The Cowgirl

       My first memory of myself before I started school as a six-year-old is set in my grandfather's bedroom. He has struck out for his daily constitutional and I am sure he will not return before lunchtime. I will not disturb anything in his room. When I leave, my image will disappear from his mirror.
       I am standing in front of his bureau with my pistols pulled, wearing my cowboy outfit, practicing the tone of voice in which I will rid the earth of "one more yellow dog". But I am perfectly harmless. My six-shooters do not even have caps. They have been cast off by my two older brothers, as have the chaps and the red bandanna around my neck. I have left my stick horse outside, as he has come to seem ready for pasture. I try different positions for my elbows, different stances for my boots, old ones I found in my brothers' closet.
       I am tired of being the little sister playing with dolls. I want to go alone into the woods. I am not afraid. I can take care of myself. I am looking straight into the mirror--but something moves and I hear a snicker and giggle before the door shuts. I hear my mother, my aunt, and our cook whisper, "Don't let her see us."
       They have vanished from the hall before I can see them eavesdropping. I have been taught that eavesdropping is not polite, that it is sneaky.
       I run upstairs to get rid of the ridiculous clothes and the pistols. I will never again let myself be made fun of. I go outside and find my stick horse. I say goodbye and put him out of his misery.

[Recollection by Virginia McKinnon Mann. December, 2006. Photo (below) by Philip Howard.]