I remember when I was in Junior High, boys would call me “Macon Bacon” taunting and chuckling behind me as I quickly would try to find my desk. Typical scene of a new girl in a new school unsuccessfully trying to camouflage into a fluorescent classroom. Two boys in particular named, Jake Bradley and Kayler Kemper were the one’s that started that name. (“Hey boys”, in sultry deep tone.)
I liked the attention but wish it was for different reasons. I don’t… really… know what reasons but not for my name. My name is my identity but I didn’t get to pick it. Besides I was adopted, my last name was Bryer on my birth certificate, I thought as I roll my eyes.
After high school, I did end up sleeping with one of them. I don’t regret it. But it’s interesting to reflect back now how the intimacy fizzled out, the relationship ran its course and it all started out with being picked on and haphazardly bullied. I wonder how my younger self felt about having her name drug around for laughter. I love a good laugh, and now that I’m older, true laughter is so rare that I don’t mind being the center of it. Seriously, be my guest; pleaaassse’ laugh at me. However, my younger self was forced to try to drown it out, muffle it to the background like the noise cancellation feature of some present day AirPods. 1
We all just got in a big dang hurry and grew up to be adults. Everything isn’t so funny anymore. -Becka in an attempted male Forrest Gump Voice
I went to a small high school with a graduating class of 124 people in Middle Tennessee. I quickly learned there was a huge rivalry with my new school, especially in football, with the neighboring county: Macon County High School. When I first moved to Tennessee, I began attending my school, Westmoreland. I remember balancing my text books on my arm at my new locker and overhearing chatter in the hallways about the “new girl”. “Yea, she’s from Macon County, she has really bad acne and a huge butt.” I hum to myself the tune of Baby Got Back by Sir-Mix-a-lot, 🎶“I like big butts and cannot lie. You other brother’s can’t deny.” 🎶
Humming this was my way of coping with the realization people could still see my raging red acne. I thought I had done a decent job today of disguising it with layers of liquid classic ivory Covergirl patted down with powder. I felt like my face constantly looked like a pasty paper mache craft. Gobs of liquid layers to try to hide the texture of all these raised red pimples and zits. How do girls these days skip right over the awkward phase? Anyways, I hear the term blossom a lot in the next few years on into high school. “Rebecka you have really blossomed to be a beautiful young woman.” Adults would say to me. I would cringe at the compliments and I came to resent that word: Blossom.
My acne finally cleared up. This was no small feat. I had to beg my mom to order the three step Proactive skincare routine that was on every other commercial berating me in between me watching MTV top 10 songs of 2006.2 There was also a Category X drug my dermatologist put me on called Accutane when I was 17. I was still a virgin at this point. This being significant because I had to attend monthly dermatology appointments to take a pregnancy test. My dermatologist would not refill my script until my urine test result was negative. She did not want to be held liable if my unborn child had severe cranial birth defects and abnormalities due to the drug she was prescribing.
One of the side effects of this medication was dryness. I remember my lips always had large white flakes that pealed off like snake skin. I got used to the the taste of blood because I would subconsciously peal at the loose layers making my lips bleed. My entire face looked like a science fair project gone wrong. The whole purpose of this drug was to dry the overactive secretory glands in my pores that were leading to painful cystic acne along my cheeks and jaw. My mother and I came to learn another side effect of the drug was: rectal bleeding.
I guess I should have put a caution ⚠️ or warning: graphic content ahead. As a registered nurse I sometimes forget that people don’t hear terms like: rectum and anal spincters as much as I do. Here’s your warning I suppose. ⛔️
I didn’t have a PCP3 at the time because I was only 17 years old. My mom took me into my old pediatrician office for a check up because “my butt would bleed when I pooped” I had reported to her and begged her to take me to the doctor to check for cancer. I remember the smell of the Japanese Cherry Blossom Bed Bath and Beyond candle that was lit in the waiting room of that doctor’s office. I remember silenty swearing at that stupid word Blossom that was on the side of this candle seated next to a bunch of magazines. I thought how reckless this office was for such an obvious fire hazard. This was a pediatrician’s office with small children spilling off their parent’s laps climbing around near an open flame.
We were called back but they quickly asked my mom to step out of the room so they could ask me a more private question. “Rebecka, are you having anal sex?” My face went blank. They probably thought it was guilt; like they caught me red handed. I pictured my self sitting on the toilet that morning staring down at the scrunched bloodied toilet paper in my palm.
I was silent for far too long because I was flashing sexual education conversations through my head. I mean I knew about regular sex and oral sex at this point, but all I could think, wouldn’t that get feces everywhere?! I hadn’t tried any of it, oral, vaginal OR anal. I was seventeen and my palms would still sweat when I’d make out with my boyfriend and our tongues would touch. Annoyed and now scared I rambled off to try to defend my abstinent, innocent and non-exisitant sex life of any form. They ask me to put on a gown and remove my clothing from the waist down.
I thought of the magazines next to that lit japenese cherry blossom candle in the waiting room. I let out a deep breath hoping it would carry out to the table, whooshing the flame to ignite the neighboring stack of paper. I pictured the smoke rise to the fire alarm above it and a rapid cascade of alerts promting us to evacaute the building. I silently prayed for the quenching of the sprinklers to blast above me and disguise the sweaty armpit rings I had under my arms. I just wanted to grab my mom and leave this sterile room and us all escape down the back stairwell. The nurse in winnie the pooh scrubs asked me again to politley remove my jeans.
I unbuttoned my American Eagle jeans stepping them down my legs and clumsily tried to sneak my thong into the center most part of my pants desperate for a scrap of privacy. I loomed over the child size exam table as I tried to wipe the sweat from my inner thighs with my forearms as to not immediatley stick to the paper. I can see streaks of bold sweat lines every where my legs smushed against the loud crinkly examination paper. Why couldn’t that stupid medication work at drying out the sweat pouring from my legs and butt crack right now? I thought.
They ask me to lay on my side so they could examine my anal sphincters. The pediatricians office did not get 17 years old with rectal bleeding on a daily basis. In fact, I presume I was the first one that ever presented with this. It was clear no one knew anything about the drug Accutane by how many times I had to spell it and describe why I was taking it. It was evident they wanted to get this visit over just as fast as I did. They referred me back to my dermatologist. They advised the provider, whom prescribed this drug, will need to determine if it is a side effect of the medication. The pediactrician reassured me there was no evidence of trauma upon examination as if this was knew knowledge to me. i.e. No signs i’m allowing the penetration of a 17 year old penis into my 17 year butthole. No Shit, Sherlock! I thought to myself as I tried to smile sweetly but the tauntness of my lips stung causing me to wince as we left the room. I couldn’t escape the scent of that disgusting candle fast enough.
Another month later, my acne was completely gone. I was tapering off of the drug Accutane. My mom spent the night following the pediatrician office disaster researching on our dial up internet anything she could find on this drug. She determined all I needed was to simply increase my fluid intake and start a stool softener. It makes sense that if this medication was not only drying out my secretory glands in my face but my intestinal tract was dry too. This was resulting in tiny tears in my mucosal tract due to hard stool. Tough shit, eh?!
I now carried a water bottle with me every where I went and my mom had to sign a note for my high school teachers to allow me extra restroom breaks due to my increased fluid intake requirements. I was no longer the new girl and was thriving on the volleyball team as a starting setter. Rumors were: the volley ball game attendance was up because they got to see Macon Bacon’s Butt in spandex shorts. I didn’t care about any of it. My face no longer looked like a connect-the-dots activity sheet, my poops were normal and volleyball was giving me an outlet for my internalized teenage rage. It was just my mom and my siblings since my dad was deployed to Iraq. I was missing him and still very angry that my highschool experience started out so treacherous.
I was working nearly 20 hours a week at my new job at KFC because I began dating the assistant manager. Tyler Good. He had his last name in bold black vertical tattooed script down his forearm. He was a really good guy. Truly. Not just because of his name. He drew me a bubble bath and took me to O’Charley’s for my favorite loaded baked potato soup after we had sex together for the first time. The crispy bacon crumbles and dollop of daisy in my creamy bowl of soup were more emotionally provoking than losing my viriginity. I didn’t bleed the first time. I didn’t even to get to tell my girlfriends that my cherry was finally popped! It was probably all those hard shits from that acne drug that gets that credit. 🍒
Mr. Good was only a few years older than me and he called me Rabbit as an endearing nickname when I started my first job packing chicken at the drive through counter. He said I would hop around and do everything faster than anyone. He would compliment my busy work ethic by telling me my food line and warmers were the cleanest and neatest KFC in the whole United States. He wasn’t wrong. I scrubbed that store top to bottom. He was my first love. He was dating a friend of mine when I first started working there my Junior year of high school. Once they broke up and I got her loose blessing to date him; we were inseparable after that. I felt extremely annoyed when I had to take off work and miss seeing him because I was nominated for the homecoming court my senior year.
I had never attended a football came the entire 6 years I had attended Westmoreland Middle and High. If I wasn’t playing volleyball, I was packing 12 piece original chicken meals with a side of mashed potatoes and brown gravy and coleslaw. I never felt I truly fit in with my small town school. To this day, I think it was because my last name pigeon holed me into being an outsider. At the start I was seen as a rival, an opponent meant to beat. I won homecoming queen. The stands audibly gasped first before instinctiviely cheering. I was just as shocked as the stands were beating out the most popular girls of the school Megan Warren and head cheerleader Kelli Stiles.4 I had never even attended a football game till this night and they are now crowning me the Queen of this school.
The newspaper camera flashed as I handed one of the pee wee cheerleaders my entire bouquet of red roses. The newspaper captured this generous spirit of me giving away part of my glory to a future generation homecoming queen. When really I was in utter shock. They were laying a crown on my head and handing me so many things I didn’t want. I was just trying to free my hands and the first opportunity that presented was when a miniature cheerleader was staring up at my crown walked near the sidelines. It wasn’t altruistic at all, just a panic response of trying to remove the things bestowed upon me. I glanced back at the remaining homecoming court of girls that were smiling trying to hide their disappointment on not getting queen in front of the audience and cameras. I remember my sideways smile to them as if to say “I’m so sorry, I know you wanted this more than me.”
I shrugged to my mom when she had a mutual shocked expression. She was also in attendance to her first football game at my school. I mouthed to her to meet me at my vehicle so we could escape the departure traffice first. I escaped the crowds and was ducking underneath the bleachers trying to hold my crown in place, when I overheard a random girl in a grade below me say, “It was probably just a bunch of pity votes! Everyone know’s that her dad’s in Iraq with Saddam Hussein.” I froze staring at the girl as she made eye contact with me. She looked shocked and blushed with embarrassement that she was caught saying something so mean.
I yanked the crown off my head, snapping a few sprigs of hair still intertwined. I thought about tossing the crown aside, but instead clenched it tighter in a balled up fist feeling the jewels dig into my palm.
I made a really good friend name Travis Johnson at the start of my sophomore year. He had always wanted to be more than that, but I was always taken. He called me Macon. Not Macon Bacon or new girl with the big butt. Just Macon. And I didn’t mind it. I called him Trav. I tried matching him with calling him Johnson one time and he ruined it by saying, “I’m not Johnson but I’ll show you my Johnson” in a deep Borat themed joking voice. It was crude but we could joke like that. I was always one of those girls that got along with my guy friends better than any friends that were girls. I preferred four wheeling through the woods and gutting a monster buck at the creek bed. I didn’t fit in with the girls that would rather be shopping at the Hendersonville mall admidst a plume of the Abercrombie and Fitch store.
Trav and I were both outsiders at this school. He was from California and his dad lived in Texas and I had just lived in Texas prior to moving back to Tennessee. Trav asked me one time about the spelling of my first name. R-e-b-e-c-k-a. He would stress the “ck”. “Yea I know, No personalized key chains from gas stations for me!!” I would counter. He liked that my name was spelled different.
I said, “Trav it’s actually a really cool story how my mom named me. I’m actually named after, Pocahontas. My mom was pregnant with me in college…” OH MY GAWSSHHH!!! He loudly interrupts me mid story and tries to spin me around in the hallway to look at him. “Macon are you serious?” Trav grabbed near my elbow to stop me making me drop one of my textbooks in front of my locker. He quickly grabbed the book off the floor handing it back to me laughing and jokingly exclaiming.
“Everyone should be calling you POCA-HOTT-ASS, not Macon Bacon.” I slam my locker and pivot towards him ducking my head and scrunching my neck down into my clavicles from his words still echoing into the hallway. “Travis Wayne Johnson!!!! I demand. Not another word; let’s get to chemistry.” “But I want to hear the rest of the story…” he pleads as I storm in front of him to waltz into Mrs. Clinard’s class making sure to shake my big ass to the beat of “Tell ‘em to shake it (Shake it) Shake it (Shake it) Shake that healthy butt, baby got back.”
Miss you Trav. 🪽5
Breathe in…Breathe out gently.
BeckA 🎠
Speaking of growing up… Forest Gump’s voice randomly populates in my mind sometimes. I think it stems from really good enriching memories of watching this movie with my parents and hearing my dad laugh and quote much of the movie my entire up bringing. So forgive me for embedding audio clips of my female version of a Forest Gump Voice of random ramblings that I have to let out. I feel like if I don’t let Forest out he will just Ruunnnnnnn! Runnnn around in my mind for hours and hours.
PCP- Primary care physician
I wish someone could do a longitudindal study on people’s memories in the highschool years. I can’t remember names, events, people from 2 months ago. But highschool, the people and their names are engrained in my memory forever. Such an impactful and sometimes traumatizing time.
Apparently I feel substack is the eqivalent of vomiting my deepest secrets on to you; hope that’s okay?