Linda "Gail" York

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 Number 3 Document

             

April 1960

Number Three: My Life and Primary Education

by

Linda “Gail” York

Number Three: My Life and Primary Education

Just the other day I drove by Greenlawn Memorial Cemetery, where my dad was laid to rest.  Unlike the rest of my family, I have not visited his crypt or felt any remorse since his passing six years ago.  You see, I made my peace with dad before he died, not after.

As a young boy, my father, Edmund “Bill” York, faced disappointment many times in his life.  His mother shared their two-room house with numerous husbands, but Bill would always feel like the man of the house. At the age of eleven, he dropped out of school to find a job and put food on his mother’s table.  When Bill turned seventeen, he joined the Navy and said good-by to his so-called-life. 

The Navy assisted in Bill becoming a self-driven, smart, and confident man.  It also presented him with the opportunity to discover “the love of his life.”  One weekend while on a leave in New Albany, Indiana, Bill and a friend were doing the usual downtown tour.  As they turned the corner onto Main Street Bill stopped to peep inside a drugstore window.  His friend kept walking and after a few minutes, he heard Bill shout.  “Wait!  Come back!  Look what I’ve found!” As his friend neared the window Bill pointed inside and with a big smile on his face said, “See that girl,      the blonde behind the counter?”  “I’m going to marry her!

Three days later Edmund Bill York married Della Fay Wilson.  They moved to Wilmington, North Carolina and the good Lord blessed the couple with four daughters.Bill referred to the girls as Number One, Number Two, Number Three, and Number Four.

My name is Linda Gail York and I am daughter Number Three.  I was never considered the brightest or prettiest of the York Girls, but always the most radical.  Contrary to popular belief, I often thought of myself as being quite special.  Mom referred to me as the problem child, the one that had to look different, talk different, and act different.   Number Three just had to be different in every facet of her life, even education.

When conferring with friends and colleagues about childhood memories and primary education, I refer to those days as a “deeply regrettable time in my life.”  As a child, I looked forward to attending first grade at Sunset Park Elementary School and thought it would be a nice reprieve from the problems at home.  As it turned out, life at

home was very similar to life in the first grade.  Life at home was not like “Leave it to Beaver.”  I must admit, my parents had an unusual way of expressing their love towards each other.  They had a tendency to fight, nothing physical, just a lot of yelling and cursing, only my dad did the latter.  The most physical part of their relationship was on Sunday morning and involved a cold black cast iron skillet.  The preliminaries for this event began on Friday around 5:00p.m. Dad would come home from work, shower, dress, and walk out the door looking good and smelling fine.  He did not return until the following Sunday morning.  Each night dad was gone I would lie awake in bed listening to mom cry herself to sleep.  When Sunday morning rolled around, she would put on her happy face and dress the four little York Girls for Sunday School at Sunset Park Baptist Church. Our attire included white lace socks, black paten leather shoes, full crinolines, and frilly pastel dresses that had been starched and pressed the night before.  Mom would wait until the last minute to style our long straight hair into goldilocks curls.  Glancing at the kitchen clock, she would stand by the front door and starting with the youngest critique us for any imperfections.  At exactly 8:45a.m., she would scurry us out the front door with our Lottie Moon envelopes and Bibles in hand.  It was about this time that mom would catch a glimpse of dad trying to sneak in the back door.  Without any hesitation, she ran into the kitchen and grabbed the cold black cast iron skillet off the stove.  With tears in her eyes, she took careful aim and threw the skillet across the room.  Dad’s body swerved to the side, the skillet missing his body by mere inches. Oh, those Sunday mornings, need I say more? 

First grade is a rewarding experience for most children, but for me it was terrifying. Mrs. Hewitt, my first grade teacher, was well known around     our house.  My older sister had been in Mrs. Hewitt’s class just a few years earlier and was delighted to inform me of what to expect. She was constantly telling horror stories that included vivid details of screaming, paddling, and dark coat closets.  Mom knew the stories had stuck in my mind and did her best to convince me that first grade would be fun.  On the first day of school, she held my hand and we walked together, side by side, to Mrs. Hewitt’s classroom.  Mom’s actions made me feel special, but not enough to forget my sister’s stories. When we arrived at the door, mom slowly released my hand, kissed my cheek, and gently pushed me towards a desk in the middle of the room.  I guess she thought a little distance between Mrs. Hewitt and me would be a good idea.  Without a word, like a good little girl, I found a desk that looked safe, sat down, clasped my hands together and placed them on top of the desk.  For what seemed like hours, twenty-five six year-olds sat in silence waiting for the sound that signals class to begin.  Finally, the bell rang and within seconds, I found myself right in the midst of one of my sister’s horror stories.  Right before my eyes, Mrs. Hewitt was storming down the aisle like a raging bull, headed directly towards my desk.  She began screaming from the top of her lungs, “Stand up, stand up right now!”  I leaned to the side of my desk, knees shaking, and prepared to stand at attention.  To my surprise, Mrs. Hewitt grabbed the little boy sitting next to me.  She lifted him right out of his seat and I realized it was .   The same Jimmy Greene in my Sunday school class.  Mrs. Hewitt held Jimmy’s frail body in a shoulder lock with his feet dangling like wet noodles.  Then she shook, and shook, and nearly shook Jimmy right out of his blue jeans.  The rest of the class sat in fear, holding their breath, wondering who would be Mrs. Hewitt’s next victim.  During recess, Jimmy warned the rest of the class, “Don’t ever wear a baseball cap to school or you’ll be sorry!”  From that day forward, every six-year old in our class lived in fear of Mrs. Hewitt.  I want you to know, it was not the screaming that upset me.  It was the screaming, coupled with the physical violence that nearly made me wet my Tuesday underpants.  That day, while holding back the tears and biting the inside of my bottom lip, I silently vowed to never wear a baseball cap to school or do anything that might displease Mrs. Hewitt, or any other teacher.  

My next memorable experience in education, took place just one year later in the second grade.  It was at this time my parents separated, and the man that took care of us moved out of our house, swearing never to return. Feelings of loss and uncertainty took residence in my mind.  I lived in fear that mom would leave, just like dad, and wondered how I would survive without my parents.  In an effort to ease the pain, I decided it would be best to keep a close eye on mom.  Therefore, attending school was not an option. I played sick once too often and it did not take long for mom to realize I was crying wolf.  She began to ignore my fake stomachaches and made it clear that I would not be missing any more school.  Mom starting driving me to school each morning and during this “special” time told me what to do.  “Linda Gail York, you listen, and listen good! Go directly to your class and do not, I repeat, do not leave this school until the last bell rings!” With tears running down my face, I begged her not to leave.  To no avail, she opened the car door and pointed for me to get out. I slowly walked towards the school, glancing out the corner of my eye for her car to turn the corner.  With no time to waste, I darted across the schoolyard towards Carolina Beach Road.  Remembering mom’s orders to push the walk button before crossing the highway, I patiently waited for the light to turn red.  Once the cars came to a complete stop I dashed across, making sure to stay inside the white lines designated for pedestrians.  Backyard shortcuts to our house insured I would arrive minutes before mom with plenty of time to retreat to my hiding place behind dad’s recliner.  In the most uncomfortable position, I crouched in silence until the telephone rang and the school reported my absence.  Within seconds mom would holler, “Linda Gail York, I know you are here!  Come into the kitchen right now!” My cry for help, the act of leaving school and running to the safety of our home, is what my mom called rebellious and I called survival. 

My time spent in third grade is one exception to my statement about childhood memories and primary education being a “deeply regrettable time in my life.”  It is difficult to find the words to describe a teacher that was the embodiment of passion, love, and understanding, but that is exactly what Miss Patsy Prewitt was. This wonderful young woman from Kentucky was my third grade teacher and she cared enough not let me slip through the cracks.  At a very crucial time in my life, Miss Prewitt reached out and helped me deal with my feelings of insecurity and abandonment.  Miss Prewitt was not just a teacher waiting for a paycheck; she was “a mother of education.”  This woman loved teaching and her students.  For me, third grade was more than an education.  It was a safe place where I could be a child, for just a little bit longer.

Sunset Junior High School, in all its glory, promised to be a great experience.  It was the year; I would become a teenager, just like my older sisters.  I would be popular, and receive much respect from my peers.  Turning thirteen was a much anticipated event and so was my thirteenth birthday party.  For once in my life, I would be getting all of the attention, not one my three sisters.  On Thursday, January 20, 1966, I turned thirteen and the following evening over seventy-five teenagers with raging hormones invaded the York household.  For most of us, it was the chance to attend our first girl/boy party.  There was a lot of handholding and playing spin the bottle, and even a few kisses on the mouth.  I heard that Terry Williams actually stuck his tongue in Patricia Miller’s mouth when he kissed her.  Yuck!  My thirteenth birthday party was most definitely “the party of the year.”  For the      first time in my life, I was the York Girl that was being noticed and nothing could spoil this time in my life, so I thought.

On February 20, 1966, one month after I turned thirteen, my parents decided to move our family to Clarksville, Indiana, near my mother’s hometown.  I, like my sisters, was never told why we were moving, only that we were.  One day I heard Aunt Rose, tell Aunt Cleo that we moved to Clarksville, Indiana because dad’s girlfriend claimed to be caring his baby.  However, none of that made sense to me.  My concern was that my parents were destroying my life.  I immediately made my feelings known. “Are you crazy?  Why are you doing this to me?”  I took this move personally, unaware of how it might affect my sisters. I continued to rant and rave, reminding my parents constantly that, “To move in the middle of a school year made no sense, but moving a thirteen-year-old girl in the middle of a school year was no less than life-shattering.  I will always remember that first day at Clarksville High School, walking down the auditorium aisle towards the sign that read “S-Z Homeroom Section.”  My knees felt like rubber bands as a thousand pairs of eyes x-rayed my entire body, labeling each imperfection with bold letters. Whispers inflicted pain, the kind of pain that only death could relieve.  My hands began to tremble, the fear of abandonment and the need for approval took root in my very soul.  As usual, I made the best of an otherwise intolerable situation.  Time passed, and by my sophomore year, life was good.  No, it was great!  I made the honor roll, joined the glee club, and was a member of one of the most popular sororities at Clarksville High School, Delta Phi Omega.


Members of Delta Phi Omega were “good working women“ and we tried to live up to our sorority motto, “Booze, boys, sex, and fun, we’re the class of seventy-one.  I was feeling comfortable and very special when elected sophomore class president and when I though things could not get any better, I began a hot and heavy relationship with John, a boy in the junior class. So why, when everything was so perfect, did my parents decide to move back to North Carolina?  I wondered if they were trying to work out their marital problems or just determined to make my life miserable.   I remember asking, “Don’t you care about my relationship with John, my position as sophomore class president, or my duties as a member of Delta Phi Omega?” Obviously, my questions and feelings did not matter, we moved back to North Carolina and it proved to be no less than a complete disaster.  To this day, my mother will tell you that I never forgave them for messing up my life.  My parents stayed married, but continued to fight.  Even with three sisters, I was the loneliest of the lonely and lived in a state of confusion.  I tried numerous times to join one of the “500” clicks at Hoggard High School, however, I was informed that Sunset Park girls could never fit in with the Pine Valley girls.

The only acceptance I found was by Jack, a seventeen-year old boy who proved his love by acts of mental and physical violence. Jack could not be trusted, more than once my friends had seen him out with other girls.  When I questioned him about what I heard, he would become violent, slap me across the face, push me down, and tell me how stupid I was. Jack made every effort possible to make me look like a fool, and I let him.  This had to be love; this was how a man showed his love.  Right? 

At the age of sixteen, I announced to my parents that I was pregnant and they informed me that I had no choice but to dropout of high school.  The tears in my dad’s eyes were punishment enough, but the pain did not stop there.  His words would never leave my mind or heart, “God damn it Gail.  How could you do this?  You know how important an education is, not for me, but for you.  There is no way you will finish high school and college will never be an option.  You are my biggest disappointment.”  I was just sixteen-years old and already labeled my dad’s “biggest disappointment.”

On October 15, 1970, I gave birth to a baby girl, Lelania Fay.  One week later I decided to prove dad
wrong so I enrolled in the GED Program at Cape Fear Community College and within six months received my GED. Although I succeeded in completing some form of high school education,my dad’s words still haunted me, “You are my biggest disappointment.” 

As the years passed, I would disappointment my dad many times over.  I was married three times, involved in numerous bad relationships, and became addicted to alcohol and drugs.  For a long time, it seemed like there was nothing that I could do right.  However, some people change, and I am one of those people. In 1986, dad sat in the audience of an Alcoholic Anonymous meeting with a gleam in his eye, as I told my story and announced that I was a recovering alcoholic and drug addict.  In 1995, he sat in another audience, at the University of North Carolina Wilmington (UNCW), and this time with tears in his eyes, he witnessed Number Three, his “biggest disappointment,” receive a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English – Creative Writing.  My dad, a proud man, cried at both of these events.

Edmund Bill York died on October 28, 2000, at New Hanover Memorial Hospital in Wilmington, North Carolina.  My children and I were at his bedside when his breathing became shallow and his eyes slowly shut.  He gradually let go of my hand and fell into a deep sleep.  Dad’s death was difficult for every member of our family, and we each handled it in our own unique way.  Some family members say that I took his death rather easy. Unlike my three sisters, I did not shed many tears or have any deep regrets, but I did feel a sense of peace that came from knowing that my dad had lived long enough to see his, “biggest disappointment” make him proud.

Edmund “Bill” York
January 13, 1926 - October 28, 2000

Edmund Bill and Della Fay York - 1957

Number One - Billie Fay York
Number Two - Anita Louise York
Number Three - Linda Gail York
Number Four - Wanda Diane York