In the year, 1959, when I was at the tender age of eight, I was learning how to read big words. These were what we used to call 50-cent words because if you learned some, your parents might give you some money as a reward.  These were words that had three or more syllables.  During the 1950s, there was the McCarthy Witch Hunt going on and the big words in the news at that time were SOCIALISM and COMMUNISM.  I heard the words over and over again as my father watched the evening news. 

Finally one July 4th, at a family picnic in the backyard, I decided to ask my father what these big words meant.  “Dad, what’s communism and socialism?”

He looked at me in shock.  “Oh, ho,” he said, “You’ll have to ask your mother about those.” He flipped the hamburgers and puffed on his cigarette.  His fatherly duties were done.

So I went to my mother and asked, “Mom, what’s communism and socialism?”  She looked down at me and leaned back as if I had suddenly broken out in chicken pox. “Where did you get those words?”  The look of contempt on her face amazed me, then she said: “Just forget about those.  You don’t need to know the meaning of those words.” 

I was hurt and disappointed. Here were two good 50-cent words that I wanted to learn the meaning of and together, they seemed to be startling my parents.  I could not imagine why there would be such big words and no one would tell me the meanings.  From my parents’ reaction, I deemed it wise not to ask any teachers.

SOCIALISM. COMMUNISM.  I said the words over and over to myself.  Someday, I would get to the bottom of this.

While sitting in study hall in my third year of high school, I looked down at the books piled on the desk in front of me.  A Business English book and a Business Math book.  On top of them was my red Thorndike Barnhart Dictionary.  I loved my dictionary.  It gave me the secret meaning to every word in the English language.  But the other two books, meant to help me succeed in the world of business, bored me.   I didn’t feel like being bored. So I sat there and thought of any words that I’d heard recently that I didn’t know the meaning of. 

Suddenly the words sounded in my head.  SOCIALISM. COMMUNISM.

Of course, why hadn’t I looked these words up sooner?  I quickly flipped through the pages and read the definition of socialism.  It said something like: Equal distribution of the wealth for the greater good.   I then turned to communism.  It said pretty much the same thing.  I thought about these definitions. Equal distribution of the wealth.  That sounded ok with me.  I grew up in the working class—as my father had explained over the years—and this had left our family of five with just enough to live.  It was always pay check to pay check back when my mother was a “stay at home” mom.  During my early teens, she got a job as a cleaning lady and used the funds to pay for her training as a practical nurse.  Her dream was to work in a hospital.  I watched her and wondered how things would go for me after high school when I would enter the job market myself. 

Equal distribution of the wealth—for the greater good.  For the greater good.  That sounded fair to me. Why should anyone be filthy rich when there were so many wretchedly poor around in need of help?  I decided right there in high school study hall that I was a socialist or a communist.  But as words go, I now needed to figure out why there were two words for the same thing. Did it mean something special? Or was it just typical of English—with its quirky habit of making numerous words for one thing? Or was it two different things?   Like “I lie in bed” and “I lie to my teachers.”  Who could make sense of a language like this?

In the late 1960s, some people got tired of the inequality of society and began a civil rights movement.  The government started a war in Vietnam that caused college students to protest and shut down the schools.  By 1969, into my last year of high school, I began to protest the war.  My punishment was to be denied one-quarter credit on my government score, obligating me to return for summer school if I wanted my diploma.  Many of my fellow students, who were preparing for their graduation, couldn’t even read above a fourth-grade level (Ohio education system!).  They would get a diploma, but were doomed to poverty for the rest of their lives.  Somehow, I believed that I was smarter than the teachers who taught me. I condemned their hypocrisy and headed for the job market. 

It didn’t take long for me to learn how cruel the job market could be.  Interview after interview, I tried to make myself look good to an employer, “sell myself” so I could get some money for life’s basics.  Waitressing was one of the easiest and most likely job opportunities for a young woman.  I had feet and hands and could write the orders on my pad and deliver the food to the right people. But the pay was terrible.  Tip slavery meant the customer placing an order could use the opportunity to be rude and demanding and make you grovel.  I tried to remain indifferent, but some of them made me want to pour hot coffee down their backs.  

I applied for other jobs and got one as a cash register clerk, running groceries through the check-out and accepting their payment.  This paid a little better.  But I watched as the grocery owner insisted that cans with bulging tops, an obvious sign of spoiling, were to be put back on the shelf, even after a customer had returned them.  It took only a few months before the business went out of business.

Interviewing again and again, I finally found an employer who made the mistake of hiring me.  It was the Business Math and Business English listed on my resume that did the trick.  I was hired to apply payments of premiums for insurance coverage.  A fellow co-worker did all my work because she foolishly thought that if she did two jobs, she could get double the pay.  Six months later, when the company was bought by a large corporation, I was terminated and she was given all my work for a slight increase in pay.  Luckily, I had crossed the street and signed up for computer training.  I was about to gain a real career identity and regular pay with benefits.  I became a data entry clerk.

The first thing that impressed me about having a skill that was in demand was that I now had money to throw away foolishly.  I could finally buy knick-knacks, decorations for my apartment and lots of music and books to read.  These luxuries had to make up for the tedium of entering names, addresses, account numbers and money amounts into computer data bases for banks and insurance companies.  My life was of little value to me or anyone else.  All the boss cared about was that I wiggle my fingers over the keyboard with the greatest of accuracy.  My soul cried out in the agony of boredom like nothing I had ever experienced in my life, not even in high school study hall.

I found relief in my sanctuary, the public library.  Again the words appeared SOCIALISM. COMMUNISM.  I went to the library to learn the difference.  How could I let these two mysterious words plague me so?  I went to the index card drawer (how they did it back then).  Such a nice little set of drawers with hundreds of card with words for everything on the planet and every idea any human had ever had.  I looked up the two words and found that there were books written on these subjects.   The little cards advised me to see the librarian to obtain these books.  That was strange. Usually they gave you a number and you walked up and down until you found the right location of the books. 

I went to the librarian and asked.  She looked at the numbers that I had written down from the cards.  She looked at me.  Not quite as strangely as my mother and dad had done years ago, but she looked at me for a long time.  What did she see?  A young woman, about 23 years old, tall and thin, passive, white, intelligent (I hoped) and gentle. I did not demand anything, I just asked for help.  The librarian looked across the rows of books to the back brick wall of the library and pointed up.  “They are there,” she said.  “Go up those steps.  They are on the shelves there.”

I looked over at a metal fire escape with steps that led to a platform with three book shelves filled with books.  Why were the books on socialism and communism put up there?  I thanked the librarian and went to the back wall.

The stairs were covered with dust. Dust so thick it seemed no one had gone up to look at those books in nearly fifty years.  I put my hand on the railing and began to climb. Below me I saw my own foot print on the steps.  Once I arrived on the platform, I looked out across the rows of popular books below.  What were they? Science, math, history, or murder mysteries and romance books.  I turned and looked at the rows of books covered with dust.  Titles like “Till Every Battle is Won” and “Solidarity Forever.”  I looked through a few of the books and picked out several of them. 

I went down stairs with my selection and suddenly it occurred to me.  Maybe I should take out some other books so it didn’t look so strange.  A 23 year old young woman walking out with such weird books.  I zig-zagged in and out of the shelves and picked up a few romances, and how to decorate your home manuals.  The librarian kept looking up at me in wonder as she checked out the books.  Then she handed me quite a stack.  Eight books in all.  “Be sure to bring them back on time,” she advised me.

I took the books home.  Tossed the romance and home decoration guides into a bag readying them for return.  Then I sat down with one of the books.  Rain began to fall against the window in the big room of my efficiency apartment.  As I read, I envisioned workers marching out across the streets, banners and signs waving in the air.  They weren’t bowing their heads any more, they were making demands.  The other book was a “manifesto.” It was some sort of history of Europe, but the phrase that stuck in my head was, “a worker becomes a machine to a machine.”  From this I knew the book was full of truth.  I wanted to learn more. Clearly I was detouring down a different path.