From the Mar 22 – Mar 28, 2001 issue

Pullout

Sweets for the Sweet

Manipulation Through Licorice

by Kathleen Wilson

For years I've been in the constant possession of a shirt that, as a child, I believed to be magic. And when I pull it out of the drawer and slip my arms into its well-worn sleeves, I smell red licorice.

I came to own the shirt when I was 25, through familial thievery, after rifling through my dad's closet. It was a blue-and-white work shirt, the kind laborers wore, the kind that might have been found at Chubby & Tubby if the store had existed in Palo Alto, California in the late '60s. It was a shirt my dad had worn since the time I could recall memories, though I've yet to run across any family photos of him in it.

I couldn't have been older than six the night I read aloud for him the first time. Still very much a boy himself despite being a parent, my dad sat next to me on the bed, turning pages as I sounded out the words. Earlier that day, I'd stood in the yard holding his hand as he surrendered the keys to his beloved '57 Chevy to a teenager, having been convinced, finally, that a station wagon was a more acceptable family car.

My mother often did volunteer work for an adult literacy organization, so it makes sense that I had been taught to read early. Still, the book I had chosen that night was text-heavy, and I stumbled constantly as I read. My dad patiently held the book as I clumsily sounded out three-syllable words on the first (and, as it turned out, only) night anyone ever listened to me read aloud before bed. My parents were still young back then, and to them, my bedtime signaled freedom, so it was always a hurried event.

That night, however, bedtime lingered. As my mother sat in a downtown classroom listening to someone else's father read, my father let me watch the forbidden Hee Haw, then he plopped right down next to me and my book on the bed. Each time I finished a page, he encouraged me to continue by producing a strip of red licorice from his left shirt pocket, as if by magic. I read until the pocket was empty. Too happy and surprised to eat them, I lined up the red tubes on the nightstand, next to my red-and-white-striped record player, and their fragrance filled my dreams.

Looking back, I see that much of my outward and inward happiness as a child was tied to treats and rewards. And, like many little girls, I became a performer for cakes and candy. Remaining quiet so Mom could rest meant a cookie or a scoop of ice cream when the headache was gone; polite conversations with adults or a trip across the balance beam without falling garnered a chunk of chocolate. Daddy's good girl smiled prettily and did tricks in the driveway to make him proudly produce candy; Grandma's secret-keeper kept her mouth shut about the bottles hidden in the bathroom and got sugary tea and shortbread in return.

When we leave the nest, we leave the assurance of easy rewards. Joyous consumption of cakes and candies be-comes outmoded, something to be ashamed of or denied, and a whole new set of skills must be learned. For grown-up girls, sweets are to be eaten privately, furtively; not lined up and displayed but hidden from view; hurried, the flavors never outwardly savored. Expanded pupils belie feigned indifference when the dessert cart is wheeled out, and a resigned "no thank you" squelches the part of our souls that remains six years old, squealing and clapping with delight.

Which is why we never stop to wonder how sweets fell from grace in a matter of a few short years, tumbling from the lofty position of reward to that of lowly consolation. Pride and joy are now empty celebrations; misery and rejection are filled up with buttery creams and syrups. We starve as we strive, and wrap an old work shirt around us like a father's proud embrace--and remember the scent of red licorice whenever we turn a page.

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