Queen of the Jungle

 

Throughout my childhood, I woke up early every Saturday morning while everyone else slept
Just to watch TV re-runs of Ron Ely swing on vines
And command the lions, crocodiles, great apes, and elephants,
All while dressed in a small leather loincloth.
I was enamored with the concept of Lord Greystoke, otherwise known as
Tarzan, King of the Jungle.

I wanted to be Tarzan.

When my dad hung up a tire swing in the woods way behind our house,
I would often go and straddle the top of the tire swing,
Tiny hands gripping tightly onto the yellow rope.
With my arms extended, hanging my torso over open ground,
Swinging back and forth,
Loudly imitating the Tarzan cry,
I often beat my chest, imagining my power over all the creatures around me.

It didn’t matter that Tarzan was a male and I was just a little girl.
Possibilities were all I knew.
I could become Tarzan and build my tiny muscles into giant ropes of tissue.
It was just a matter of time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 

Somehow,
At some point in my life,
I’m not sure when or how,
My Tarzan dream died.
My Tarzan hid in the jungles and didn’t make much noise.
Her powers to command the jungles were subdued.

I’m not sure if I was subconsciously taught by society
That girls didn’t do those types of things,
That girls in central Florida couldn’t go to Africa and become kings of jungles,
That humans couldn’t possibly control all these creatures, OR
That the Tarzan story was just a myth, a made-up story by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
(In fact, it wasn’t until a pop culture literature class in grad school that I read the original Tarzan novel.)
  
I’m not sure how or when,
But my Tarzan dream died.

The rebel in me,
The tiny kingdom-conqueror,
Became a rule-follower, a color-in-the-lines individual, an authority non-questioner.
Yes, I was a leader.
I was the person others followed even at a young age.
I tended to take over situations when no one else did.
I did not mind being the little adult in a tiny body.
In fact, when my kindergarten teacher left the classroom, I gathered the other kindergarteners around me while I read them The Cat in the Hat, displaying pictures between page turns.
I was a teacher even at age 5.

But somewhere along the way, this Tarzan wannabe learned that
The authorities were to be listened to,
And without question, I was to do what they told me.

Even if it was a pastor who thought it would be great fun to smear rubber cement all over both my tiny arms one day,
I never expressed alarm.
Even when a teacher decided to put me as a sixth grader in charge of demerits for fellow sixth grade patrol officers,
I never complained aloud but just went home and cried over the cruelty of angry peers.
Even when a youth pastor put me as a ninth grader in charge of planning an entire weekend of teen activities,
I silently cried at home when he criticized me in front of my teenage peers after the event ended.

I kept leading.
I kept volunteering and being a tiny adult,
But inside, I learned to take up less and less space.
No swinging from vines, or yelling my presence to the world,
But silently, antlike, busylike, I did what I was told.
I avoided the “too’s” as much as possible—too strong, too much, too ______.

In my first teaching job, when the assistant principal frequently made false claims about what “good teachers” could do, suggesting that I was a failure,
I quietly went about doing my job (and somehow didn’t give up teaching).
Both parents warned me that some men felt threatened by competent, able females.  
Neither suggested I be less than.
 

However, I could see no escape.
I was a female.
I was competent and able.
What was my alternative option?

A Tarzan wasn't allowed in this world.  All I learned to do was to stifle my jungle cry.  

These men threatened by competent, able females seemed to cross paths with me.
It happened again with a narcissistic pastor boss who made me feel less than, who told me I was “not worthy” to be a minister.
It happened again later with a supervisor who put every strong individual in their place and punished me with a schedule that was unmanageable.

Each time I stayed quiet.
I didn’t scream, or yell, or speak up for myself.
I didn’t file a complaint or go to HR.
I didn’t call the lions and the elephants to my rescue.

Each time I feared the repercussions that would come if I swung on my vine,
if I beat my chest,
If I loudly claimed my space in this world.

    * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If I am honest, because I knew no other alternatives,
It happened in many personal relationships,
Where I gave up space,
Trying to love,
Trying to please,
Trying to be the person I felt I should be.

I didn’t ask the right questions.
I didn’t question statements that possibly seemed untrue.
I didn’t tell anyone I was Tarzan, and I didn't yell my jungle cry.
I just went along, busylike and antlike,
Mowing the yard, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, raising the boys, grading papers, buying groceries, and checking off items on my list of tasks.

I didn’t assert myself as Queen of the Jungle.
When I was told at age 20, “You grew on me like a wart” as a statement of how we fell in love,
I didn’t beat my chest and express my power.
I didn’t speak up about the hurt.

I loved big.
But I lost big.
This Tarzan made mistakes, but this Tarzan denied herself
And her power
And her voice.

            * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Somehow,
In the rubble of the death of my husband,
As I was cleaning up the belongings stashed in corners of the house and in closets,
piled in the shed and in the garage,
As I removed the excess,
As I went through boxes, and uncovered long-lost belongings,
I somehow uncovered Tarzan hidden among the boxes.

Tarzan was there all along.
She was a bit dusty and her voice creaked from lack of use.
However, Tarzan's eyes still twinkled,
And unloosed from the piles of restrictions,
And with practice on a figurative tire swing,
And with daily vocal cries,
She is starting to regain her power.

From what I can tell,
And what I can observe,
This new Tarzan is one badass Queen of the Jungle.
You should see her swing.
You should see her beat her chest.
You should hear her yell her jungle cry,
And she will never again relinquish her hard-earned spot as Queen of the Jungle.  

She is finally realizing her dream to become Tarzan—
Not a myth—
A reality.