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6

Hey Now

Riverside, California, March 1974

When I could walk well again, it was spring. On rainy days, we ate lunch in the gym, sitting in the bleachers with our sack lunches or cafeteria trays. Someone would pull out the record player—yes, an actual record player, with an album spinning, hooked up to speakers—and music blasted onto the hardwood floor between the basketball hoops. The boys got first choice—they played James Brown, Kool & the Gang’s “Jungle Boogie,” and “Funky Worm” by the Ohio Players. They locked, the precursor to wild-style hip-hop dancing. They did the Robot, the Worm, handstands and backflips.

But the girls took over and changed the record to the Jackson 5, the Stylistics, and the Spinners. Some of my friends from the pompon squad held out their hands to me. They taught me to dance.

There was a new girl, from Chicago, Michelle Nicholson, with afro puffs and a big smile, and she took over the squad—said she would give us some Chicago style. After all these years, I still find myself walking down the street softly chanting the first cheer Michelle taught us, which we performed with verses I can’t believe any teacher or coach heard us singing on the sidelines of the football games, in 1974. Call and response—Michelle shouted and we sang back.

I like peaches (Hey Now)

And I like cream (Hey Now)

And I like the Lobos (Hey Now)

’Cause they so mean! (Hey Now)

I went to the railroad (Hey Now)

Put my head on the track (Hey Now)

Started thinkin’ ’bout the Lobos (Hey Now)

Took my big head back! (Hey Now)

I went to the liquor store (Hey Now)

Just to buy me a taste (Hey Now)

Started thinkin’ ’bout the Lobos (Hey Now)

Bought a whole case! (Hey Now)

By eighth grade, I was the tiny mascot. In my yearbook, water damage has erased my face, and I see now that my name is the only one omitted—I am actually listed as “(Mascot).” My glasses had been updated to granny rectangles, and I was called Rabbit because I got so tired of pushing them up onto my nose I just did it by alternating twitches of my cheeks. My untouched leg was bowed and the foot slewed permanently to the right like a duck. My repaired leg was straight and covered with scars. My silly grin displayed the crooked teeth. My hair is still tragic. Your father was running past us on the basketball team, not noticing me at all.

But Michelle Nicholson taught me that it didn’t matter what I looked like—as long as I got the words right. As long as we did the song together.

Yearbook photo, Riverside, California, 1974