clinics and Doctors to get my whole belly analysed. But it’s not too bad right now. I’ll see how I am tomorrow. 

My eighteenth birthday in February arrived. It was also the date that the RCAF would take me. Mother arrived at Gram’s with a beautiful set of cream-coloured luggage as a birthday/going away present. I got dressed up and we all trouped down to the train station, the CPR. There was another girl joining the RCAF as well. Somehow we met on the platform and we sat together on the train. Wish I could remember her name. She was older than me and as we talked I realized we didn’t have much in common.

            Our destination by train was Montreal and this really excited me. A big, glamorous city! I was escaping Fort William: One childhood wish coming true. The train hurtled through the dark speeding me toward the unknown. It took a while to reach Montreal. I drifted away from the girl and found other people to talk to, while the train clickety-clacked through the night.

            I didn’t see much of Montreal. It was cold and dark and a bus was waiting to take recruits to the base, at St. Jean’s, about thirty miles outside of Montreal, just like my mystery man had told me. A while later we reached the base. The bus drove onto the base and to our barracks. As we travelled up to the long white buildings, I was shocked to see over a dozen couples embracing and kissing— standing right along the roadside. How embarrassing! I would never do that. The bus squealed to a halt. We tumbled from the bus, collected our luggage and traipsed into the barracks. What struck me immediately was the pristine cleanliness of the interior. The floors gleamed. I thought: They must have an excellent cleaning service for the building to look so terrific.

            The next day was busy with orientation and getting our uniforms. I was measured and then given a winter blue dress uniform: long fitted jacket and skirt, blue shirts and black ties.  Everyday wear: snug-fitting waist-length jacket called, I believe, a battle jacket, and another blue skirt. Summer uniform: khaki shirts, skirt and jacket. There was underwear: a full-length slip, a cloth (and pretty useless support) bra and voluminous panties. (I wore neither the bra nor the panties. The bra was useless for me, not with my generous bosom.) We also received two pairs of shoes, sturdy unsexy clunky black things, that I hated to wear.

            We learned where all the various buildings were, including the mess hall. Food was generous and plain. The coffee tasted like battery acid.

            It didn’t take long for me to learn that I was the cleaning service. Me and all the other girls in my squad. Soon I was down on hands and knees scrubbing an already clean floor. Making my bed was an ordeal. They inspected underneath the bed, so I had to crawl under the bed and pull the sheets and blanket through the springs so they came out neat and even. After a while I wised up and stopped sleeping under the covers, too much work to make the bed in the morning before classes.

            We were awakened at five a.m. and had to rush because not only did we have to get dressed, our room had to be white-glove immaculate. Our hair must not touch our collars. I had quite long hair at that time, so I put it up in a French roll, carefully hiding all the bobby pins. Bobby pins couldn’t show. Also, makeup was forbidden. But I could not bear to give up my mascara, so I continued to wear it. I never got caught.

There was time to dress and make the room spiffy. Then we lined up outside the barracks and our ‘Discip,’ a petite, pretty woman, a corporal, marched us to the mess hall. Even though she was distant, we all came to adore her.

Days were spent in classrooms, in P.E. and in drilling. P.E. was boring. It was mostly running around the perimeter of a big hangar until exhaustion. Drilling, I was surprised to learn was fun. You could really get with the rhythm of the footfalls. There was a hypnotic beat to it.

Michelle, one of my nurses, was just here. I told her that yesterday I had an emergency visit to the new dentist: Dr. Sean St. Louis. He was as handsome as ever and totally charming. Looks and personality. I didn’t really mind going to the dentist. Michelle asked: “Is he married?” I said, “I don’t know. I never thought to check his ring finger and I wouldn’t dare ask him.”  Michelle prompted: “Well, ask him. Tell him your nurse wants to know.”

“Okay,” I giggled. She giggled back.

            So with another back tooth gone I can no longer chew food. Another joy of getting older. I called Meals on Wheels to cancel my meal deliveries but Marianne, who runs the place said, “Why not a soft diet? Could you eat that?”

            “You have that?”

            “Sure.”

            “Great. Sign me up. It’ll be six weeks or so before I am equipped to chew regular food.”

After just a few days as an airwoman, I was amazed how free I felt away from Father. My fourteen years of terror had ended. My little black cloud had completely evaporated. I had energy above and beyond the diet pills. I spit polished my shoes until three in the morning, jumped up at five and marched to the mess hall.

I quickly learned that all social interaction took place after hours at the Snack Bar. This place sold burgers, chips, and cigarettes. It was two large rooms: one lined with booths, the other empty except for chairs around the sides and, at one end, a jukebox. I was learning the twist. Soon I was twisting almost every night to Chubby Checker—“Let’s twist again, like we did last summer…”— on that juke box. Then, two weeks after I enlisted, I was walked back to the barracks by a boy I had danced with for several nights. The usual couples were out there in the snow, hugging and kissing. The boy put his arms around me and kissed me. What the heck! Where else was there to go for privacy? Nowhere. I kissed him back.