The car screeches to a haphazard stop facing me as I walk down the driveway. The door opens, and the driver leaps out without any clear direction or purpose. She screams my name, which is nearly lost on her shallow, fast breathing. The freezing wind pulls her blond hair out of its loose knot, and she runs towards me, "THE MAIL!" she screams, "IS IT HERE?"
Shocked into speechlessness, I hold up the stack of envelopes in my hand. She grabs my other hand, and pulls me to the mailbox. I let go, and the dropped papers scatter behind me. Her nervous energy keeps her warm, while I shiver as another wind whips by. "What are we-" she cuts me off with her hand as she yanks open the tiny metal door. It's empty. She looks confused, and extremely disappointed. I point down the street, at the approaching mail truck. She plants her feet. "We're waiting." We've grown up together, she's easily my sister. So together we wait. Shivering together, with dedication to an unknown cause.
As the white van pulls up, she sticks her hand between the box and the man. He chuckles, and hands her the bundle. She tears a large envelope from the bottom, and throws the useless rest at me. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of the insignia, and it makes sense. Our breath rises in white puffs, but I don't remember even being able to breathe in the endless eternity it took her to tear it open. She lets out a scream, and I join in, both of us melting into laughter, a shared joy, sisters, jumping and squealing in the freezing cold.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Day Two: Growth and Development
I guess I should have expected domestic abuse to be in the sex education unit, which is essentially the rug under which all embarrassing topics are swept. After a gruesome, graphic slide-show of scars, bruises, and bullet wounds, we are given worksheets, to evaluate our own relationships for "teen dating violence." Absentmindedly, I fill out the little check boxes, row upon row of healthy functioning friendships. In a sense of recklessness and boredom, I turn the page to a new checklist, and decide to evaluate the worst relationship I've had.
Suddenly, I freeze. Check one, "one puts the other down by calling names." I shake it off. One unhealthy check means nothing. But then, check two, "one treats the other like a child." Check three, "one frequently criticizes other's friends/interests." "one tells the other how to dress." "one has grabbed, pulled, pushed, or hurt the other." By the end of the list, I've checked every warning sign of an abusive relationship. Staring down at it, I immediately try to deny it, to excuse him, a small voice that's quickly crushed by an echo of the video, "many victims blame themselves, and deny any abuse."
Could the relationship have been bad to the point of abuse? The mindlessly "healthy" checks suddenly don't seem so petty, the strong friendships I realize I'm endlessly grateful for. Of course, I was never actually hurt. But nonetheless, I'm suddenly grateful for leaving him. A dear friend of mine is caught in a emotionally abusive relationship, one she refuses to leave. "Give me a week," she begs, "I'll leave him then. He'll be different." How is it that we are drawn to such pain? She blames herself.
I realize now, that as much courage and determination is takes to hold on to something, not just relationships, it takes just as much, maybe even more, to let go. One just needs to know what's worth holding onto.
Suddenly, I freeze. Check one, "one puts the other down by calling names." I shake it off. One unhealthy check means nothing. But then, check two, "one treats the other like a child." Check three, "one frequently criticizes other's friends/interests." "one tells the other how to dress." "one has grabbed, pulled, pushed, or hurt the other." By the end of the list, I've checked every warning sign of an abusive relationship. Staring down at it, I immediately try to deny it, to excuse him, a small voice that's quickly crushed by an echo of the video, "many victims blame themselves, and deny any abuse."
Could the relationship have been bad to the point of abuse? The mindlessly "healthy" checks suddenly don't seem so petty, the strong friendships I realize I'm endlessly grateful for. Of course, I was never actually hurt. But nonetheless, I'm suddenly grateful for leaving him. A dear friend of mine is caught in a emotionally abusive relationship, one she refuses to leave. "Give me a week," she begs, "I'll leave him then. He'll be different." How is it that we are drawn to such pain? She blames herself.
I realize now, that as much courage and determination is takes to hold on to something, not just relationships, it takes just as much, maybe even more, to let go. One just needs to know what's worth holding onto.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
In Costco
It's funny, the ability to see a complete stranger, to peer into their lives, to know nothing about them, and to learn something. I balance on the lowest rung of the cart and drift slowly through the endless rows of Costco, propelled periodically by the one foot I let trail on the ground.
I've memorized the rows, the layouts, the regular faces.* Yet today, there's a different sound. Beautiful, familiar, haunting. I weave in and out of the crowded isles to follow it. Moonlight Sonata. I nearly cry out at the joy of recognition. A grand piano is on display, in the dead center of the store. The grandiose, sleek, black, shapes juxtapose the small man with wispy white hair coaxing the sounds out of it. He sits hunched on the bench, shriveled with age, yet his hands are graceful, energetic, and carefree. I abandon my cart to wander closer. There's talent and passion in his music, and a curiosity of what string of events has brought him here, to play Beethoven on a piano on a Costco display, gnaws at me.
Drifting farther, I'm captured by an argument near the cookies at the bakery. Two arguments, to be precise. A young man is standing on his cart like I am, and his pout is matched exactly by a young boy across from him, the two oblivious to each other. Both are begging for cookies, the big kind, with chocolate chips. A mother and a girlfriend play the bad guy to the young boy and man respectively, and neither gets cookies.
A small boy, ruddy faced, smeared with free samples and freckles dashes in front of my cart, quickly followed by a disheveled mother calling after him. Michael. His name is Michael, this grimy, delighted boy, having the time of his life avoiding his mother and hiding under tables. I smile to myself.
The rows of personalized cakes awaiting pickup catches my fancy, and I wander towards them, standing on my tiptoes to peek into the frosty cellophane box lids. I can make out an American flag. Suddenly, I realize that I'm staring at a going away cake, for someone in the army. I feel ashamed, like I saw something I couldn't have, and back away. I wonder who it's for. Will they be missed? Will they be safe? Who ordered it? Will they be lonely?
It's late now, and I leave, again struck by the lives of the other shoppers. An allegory of us all of us. Small truths, in light. In the endless rows of Costco.
*Clean- http://organizedchaos-reagan.blogspot.com/2010/11/clean.html
I've memorized the rows, the layouts, the regular faces.* Yet today, there's a different sound. Beautiful, familiar, haunting. I weave in and out of the crowded isles to follow it. Moonlight Sonata. I nearly cry out at the joy of recognition. A grand piano is on display, in the dead center of the store. The grandiose, sleek, black, shapes juxtapose the small man with wispy white hair coaxing the sounds out of it. He sits hunched on the bench, shriveled with age, yet his hands are graceful, energetic, and carefree. I abandon my cart to wander closer. There's talent and passion in his music, and a curiosity of what string of events has brought him here, to play Beethoven on a piano on a Costco display, gnaws at me.
Drifting farther, I'm captured by an argument near the cookies at the bakery. Two arguments, to be precise. A young man is standing on his cart like I am, and his pout is matched exactly by a young boy across from him, the two oblivious to each other. Both are begging for cookies, the big kind, with chocolate chips. A mother and a girlfriend play the bad guy to the young boy and man respectively, and neither gets cookies.
A small boy, ruddy faced, smeared with free samples and freckles dashes in front of my cart, quickly followed by a disheveled mother calling after him. Michael. His name is Michael, this grimy, delighted boy, having the time of his life avoiding his mother and hiding under tables. I smile to myself.
The rows of personalized cakes awaiting pickup catches my fancy, and I wander towards them, standing on my tiptoes to peek into the frosty cellophane box lids. I can make out an American flag. Suddenly, I realize that I'm staring at a going away cake, for someone in the army. I feel ashamed, like I saw something I couldn't have, and back away. I wonder who it's for. Will they be missed? Will they be safe? Who ordered it? Will they be lonely?
It's late now, and I leave, again struck by the lives of the other shoppers. An allegory of us all of us. Small truths, in light. In the endless rows of Costco.
*Clean- http://organizedchaos-reagan.blogspot.com/2010/11/clean.html
Friday, December 10, 2010
Who?
Even from far away, I can tell his heart is broken. It doesn't take much for him to tell. "She's dating someone else," he says. It was a show-mance. "That's the problem with actors," he spits, almost disgustedly, "they get confused with what's their role, and what's real life." His mouth twitches up into a sad, half-smile. "No offense."
Terrifyingly, I suddenly see the same in myself. When I'm sad, I'm not me. I'm Eponine, self-pityingly lonesome. When I'm whiny, I'm Bloody Mary, grabby and demanding. More often then not, I'm Winifred, loud, insane, and obnoxious. I do not know if I give them bits of myself, bringing them to life, or if I learn from them. I have no idea who I am. I have no idea who anyone is. In theater, lines are blurred. We respond to our character names, and our real names fade, left behind in the corners of the dressing rooms. We steal quotes, lines from the stage for real life, as though we were always performing .
I pull him back for a hug, and selfishly, it's more for my comfort then his, and we mutually curse humanity as a whole. "People suck," He says.
Terrifyingly, I suddenly see the same in myself. When I'm sad, I'm not me. I'm Eponine, self-pityingly lonesome. When I'm whiny, I'm Bloody Mary, grabby and demanding. More often then not, I'm Winifred, loud, insane, and obnoxious. I do not know if I give them bits of myself, bringing them to life, or if I learn from them. I have no idea who I am. I have no idea who anyone is. In theater, lines are blurred. We respond to our character names, and our real names fade, left behind in the corners of the dressing rooms. We steal quotes, lines from the stage for real life, as though we were always performing .
I pull him back for a hug, and selfishly, it's more for my comfort then his, and we mutually curse humanity as a whole. "People suck," He says.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Health: Growth and Development
She's delighted. There's only one student excused from the unit. The rest of the class seems mildly impressed as well by this statistic. I'm horrified. As sophomores, this is our last year of health, and parents are excusing their children? I cannot imagine what they possibly hope to accomplish by pretending sex still doesn't exist.
And of course, it begins so predictably, I can nearly mouth the words along with her, "Remember, knowledge is power. Learning about protection doesn't give you permission. Abstinence is the best choice. Abstinence will not give you an STD. Abstinence will not result in unwanted pregnancy. " Briefly, she introduces the unit, using terms like, "intimate contact" and "the inside plumbing of your private parts." The word "sex" is utterly avoided. And of course, we'll learn from videos.
The lights dim, the screen is pulled down, and the video begins to load. Briefly, she mutters about her amazement of the number of contraceptives it covers. Confused, a girl in the back pipes up, "Wait. You mean there's more then the pill?"
At this point, I lay my head on my desk, desperately trying to escape the horrific and dangerous ignorance. My friend leans over, snickering, as the awkward and hollow answer is given. "This is why I'm not going to have sex."
Why? Why not?
How terribly horribly awful would it be to stand up and scream that sex is fantastic, a wonderful, impassioned, marvelous sharing?
The video begins, monotonously under the awkward, stifled giggles. A shy boy raises his hand. The hand is ignored. He asks a question anyway. The question is not answered, instead sludged over vaguely, and no one is offended. The video continues. We are taught the "8 types of intimacy", and told that "many of us had already discovered what we want in a relationship". The video is paused, and the teacher corrects it, "Hopefully, you have not." The video resumes. We are taught not to insert our penises into foreign objects.
End of Day 1.
And of course, it begins so predictably, I can nearly mouth the words along with her, "Remember, knowledge is power. Learning about protection doesn't give you permission. Abstinence is the best choice. Abstinence will not give you an STD. Abstinence will not result in unwanted pregnancy. " Briefly, she introduces the unit, using terms like, "intimate contact" and "the inside plumbing of your private parts." The word "sex" is utterly avoided. And of course, we'll learn from videos.
The lights dim, the screen is pulled down, and the video begins to load. Briefly, she mutters about her amazement of the number of contraceptives it covers. Confused, a girl in the back pipes up, "Wait. You mean there's more then the pill?"
At this point, I lay my head on my desk, desperately trying to escape the horrific and dangerous ignorance. My friend leans over, snickering, as the awkward and hollow answer is given. "This is why I'm not going to have sex."
Why? Why not?
How terribly horribly awful would it be to stand up and scream that sex is fantastic, a wonderful, impassioned, marvelous sharing?
The video begins, monotonously under the awkward, stifled giggles. A shy boy raises his hand. The hand is ignored. He asks a question anyway. The question is not answered, instead sludged over vaguely, and no one is offended. The video continues. We are taught the "8 types of intimacy", and told that "many of us had already discovered what we want in a relationship". The video is paused, and the teacher corrects it, "Hopefully, you have not." The video resumes. We are taught not to insert our penises into foreign objects.
End of Day 1.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Repression
The door opens, and I swirl into the kitchen, pushed by the cold air at my heels, yellow skirt flying. Laughing, I fall against the door, pressing it closed behind me. My cheeks are pink, nipped at by the cold. Still giddy, I ask my mom why I ever avoided riding the bus.
Her eyebrows knit together, an immediate reaction, concerned, worried. There's a pause, I pause I should have been able to fill. My face remains blank. She struggles, "Don't you remember?"
Slowly, I shake my head. "They used to..." she drifts off.
I feel nervous. "They used to what?" I press. "They used to hurt you."
I wait for some sort of recognition, some understanding, but none comes. "Who were they?"
"They were on your bus. They used to hurt you."
A flash. I suddenly remember myself, much younger. Bruises. I remember. I remember crying.
"That's why you'd always sit in the front."
More comes. I remember hands, tearing, grabbing at me. I remember ducking my head, biting my lip. I remember fighting, pulling my hair, my jacket, my lunchbox, my backpack. I remember harsh laughter. I remember crying. I remember shouting for the driver's attention. I remember being ignored. The flashes are more vivid now, and my face grows pale.
"How'd it end?" Somehow, I know there must be an ending, a finale, a finish. Now, she cocks her head, a faint smile comes to her lips. "You remember that."
And I do.
A girl. She was older than me, she lived down the street. Only rarely was she on the bus. But the day she was, I needed her. I never asked her to help me. But she sat down next to me, right in the front of the bus. With her arms around me, they couldn't reach me, and the grabbing hands were subdued. With my head tucked in her shoulder, I was safe. And when she shouted for attention, she got it. And I don't remember any more crying.
The memories, the flashes, flit across my face, and are gone as quickly as they came. I am scared now, of what I couldn't remember, what I can't remember. What other secrets I've hidden inside. As though something has been freed, I feel suddenly empty. I let myself sink to the floor, and with my head between my knees, I cry.
Her eyebrows knit together, an immediate reaction, concerned, worried. There's a pause, I pause I should have been able to fill. My face remains blank. She struggles, "Don't you remember?"
Slowly, I shake my head. "They used to..." she drifts off.
I feel nervous. "They used to what?" I press. "They used to hurt you."
I wait for some sort of recognition, some understanding, but none comes. "Who were they?"
"They were on your bus. They used to hurt you."
A flash. I suddenly remember myself, much younger. Bruises. I remember. I remember crying.
"That's why you'd always sit in the front."
More comes. I remember hands, tearing, grabbing at me. I remember ducking my head, biting my lip. I remember fighting, pulling my hair, my jacket, my lunchbox, my backpack. I remember harsh laughter. I remember crying. I remember shouting for the driver's attention. I remember being ignored. The flashes are more vivid now, and my face grows pale.
"How'd it end?" Somehow, I know there must be an ending, a finale, a finish. Now, she cocks her head, a faint smile comes to her lips. "You remember that."
And I do.
A girl. She was older than me, she lived down the street. Only rarely was she on the bus. But the day she was, I needed her. I never asked her to help me. But she sat down next to me, right in the front of the bus. With her arms around me, they couldn't reach me, and the grabbing hands were subdued. With my head tucked in her shoulder, I was safe. And when she shouted for attention, she got it. And I don't remember any more crying.
The memories, the flashes, flit across my face, and are gone as quickly as they came. I am scared now, of what I couldn't remember, what I can't remember. What other secrets I've hidden inside. As though something has been freed, I feel suddenly empty. I let myself sink to the floor, and with my head between my knees, I cry.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
How to Survive Gym Class
Ten Rules to Survive Gym Class as a Freak, Loner, or Outsider.
- Playing with the minds of others is the only way to keep your own sanity. You must accept this, the sooner, the better.
- Find a buddy. You won't get out alive by yourself. They'll help keep you sane.
- Gym teachers have no passion nor mind-capacity for any creativity beyond pinny colors. Their methods are predictable and methodical. Learn this. Being split into teams generally consists of grouping shirt colors or counting off by threes.
- Create hand signals. If, by chance, you and your buddy (refer to Rule 2) happen to end up separate teams, these can be essential. Keep these big and simple, so they can be understood from across the room. Remember the basics, for instance "Heads up!" "I'm proud of you!" "He's showing off again." and "I hate this sport!"
- Chose one sport to be awkwardly competitive about.
- Giant foam q-tips, while generally useless and unwieldy, are always good to have on hand to challenge duels with.
- Learn to growl and hiss when others come near you.
- Insanity is the most intimidating card you have to play. (Refer to Rule 1) Trying to distract an opponent? Cock your head to the side, laugh menacingly, and do NOT break eye contact.
- Fake interest. If, by some chance, the ball/frisbee/shuttlecock/anything gets near you, don't panic. Instead, try saying something along the lines of, "Oh look! Here it comes, oh, oh dear. There it goes. Bummer. Missed it. Maybe next time."
- Either downplay or overreact to EVERYTHING. Get hit? You have two options. Shrug it off, or fall screaming to the ground.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
In the Mirror
The sweet pink of the tights swallows any shade of skin, painted on comically.
The pure black destroys any previous idea of shape,
creating for itself new curves and dynamics.
Locks of curly hair have been pulled back, tied tightly into a sleek knot, and plastered in sprays and glues.
A new face has been painted on, paler, with dangerous angles.
The pink slippers are tied, lacing their way up the legs like snakes,
twisting in their concentric circles.
I have no idea who this girl is,
or what business entreats her to stand inside the mirror.
But she cannot possibly be me.
She holds an air of grace I do not possess.
Reflections tempt with the dangerous option to pretend to be anything but who we are, yet she seems so familiar.
She cannot possibly be me. I am short, I am childish, I am clumsy.
She is graceful, powerful, and her eyes hold a dangerous fire.
She glares at me, and I lean closer to stare back. I can see her foot slip before I feel it.
Her form shatters, and she crashes to the ground. The pain shoots up from my legs, crumpled beneath me. Clumsy now, disheveled on the floor. And there I am.
The pure black destroys any previous idea of shape,
creating for itself new curves and dynamics.
Locks of curly hair have been pulled back, tied tightly into a sleek knot, and plastered in sprays and glues.
A new face has been painted on, paler, with dangerous angles.
The pink slippers are tied, lacing their way up the legs like snakes,
twisting in their concentric circles.
I have no idea who this girl is,
or what business entreats her to stand inside the mirror.
But she cannot possibly be me.
She holds an air of grace I do not possess.
Reflections tempt with the dangerous option to pretend to be anything but who we are, yet she seems so familiar.
She cannot possibly be me. I am short, I am childish, I am clumsy.
She is graceful, powerful, and her eyes hold a dangerous fire.
She glares at me, and I lean closer to stare back. I can see her foot slip before I feel it.
Her form shatters, and she crashes to the ground. The pain shoots up from my legs, crumpled beneath me. Clumsy now, disheveled on the floor. And there I am.
To Those Who Give Second Chances
To those who give second chances,
Do you hate yourselves as much as I hate myself right now? Do you beat yourselves up and bite your lips to keep from crying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I write this in realization that I'm one of you. That I give second chances. That I'm moronic for doing so.
People do not change. They may promise to, and plead forgiveness, but they do not change. It is impossible to change who you are. Our essences, our beings, are unalterable. And some people hurt others, and will continue to do so, no matter how many chances they are given.
Perhaps it feels worse, to be hurt the second time, subjected to the preceding pain all over again, all whilst knowing that it's our own fault, for trusting someone so hurtful again. After all, insanity is said to be doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
But you, dear reader, you are not insane, nor stupid, nor to blame for giving second chances. No, dear reader. You are brave. You are marvelously brave. Trusting and being hurt is part of being human. We must accept those who deserve no chances at all, cherish the lessons they can teach you. Without trust, dear reader, you have nothing. It's the foundation for all interaction.
Thousands of people will go through life without trusting. Without loving. They haven't lived, they're scared to.
Trust, love, it's a marvelous and magical thing. You're lucky, reader, for being able to give second chances. Do not hate yourself. Do not regret. There may only be a handful of people you'll ever be able to trust completely who deserve it, love them for it, but there are many people who you owe your trust to for no reason other than to learn something.
Trust me.
Do you hate yourselves as much as I hate myself right now? Do you beat yourselves up and bite your lips to keep from crying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I write this in realization that I'm one of you. That I give second chances. That I'm moronic for doing so.
People do not change. They may promise to, and plead forgiveness, but they do not change. It is impossible to change who you are. Our essences, our beings, are unalterable. And some people hurt others, and will continue to do so, no matter how many chances they are given.
Perhaps it feels worse, to be hurt the second time, subjected to the preceding pain all over again, all whilst knowing that it's our own fault, for trusting someone so hurtful again. After all, insanity is said to be doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
But you, dear reader, you are not insane, nor stupid, nor to blame for giving second chances. No, dear reader. You are brave. You are marvelously brave. Trusting and being hurt is part of being human. We must accept those who deserve no chances at all, cherish the lessons they can teach you. Without trust, dear reader, you have nothing. It's the foundation for all interaction.
Thousands of people will go through life without trusting. Without loving. They haven't lived, they're scared to.
Trust, love, it's a marvelous and magical thing. You're lucky, reader, for being able to give second chances. Do not hate yourself. Do not regret. There may only be a handful of people you'll ever be able to trust completely who deserve it, love them for it, but there are many people who you owe your trust to for no reason other than to learn something.
Trust me.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Clean
Every week, she's there. In the Costco Foodcourt, she's lost in a flurry of people, pushing, shoving, grimy and methodical. Every week, it's the same routine, the same order. She's beautiful, short, heavy set. Yet, I've never heard her talk. She hides behind the register and employee vest, which boasts a cheerfullness she doesn't posess. Her eyes are heavily made up in blacks and blues, shying away from attention, but what drew mine were her lips. Perfectly colored in a deep maroon, which by the end of the day, worn and chewed on, faded to nothing more than an outline. There is a sadness lingering in her eyes that I could not place, both amplified and hidden by her careful eyeliner.
This week was different. This week, I couldn't find her, when I suddenly realized she was directly in front of me. With no make-up at all. Her face seemed rosier, her eyes, bigger and brighter, and her lips, so pale and naked, smiled. She spoke. Softly, in a gentle, unplacable accent. She was smiling, and her eyes, previously so full of sadness, seemed to be lit up.
I do not know what prompted her to wash off her sadness, but perhaps, I must do the same. I haven't blogged in a time, perhaps because I didn't want to think about the gathering darkness in the corners of my mind. But with this, I purge OrganizedChaos, and I smile too, gratefully welcoming back the light.
This week was different. This week, I couldn't find her, when I suddenly realized she was directly in front of me. With no make-up at all. Her face seemed rosier, her eyes, bigger and brighter, and her lips, so pale and naked, smiled. She spoke. Softly, in a gentle, unplacable accent. She was smiling, and her eyes, previously so full of sadness, seemed to be lit up.
I do not know what prompted her to wash off her sadness, but perhaps, I must do the same. I haven't blogged in a time, perhaps because I didn't want to think about the gathering darkness in the corners of my mind. But with this, I purge OrganizedChaos, and I smile too, gratefully welcoming back the light.
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