A Lotus Grows in the Mud by Goldie Hawn Page A

from my home in Takoma Park. The name of the town I grew up in derives from an old Indian word meaning “higher up near heaven.” I love that. Nothing in my twelve years has ever caused me to doubt its truth. But I am about to learn, in the most graphic way, that death is just a heartbeat away.
    I have been practicing my handwriting all morning with my best teacher, Mrs. Volmer. Robust and big-breasted, with perfect brown hair, she has taught me more than any teacher I have ever had. Gripping my pen firmly between the forefinger and thumb of my left hand, my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth, I carefully draw circles within circles, making perfect loops every time, never allowing my hand to leave the paper.
    The only left-hander in my class, I work very hard to hold my pen the way everyone else does. Thank heavens Mrs. Volmer doesn’t force me to work with my right hand, or tie my left hand behind my back as some teachers do. Looping and looping, trying hard to keep within the lines, I can’t help but feel like I’m dancing.
    “Okay, class,” she suddenly announces, clapping her hands together to attract our attention, “once you’ve finished your handwriting practice we’re going to the Visual Aids Room to watch a film.”
    The class is all abuzz, excited about the chance to watch a movieabout growing corn or New York City or maybe something about nature. Eager too, I finish my perfect loops, throw my pen into my pencil box and slam down the desk lid.
    We all line up like little soldiers and snake our way out of the class. “Quiet down, children. Single file,” Mrs. Volmer instructs. I start to do some balancés down the hallway but hear Mrs. Volmer from the back of the line: “Goldie, no dancing, please.” Embarrassed, I fall back in step with the rest.
    We file on through the cold, dark gymnasium, with its squeaky wooden floor and its bittersweet memories of the maypole dance and the talent show. We wend our way down the stairs to the basement. We call it “the Dungeon.”
    I scramble for a good seat in the front row and fidget next to my friends, staring up expectantly at the screen.
    “Quiet down, now quiet down, kids. Hands in laps.”
    Mrs. Volmer flicks off the lights, and I whisper to the girl next to me, “I wonder what we’re going to see.” Staring into the inky blackness, I hear Mrs. Volmer make her way across to the projector, then click it on, and the 16 millimeter film starts running through the machine. Ever since I can remember, I have been scared of the dark. My mother always leaves my bedroom door open every night and the light on in the hallway. Now that there is a little light flickering on the screen, I feel comforted.
    Then a bright white light on the screen suddenly illuminates the whole room. It is the face of a huge clock. A booming voice counts backward: “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one.”
    Suddenly, an enormous explosion erupts from the screen. The entire room vibrates. “This is what will happen when there is an enemy attack,” a voice announces.
    My whole being is shaken to the core. I gasp aloud, and press my back hard against the cold metal chair. The sheer noise and vibration level send me into a cataclysmic nosedive of fear.
    The camera pans across images of total geological and human devastation. Flying debris. Windows bursting from buildings, flames and thick smoke billowing from the earth. Trees, whole areas of the earth, flattened.Mothers sobbing, maimed and choking in the wreckage, their babies lying bleeding on the ground. I plug my ears against their agonizing cries.
    My heart is pulsing in my throat. I feel dizzy, sick to my stomach. I begin to tremble from head to toe. I am in shock, unable to speak. This isn’t a horror movie; this isn’t a nightmare. This is real. Or is it? Could this really happen?
    Mommy, I cry inside my head, rocking myself backward and forward in my seat. Mommy. I need my mom.
    I try not to