Not Afraid of Life Page 3

  My friends may have thought Mom was cool, but they thought Dad was Superman.

  Life with my parents was wonderful, though I never really considered their jobs as anything unusual. Maybe Mom had more late-night phone calls and Dad was gone more than some other jobs required. However, our family of five was a fun and great way to grow up. One morning, Mom nudged me from the couch where Willow and I were watching television.

  “Come on,” she said. “Go put your shoes on, so you guys can come to my doctor’s appointment with me.”

  We piled in the black four-door Bronco, thinking we were running some of our normal errands. We were too young to realize we were in an ob/gyn office. Even if we had noticed the sign on the door, we were too young to know what that even meant.

  The nurse came in, put a wand on Mom’s belly, and an image popped up on a screen.

  “Can you tell the girls what they are looking at?” She beamed at the nurse.

  “This,” she said very sweetly, “is your new little . . . sister.”

  It was the first time Mom knew the gender of the baby. And the first time we knew we were getting another sibling.

  Finally! I’d wanted a baby in the house to take care of for so long! When my new sister arrived on March 19—exactly on the date she was due—they named her Piper Indi Grace, after the Piper plane my dad flies, the idea of “independence,” and the grace of God. Mom let me decide how to spell “Indi,” whether with a y or an i. I chose the i because it seemed like it’d be a lot more fun writing than the old boring y. Plus, I didn’t want people to think of the Indy 500, the big manly Polaris snowmachine that my dad sold at his shop.

  Mom’s friends gave her a baby shower at the Grouse Ridge Shooting Range because they knew Mom loved the Second Amendment and because they’d shot clay pigeons at the range when Mom was pregnant. Since she was the mayor, it was a big baby shower. The theme, of course, centered around airplanes. The cake was in the shape of a Piper plane, and there were blankets with Pipers on them. I loved being there with Mom, celebrating my new sister’s arrival. I also loved that there were three babies under the age of three months there. My uncle’s wife had a baby at the end of December, my aunt Molly had a baby at the end of January, and Mom had Piper in the middle of March. I was in heaven!

  Though I loved taking care of younger siblings and cousins, that didn’t mean that I couldn’t hang with the boys. I went to Iditarod Elementary School, and I took swimming lessons, ran track and cross-country, and played soccer. I could run so fast I could beat the boys in our mile run in P.E. class! Plus, I was proud of myself for being elected treasurer of our school, though I don’t remember ever handling real money. I also played trumpet in fifth grade, though I was not good! I only chose the trumpet because it had three buttons, but I still complained about having to practice. Mom and Dad would not let me quit, though. I signed up for it, and had to deal with the consequences.

  I was always so close to Aunt Molly that she told me about both of her next pregnancies before she told the rest of the family . . . much to my mother’s chagrin! But her husband, my uncle Mike, was no prize.

  Though sometimes Uncle Mike was charming and fun, he was known around town for embellishing facts and telling outright lies. He was a big burly state trooper . . . six foot four and 250 pounds. He was very intimidating and always teased Payton by accusing him of being weak.

  I saw it firsthand. One day in 2003, my cousin Payton and I were sitting downstairs at their house with him, while Aunt Molly gave her daughter a bath upstairs. That day started out like any other day, but it would become a part of my consciousness, and—sadly—a part of the national political conversation years later when my mom ran for vice president. And the whole controversy started with this stupid question:

  “Hey, Payton, do you want to get shot with a Taser gun?”

  Yes, a state trooper—an adult—asked that question of a kid.

  I could tell Payton was unsure about it, but he didn’t want to be accused by his stepdad—for the millionth time—of being a “wuss.”

  “Okay,” he said, staring at the Taser gun that his stepdad pulled out of his holster. “I guess.”

  Uncle Mike prepped the Taser, and Payton started getting more and more nervous. He didn’t let on. I never really thought Uncle Mike would actually go through with it. Perhaps he was just testing him.

  But I was wrong. I was standing at the top of the stairs when Uncle Mike took the Taser and shot my cousin. Payton instantly fell back as intense signals were sent through his nervous system. His muscles constricted. In a bit, the pain lessened and he shook his head, as if to get rid of that feeling.

  As Payton was recovering, Uncle Mike looked at me and saw that I was crying.

  “Bristol, you’re next.”

  I was not about to let what I just saw happen to my cousin happen to me, even if he was an adult. Even if he was my uncle.

  “Aunt Molly! Uncle Mike just shot Payton with a Taser!”

  “No, he didn’t,” she said. It’s not that she didn’t think I was trustworthy; she just couldn’t imagine that the man she married would do such a thing to an innocent little kid.

  When it finally dawned on her that I was telling the truth—and Payton confirmed it—she was livid.

  We weren’t the only people who had trouble with Mike. In fact, there were so many citizen complaints against him that one day a state trooper detective asked to come to our home and interview us about what we’d observed about his activities.

  “Of course,” we said. Cooperating with a detective is not something you think twice about.

  What was revealed about Mike’s actions as a state trooper was shocking, including citizens claiming to have watched him chug beer in his patrol car, claims that he later denied; and one of his fellow police officers confessed that he witnessed him illegally killing an animal on a hunting trip, another claim that he also denied.

  Oddly, the detective didn’t seem too interested in my story. In fact, he turned off his tape recorder during our interview and lectured me about how Taser guns aren’t lethal. I told him about my Internet research on the dangers of using a Taser on a little kid, including Taser-related fatalities, but he just laughed.

  “The Internet is full of lies,” he said.

  My interview only seemed to help Mike and his fellow union members (including the detective himself!) make it sound like I was just whining about a cop. I sure wasn’t whining. I was just truthfully answering the questions. This is when I really began to wrangle with the ideas of justice and fairness, and when I learned some people just don’t want to be bothered by the truth. The incident also showed that my mom and dad cared so much about family that they were ready to stick their necks out, even at great cost to themselves.

  It was a regrettable incident that stuck out because I had an otherwise peaceful childhood. Our home was right in the middle of town, so that meant our friends were always over. Dad paved us a basketball court area and put up a hoop. We putzed around on the lake on Jet-Skis and boats. On the Fourth of July, friends would come over and watch the fireworks over the lake and go swimming. Our house was known as the place to hang out after school or practice, and Mom kept the house full of cookies. We’d also go out to Papa Jim’s cabin in Crosswinds (Papa Jim is my paternal grandfather) and shoot BB guns and go berry picking for pies we’d make for dinner at his cabin. My parents worked hard to make our family a good one.

  It might seem unconventional that Mom was the mayor and Dad was both a commercial fisherman and worked in the North Slope . . . and it was. But through love and a lot of effort, they made the challenging jobs and demanding schedules work for our family. I grew up knowing how to bait a hook, I grew up knowing how to shoot a basketball, and I grew up knowing that I was loved. In many ways, my childhood was very similar to my mom’s . . . full of fishing, hunting, camping, family, church, and friends.
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br />   Then, in seventh grade, I met a guy named Levi.

  Chapter Two

  First Impressions

  In seventh grade, my locker was right beside Levi Johnston’s. Of course I noticed he was handsome, and I was happy when we’d run into each other between classes. However, I hadn’t thought much about him until an English teacher gave all of us an assignment: write a letter to ourselves for a time capsule to be opened at the end of high school. The assignment asked us to list our goals, our dreams, and our interests. I remember thinking and thinking about my list because I wanted it to be just right. After all, it seemed like a big deal to put something into a “time capsule.” I didn’t realize it only meant the teacher would file it under “Class of 2009” in some dusty old file room. At any rate, my letter had some lofty goals, like wanting to own fifty pairs of jeans, having my own pig, wanting to go to a Lakers game, and meeting President Bush. But at the very end, after I’d sat there thinking about who I might like, my mind went back to that cocky guy whose locker was next to mine. I’d already written “I have a crush on . . .” So as the teacher told us to turn in our papers, I hurriedly scribbled “Levi Johnston.”

  That’s how it all started.

  That year, we lingered a little too long at our lockers, so long that we’d almost miss class. Which was silly, since we had math, English, social studies, and science together anyway. We saw plenty of each other.

  Levi was known for stirring up trouble in class, especially when we had a substitute teacher. But one day he picked the wrong substitute teacher to challenge—my grandpa. An amazing thing about school was that Grandpa frequently substituted for us in science. And he was great! His house is full of antlers, snake skins, monkey skulls, duck bones, owl pelts, jars of dissected animals, and porcupine quills to show the class. My friends loved it, because when they saw Grandpa, they knew they’d learn more interesting things than just the “parts of a cell.” Plus, he never assigned homework because he believed kids should get their schoolwork done during school hours.

  On this particular day, Grandpa was there teaching us about petrified wood, when Levi started his usual antics. He wasn’t loud and obnoxious, he was quiet and obnoxious. He threw spitballs at someone, kicked a kid under the table, and even punched some poor kid. When Grandpa kicked him out of the class and sent him to the office, it was the first sign of how well Levi would get along with my family.

  He didn’t make a good first impression on my mom, either. Later that year, his competition hockey team played my older brother Track’s team and won. Afterward, Levi came up to me and gloated, “I told you I’d beat Track’s team.” Mom, who was standing right there, was not impressed with this big guy who had a talent for trash-talking but nothing else.

  “What’s that guy’s problem, and why is he gloating to you about your brother’s loss?”

  I assured her that he was just kidding, but I could tell Mom was not fond of him. I quickly ran and hid in the car, so he wouldn’t run his mouth again.

  Though I loved my mom and grandpa and respected their opinions, Levi’s bad behavior wasn’t a deal breaker for me. I found him exciting. Like many women throughout history, I went for the “bad boy” who didn’t care about authority. After all, he was my opposite. I was a rule follower, a teacher’s pet, a straight-A student. I didn’t even cuss, and when people used bad words around me, I’d correct them. “Come on,” I’d say a little self-righteously. “Don’t use that kind of language.”

  Levi was my first crush, though nothing “official” was ever established between us to give us the designation of “boyfriend and girlfriend.” However, it felt more “official” when we had a substitute teacher (not Grandpa!), and Levi made the class memorable for me in a way different from his usual antics. Instead of using this opportunity to pull someone’s hair or trip someone, in the middle of class he reached under the table and grabbed my hand. It was the first time I’d ever held hands with a boy, and my heart raced.

  Throughout the year, we passed notes to each other all the time, under our teachers’ noses. Once a note landed on my desk and I carefully unfolded the paper. I gasped when I read what he’d written.

  Will u be my gurl?

  No, it didn’t have boxes to check—yes, no, or maybe. It was just the one sentence, all alone, in a rather lame attempt to make sure I was “his.”

  I didn’t think about it too long. I scribbled hurriedly:

  No! You’re supposed to ask me in person.

  Levi could barely get through a week without getting in trouble at Teeland Middle School. He had a sister named Mercede (like the car, but without the s) whom we called “Sadie.” She wasn’t a model student either, and his mom eventually transferred both of them to a different school. This was a good indication that things at his home were really not good. His mom was always letting her kids do whatever they wanted. (She was later arrested for selling OxyContin in the local Target parking lot and served time in jail.)

  When Levi finally left my school, a lot of drama left with him, and I sank all of my energy into sports. Athletics shaped my life as much as the state in which I grew up . . . just as they did for my grandparents and both of my parents. I played basketball, ran track, was the captain of my volleyball team, wrestled, and then I added another, unexpected sport to my roster.

  It happened because I idolized my older brother, Track. When he made the offhand comment that football practice was harder than basketball, well, I had to show him he was wrong.

  “It is not,” I protested. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

  “How can you do that?” he asked, familiar with the stubborn streak that made me unable to back down from any fight. “You’ve never played football.”

  He was right, of course. After all, girls my size didn’t play football, but I never let anything keep me from a challenge. “I’ll join the team then.”

  And so I did, much to the bemused pleasure of my brother.

  I was one of the smallest receivers the Houston Hawks had, and we lost every game. However, I went to every practice, kept up with the boys, and never complained. At the time, my mom was training for a marathon, so she’d drive me to practice and run to get a couple of hours of training in while we were out on the field.

  Normally, my brother was very protective. Though he would later threaten to beat up anyone who messed with me, this “protective streak” disappeared when it came to our bet. I could tell the guys on my team were a little hesitant to tackle Track Palin’s sister. But he’d laugh and say, “Go ahead. Hit her harder!”

  After weeks of practice, it was time for the actual games to begin. One Saturday, I was running a play when someone came at me. I got tackled so hard that I lay on the ground and cried . . . right in front of my brother and his friends in the stands. I saw my dad, who was standing on the sidelines, wince. Lying there on the field, I’d never felt more embarrassed in my life. I was practically sobbing, which wasn’t pretty since I’d gotten all the wind knocked out of me. It was the only time I cried.

  I want to quit, I remember thinking. But quitting wasn’t an option. At least not for me. I went back onto the field and played. We didn’t score any points at all, until the last game. The one touchdown we scored wasn’t enough to win a game, but we were thrilled! That season, I gained respect from my teammates and coaches because I’d toughed it out without whining. When that football season finally ended, so did my short-lived football career.

  And I survived it, Track Palin. You have to admit that now.

  Though I was the only girl to play football, my friends and I stuck together in our other athletic activities.

  My best friends were Jenna, Ema, and Sammy. Jenna’s dad was a sloper like mine, so she was a hard worker and was focused on getting good grades, too. It was nice, because we shared all the same classes. Her family belonged to the Mormon church, and they were always involved in church activities
. Ema went to the same Bible church as my family did, but she was a very curious girl, always pushing the limits.

  In a word, we were jocks. In Wasilla, there wasn’t the typical “cheerleader” stereotype like there is in the other states. The popular girls were the athletic ones, and we played everything our town offered.

  On a whim, my friend Sammy and I decided to join the wrestling team. (Not as uncommon up here as a girl being on the football team.) This entailed learning hundreds of moves, both offensively and defensively and from the top and bottom. After much practice, when the referee blew the whistle at the beginning of the match, and my opponent began circling and looking for an opening or to clinch my arms, I was ready. We worked so hard during that season, and we were in the best shape of our lives! Dad never came to my meets, because he did not want to see his daughter wrestling. Football was one thing, but this? It was too much for him. The worst part about the whole experience was that we had to wear purple “singlets” for our meets. They looked so ridiculous that Sammy and I wore them to volleyball practice to get a few laughs. We looked stupid, but it’s fun to be silly when you have your friends around you.

  The girls and I also played on the basketball team together. In eighth grade, I was a shooting guard for Teeland Middle School’s team—the Titans—and proudly wore the number 20. (My mother was number 22 all through her high school basketball days.) Our coach, John Brown, was a talented guy with light blond hair and three daughters. He was also our math teacher. This meant that we basketball players tried to get away with everything in class. Jenna and I would go up to him in the middle of prealgebra and ask, “Can we go do the basketball laundry?” We got out of a lot of boring math that way, but we still managed to make all As. In fact, all of our middle school teachers made learning fun. For example, in eighth grade, we took a multimedia class where we shot our own videos. Jenna and I took on the challenging task of making a video called “How to Make a Grilled Cheese Sandwich.” (This, sadly, is still about the extent of my cooking skills.)