My appreciation for words had an early start. I always liked seeing the patterns of words. Alliterations. Rhymes. I remember during second grade free play time I was writing on the chalkboard with some classmates. Someone wrote or said, “good luck.” I zoned out into word land and start looking for patterns with “luck.” Very organized, I start at the beginning:
Auck
Buck
Cuck
Duck
Euck
You see where this is going, right? That’s when a classmate ratted me out. “Gina wrote a bad word!” Soon, I would find myself sitting in the hallway for my rhyming crime.  The misfortune of this first foray with the f-bomb is that I didn’t know it was a bad word. I didn’t even know it was a word at all! I was making my way through the alphabet finding -uck words and, to my knowledge, only found buck and duck when I was pegged as the kind of girl who writes bad words on the chalkboard.
A few years later I would find myself in similar straights. A classmate, let’s call her Mary, was called out for being a bitch on the bathroom wall. Now, we weren’t tight, Mary and I, but I knew her enough to know that this statement was untrue. Who would think it, much less write it? I was compelled to right the wrong then and there. “No she’s not,” I carefully wrote beneath it. There I was, pencil in hand, standing up for the innocent. Our classmate Barbara had even witnessed my heroic deed. She told Mary about it.
Unfortunately, elementary school communication skills are not what one might hope. Mary thought I was the original vandal and narced on me. Turns out, the information on the wall was correct. It wasn’t long until I was in tears explaining myself to the Principal. He forced me to apologize because, apparently, you’re not supposed to write on the bathroom wall even in an act of righteous defense of another.
Most kids would use this penchant for elementary school crime as a way to build a reputation that suggests a mysterious, dark side — nice and kind, but with an air of who-gives-a-shit. I could have formed an elementary school gang. Play dates would rock! Lunch room tables would be full of friends who would giggle hysterically with whispers of swear words like “shit” and “damn.” We would conspire around stories of imaginary adventure. “This one time, I was almost caught chewing gum in class, and I was, like, oh shit!” Squeals of bad girl delight would ensue.
I was not most kids.
I was the kid who cried over the injustice of being punished for expanding my vocabulary. I was humiliated for being caught standing up for a cooler girl. Too shy to use my potential bad-girl status for anything other than shame, I would spend years attempting to exist under the radar, safe from trouble. This remains a habit many years later.
The first to proclaim, “I didn’t do it,” you can be sure that I probably didn’t try it, whatever it is, to begin with. I’m surprised I didn’t have a stroke as a child due to friends wanting to push the limits. Somehow I made it through the time one friend decided to smoke — in her bedroom! Who takes that kind of risk?! Her nerdy brother tattled the second his Mom got home. I cried — that’s what I do when I think I’m in trouble. Between sobs, I squeaked out that I *sniff* wasn’t *sniff* smoking *sob*. “Don’t worry, Gina,” the Mom said, “If I thought you were smoking I would have called your mother already.” *whew*
Wait. What?
I’m so worried about getting in trouble that I’ve become the kid that no one can believe would ever do something wrong? Fuck that! Then I cried out of shame for being such a dork.
I relaxed a bit after that and, eventually, college chilled me out. I had fun, I tried to stop worrying. I’m happy to report I wasn’t a total angel. That would be boring, right? Still, never got over the guilty conscience and constant worry for what could go wrong. Today I still worry I might accidentally trespass when out for a hike, and I continue to stress over getting caught doing something wrong. Heck, I confess my food sins to the trainer at the gym!
The other habit I main is my love of running through the alphabet to find words. It still yields good results. It’s a skill that let’s me curse like a truck driver and complete crossword puzzles. Both, worthy skills. Without a gang of bad girls, I make do with a life of quiet evenings playing with words in puzzles, my journal, and trying out new forms of cursing during political news. More importantly, I’m pleased to report I haven’t written on a bathroom wall since 4th Grade.