Unbeknownst to my parents, my brother once kept a rattlesnake in an aquarium upstairs in our house.  It was housed right next to its friend the moccasin in another aquarium, a duplex of sorts.  He’d captured them in the state park across the street from our home, as a testament to his “snake whisperer” ways, and to prove to the park ranger who ran the nature exhibit that they did, in fact, appear locally.  They lived upstairs in harmony for about two weeks until my mother discovered she’d been sharing her dwelling with two reptiles that harbored poisonous venom in their fangs.  I’ll leave it to you to imagine the tirade that ensued before their eviction.

The moccasin was aggressive.  It would actually come towards the glass if you approached, like:  bring it, bro, you want a piece of me?  Snakes are all muscle and can easily lift a mesh aquarium top with their bodies.  Some friends of ours used to own a pet store, and they discovered this the hard way when a snake “went missing.”  It was found a day or so later wrapped up nicely with the vacuum cleaner cord, clever camouflage until it was time to tidy up the store.  (You’re going to think twice before you pull out your vacuum next time, aren’t you?)

The rattlesnake was shy and preferred to stay hidden.  Tapping on the glass or sometimes even footsteps coming up the stairs were enough to start the ominous rattles shaking, warning off the intruder.  I don’t want to fight you, but I will if I have to, they implied.

In college, my roommate Cindy and I were on a retreat one weekend in the Smokies.  We went hiking with a large group but eventually got so far behind that we found ourselves alone at a fork in the path.  Murphy’s Law:  we took the wrong fork and were lost for a couple of hours, winding around in the woods until we came to a rocky overhang.   We were talking and laughing, paying little attention to our surroundings, until I almost stepped on a rattler, coiled up like a spring in the middle of the path.  We did a high-stepping snake dance, screaming in stereo and jumping into the brush.  Giving him a wide berth, we edged along the rocks until we could pass safely.  Of course, because we had been going the wrong way, we had to go back by him again once we realized how to get back to civilization.  At the time, I didn’t care that the snake was shy and panicked.  Every nerve in my body screamed “run away!”

It’s no coincidence that when I was between the ages of 12 and 15, my father came up with an endearing nickname for me.  Princess?  Sweetheart?  Lovey?  Nope.  Rattlesnake.  If you’ve ever actually had contact with a teenage girl around this age, you will totally understand.  Moody and preferring isolation, my “rattles” sounded all the time.  Leave me alone.  Get lost.  I don’t want to fight you, but I will if I have to.  And if you poked too much, the venom would spray.

It was such an apt nickname, better than he knew.  All my rattles and venom were defensive, spring-loaded for anyone who dared to get too close, a knee-jerk reaction to all those raging hormones.  (Side note:  do hormones ever do anything besides rage?  I picture them in a loud, torch-carrying mob, storming the castle in the night.)   It was all bluster.  Just a front for whatever fear, anger, anxiety, or sadness I felt at the time.  For some reason it all came out as fangs and rattles, and my family gave me a wide berth.

Fitting that I had to navigate this same wilderness with my own daughter at these ages.  My mother always said I’d have a child just like me.  After an attempt at conversation with her once, my father, as adept at nicknames as Sawyer on L*O*S*T*,  dubbed her “Scratchy Cat.”  Perfect.

Although I’ve outgrown the nickname, still there are times when I’m tired or emotional, and in the back of my head I detect a faint sound of maracas.  My dear husband might say the sound is more than just faint.   REO Speedwagon has a song with the lines

You played dead

But you never bled

Instead you lay still in the grass

All coiled up and hissing.

Despite that, the singer says he’s “gonna keep on loving you.”  That’s all we misunderstood rattlesnakes need, really.  Someone to see through the scales and hiss to the person with feelings underneath.  Thankfully, I’ve had friends and family brave and kind enough to quash their tendency to scream and run.  I’m a little more understanding to those quick to rattle and spit because more often than not it’s all smoke screen.

In any case, if somewhere down the road I completely change my image and become a leather and chains biker babe, I’ve got my name all picked out.  Just call me Viper.