Harrisons like to identify with one
another. There are quite a number of us, and when we
get together, conversations are often sprinkled with, “Harrisons are….” or
“That’s because you are a Harrison”. Common
Harrison phrases include, “Harrisons are loud”, “Harrisons are smart”, and
“Harrisons are funny”. Physical
qualities of a Harrison involve, “the tight hamstring of a Harrison”, and “the
Iron Bladder of a Harrison”. As a child,
and an adult, I have assimilated these traits and qualities, took them as
truth. But the real truth is, I do not,
and have never had, an Iron Bladder.
It
all started in elementary school[1],
when the urge to urinate would overcome me in places like the playground, or
the hallway. To combat these urges I
would immediately drop to the ground in a crouching position, and bending one
leg, I would place it firmly in between my thighs. I would sit there until the urge would pass,
and my friends would be standing above me, “uh, Brooke, if you need to go to
the bathroom, just go to the bathroom.”, to which I would reply, “I DON’T need
to go to the bathroom. I’m just
resting.” Sometimes these compulsions
would attack me so quickly and without notice, the use of my hand cupped over
my crotch would be in order. At other
times, when I was alone at home, the urge to pee would be accompanied by a quick
waddle[2] to
the bathroom, and once I’d arrived, the urge would overwhelm me right there in
the bathroom, two steps away from the toilet I would assume the crouching
position, and counting in my head to seven or ten, at the final number I would
jump up and on to the toilet, hoping to make it in time[3].
There
were a few instances where I didn’t even make it the bathroom; I didn’t even
make it close.
The first occasion
I can remember occurred when I was in kindergarten. I was wearing a white t-shirt and jean
overalls. The details are a bit hazy,
but I did pee[4]
myself, and I was very, very embarrassed.
I went to the office to call my mom who brought a change of clothes, and
the wet clothes were placed in a plastic bag. When my mother arrived, I begged her to take me home. But she insisted that I stay in school. She had brought a change of clothes that
resembled the others I had had on earlier, and now I was wearing a jean dress
over the same white t-shirt. During the
last recess of the day, my friends and I were sitting on the metal “climber”,
and doing flips on the bar. A friend
noticed the change of clothing, and probed me about it. “Why had I changed clothes?” “What happened?”
I maintained that these were the same clothes I had been wearing all day, and
kept on flipping.
The second peecurrence
was when I was much older—in the sixth grade.
It was recess, and I was playing foursquare[5]. I was in square “B”, and the game was getting
competitive. I had to use the bathroom quite badly, but a line was forming
outside the square, and to step out now would mean giving up my spot and having
to wait in line upon my return. I chose
to play on. As the game continued, my
need to pee grew in urgency[6],
but I petulantly refused to answer nature’s call. The ball bounced here then there, I pushed it
past me and into other player’s territory again and again, and suddenly it was
happening. Pee, it was coming. My eyes widened in horror in recognition of
the shame that was running down my legs.
I sprinted away from the game mid-play and rushed inside to the
bathroom, peeing all the while. Once
inside a stall, I slumped in humiliation on the toilet, the need to be in the
restroom at all gone. I had worn a skirt[7]
that day, and a slip under that.
Fortunately the pee had all soaked into the slip, and I took that off,
scrunched it tightly in my hand, and marched to my homeroom, where I pushed it
deep inside my backpack, praying the smell wouldn’t carry.
[1] It actually realistically started when I was just a
baby. I probably never properly learned
how to hold my pee in, the diaper was my best friend and my mortal enemy—it
taught me to pee at my leisure.
[2] I had mastered the art of walking when I really had to
go to the bathroom. It consisted of a
disjointed squatish-walk in which one leg would be left behind, and the other
would cross over in front to create a sort of pressure against my crotch,
(mentally) holding the pee in.
[4] It is interesting to write this story in an adult
voice, where the most correct terminology to use here would most likely be
“pee”, (which I used above). When I was younger, in fact during these instances
we weren’t allowed to say the word, “pee”.
We were only allowed to refer to urination as “pee-pee”. It feels a little wrong to mash these two worlds.
[5] Foursquare is a playground game that is a square,
divided into four smaller squares designated A-D. A big ball is bounced from square to square,
directed by the player in the square.
“A” is the best square, “D” the worst. The ball is allowed to bounce
once in your square, and then you direct to the next square without holding
onto it. Players get out by missing the
ball, holding the ball too long, or throwing the ball out of bounds. A line forms at the edge of the encompassing
square, and when a player gets out, everyone moves up a square, and a new
player enters, in square “D”.
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