Hi, My Name is Ann and My Favorite Color is Clear

There are four children in my family: three boys and one girl.

All of the boys were born five years apart with the only girl born four years after the second boy and 16 months before the last.

All of the boys have our typical family look: wide noses, light skin with freckles, but the only girl has the full extent of our maternal grandfather’s Greek ethnicity: a long slender nose, olive skin without as much as a blemish.

All of the boys’ were named names that began with the letter J, after our father and grandfather Joseph. The oldest was named Joseph (of course) the second was named Jason, and last Justin. The one and only girl was named Ann, after our paternal grandma: Shirlee Ann.

No one could have predicted that being born a beautiful dark skinned girl to an all boy family or being named after the most important person in our family could provide the ammunition for the foundation of the story known as: “Ann’s Life.”

Because our mother left early on in our lives Annie, as we grew to call her, was truly the only girl in a house of all boys. And when I say all boys—I mean all boys… There was a television, telephone, and garbage can in every room of our 800 square foot, 3 bedroom, one bathroom house—including the living room. My father divided the basement up into three bedrooms for the boys to dwell while the upstairs bedrooms were left for him, Annie and his one true love—his computer. At the top of the stairs were two 4 x 9 foot book shelves that housed the families’ pride and joy—our movie collection. We used to buy movies before buying movies was cool (hence the television in every room of the house.)

Though the three bedroom house was converted into six bedrooms with the help of cubical office dividers in the basement, it still only contained the one bathroom. Despite the drain in the laundry room us boys would pee in from time to time, all five of use shared the one bathroom and thought nothing of it. Alone time in the bathroom was a luxury that was not afforded to any of us, but I don’t think we noticed—until we got older any way. Terms like: “Hurry, pee like a rocket!” and “Go and use the drain!” were common house hold phrases. When we were all younger, and on vacation, our family of five could stop for a bathroom break and be back on the road in less than 5 minutes tops. We’d all go on one bathroom: Annie would use the toilet, Dad and I would pair up at the urinal and Joe D. and Justin would take the sink.

We had a routine: Annie would wake up before dad and take her shower, then dad would go next, and I’d take the third and cold shower. Justin and Joe D. would usually shower at night. It worked for a while, but as Annie matured there was an unstated rule that allowed Annie to have unlimited access to the bathroom, any time and as long as she wanted.

The day Annie started her period my dad sent me to Target with a blank check to get Annie supplies. He said: “Go and get Annie whatever she needs.” We came home with enough feminine products for a sorority house. Not knowing what to get or what to expect we wanted to be prepared for anything, so we stocked up on everything: pads for heavy days, light days, tampons, over night with wings, without wings, pads for swimming, you name it we bought it. I don’t remember having to ever buy feminine products again as long as I lived at home.

All throughout her life, and still today I have tried to convince my sister that she was adopted. I would explain to her facts: mom and dad had three boys, perfectly spaced five years apart, and all braded with the family letter “J” and yet they felt they still had room in their hearts for one more child. Sure that they would have another boy they decided to adopt a little girl. I would supplement the facts with a sweet story that explained of the trials and tribulations of a little Indian orphan girl named Sacajawea.

Sacajawea was born a beautiful olive skinned little girl to an Indian family who could not afford her any more.

“Due to the strict adoption laws in the sate of Iowa we know little about Sacajawea’s family today.” I would tell her. “We do know that they decided to put her up for adoption; it was, after all, in the best interest of the child.”

It was during her short time in the orphanage that the southern orphanage owners decided to change Sacajawea’s name. In hopes of appealing to parents wanting to add a little girl to their family they changed her name to Annabelle Georgina Patty-Wagger Smith.

“And it worked! Despite your original name mom and dad fell in love with you the minute they laid eyes on you. They brought you home, changed your name to Ann Marie and here you are…” She would cry and say it’s not true and I would do my best to convince her that it was. “Ask anyone, they all know. But I am sure they will tell you I’m lying to spare your feelings.”

My sister grew up answering to the name Annabelle Georgina Patty-Wagger Smith and though she says she knows deep down inside that she isn’t adopted, she still feels a special connection to the great Indian guide that lead Lewis and Clark on their expedition.

When Annie was born our parents went a little over board with her room: pink walls, flowery pink wall paper, and thick, dark, pink shag carpet (that she would cry every time she had to vacuum because it too so long,) pink blinds, pink pillows… And as she grew up the room remained just as pink as the day it was painted. It is clear to say that growing up Annie’s favorite color—forced upon her—was pink. But just to reassure her that I knew more about her than she did, I would explain that her favorite color was in fact not pink—it was clear. I would make her repeat after me: “Hi, my name is Ann and my favorite color is clear.”

Throughout her childhood Annie has suffered two massive blows to her head: one resulting in stitches and one resulting in a cracked eye socket. The first was delivered to her through a 2 x 4 thrown by our brother Joe who we called Joe D. due to his middle name being Daniel.

It was a beautiful summer’s day; Joe D. and I were ordered to clean out the back yard shed, while Annie and Justin play on the swing set. I was sitting off to the side suggesting to Joe D. how to best clean up the area while he was doing all the grunt work: moving the snow plow, the lawn mower, and the weed whacker. He began to throw random pieces of 2 x 4 boards out of the shed and onto the lawn. Bored with the swing set Annie and Justin started to dodge the flying pieces of wood. And it was fun until Annie missed judged the arc of the flying weapon and caught the board with her forehead (or five-head as I explained to her as she grew older because her forehead was much larger than the width of a normal “four” head. So because if this yours should actually be called a “five-head”. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “I’ll contact the medical academy so they can make the necessary adjustments on your medical records.”) Annie was given ten stitches: three inside stitches and seven outside, the scar sets just below her hair line and is rarely seen today.

The second blow to the head was delivered while playing baseball with our cousins at their house. Standing too close to the one batting, Annie caught the follow through right at the corner of her cheekbone. It was a total accident, but not knowing what to do our aunt’s boyfriend took the kids and swollen eyed Annie to Dairy Queen for “shut-up and don’t tell” treats. Annie ordered a cherry slushy, ten minutes later at grandma’s house, when the normal head trauma vomiting started, the cherry slushy looked like blood projecting from the swollen face little girl. Rushed to the hospital it was discovered that she had two hairline cracks in her left eye socket.

Two head wounds, living life with out a mother or a woman in the house, and continuously being reminded of her previous life before she was adopted were just parts of life that Annie grew from, going through adolescences in a house full of boys proved to make Annie even stronger.

Whenever she was pushed or didn’t want to do something Annie would fight back. She did not take being the only girl as a disadvantage in fact she used it to her advantage. The simple phrase “Whatever” with a strong “t” and enough sarcasm that a deaf person could pick up on it meant: leave me alone or you’ll be sorry. All she had to do was utter the single word and all four of us would stop what we were doing, leave the room and proceed to our respective corners of the house.

Even today Annie knows how to hold her own. She turned out to be extremely independent. (A little too independent our dad thinks.) But Annie is her own person and can rely on herself. She went through the expected tom-boy stage, but what emerged from the Grant Hill jersey wearing little girl is a beautiful young woman that knows what she wants out of life and how to get it.

Even today Annie is a bit of an enigma. She will move across the country for scarcely a reason, jump out of perfectly good air planes, crochet baby blankets for friends and family (just like grandma Shirlee,) climb mountains, put her hair in dreads-locks and cover her self with tattoos because she wants too; and for no other reason. Annie is a strong independent woman, with great wit, and a killer sense of humor. Though she is as independent as a woman can honestly be, she still wonders to herself: is my favorite color truly clear?