Board games are the bein of my existence. I just can't sit still and push my gamepiece across a board for two or more hours with these tedious, cruel suppressions of the human spirit. Among the worst offenders are Scrabble and Monopoly, and my sister, with her ever-changing infatuations, has recently decided that she loves Monopoly. I went Christmas shopping with her, and I knew she'd bought our Dad a new Nintendo Monopoly game. Thus, I had to come to grips with my fate on Christmas morn--I would have to play a round of Monopoly.
It was one of the last presents opened, and of course I just had to play, just once. I finally conceded, partially because it was Christmas, and partially because it was Nintendo, and I am a nerd.
The difference between the original Monopoly and the Nintendo version is that instead of being real estate tycoons, you're the top bosses in a lucrative character slave trade. Where there once were colorful boulevards and avenues, there are now lots where you can purchase any one of various Nintendo characters. They can be sold or traded, forced to erect houses and hotels, and if another player lands on your lot, they pay the fee in order to rent your character for labor.
This, of course, affected how we all played the game. Instead of making calculated and "Monopoly"-like decisions, we all scrambled to grab up our favorite characters, regardless of their value or strategic importance. I, apathetic about any actual success at the game, was particularly motivated to claim my favorites, among them Kirby, Toad, and all of the Zelda characters. I purchased no characters that I was not interested in, and went around the board almost twice without buying anything, because with my luck I wasn't going to land on anyone I actually wanted any time soon. However my sister, who is the veritable Fountain of Luck, breezed across the board and bought up every one of my favorite characters. I was ready to call it quits.
With plumbers being a particularly hard-working breed in the Nintendo World, Mario and Luigi took up the last and most expensive places on the board. In the next two go-arounds, I landed on both of them and decided I might as well make the purchase. But, they almost put me out of business, and I waited with half-hope, half-anxiety that soon I'd be out and my Monopoly sentence would be over.
I made few other purchases after the Marios Brothers, and slowly the money from passing "Go" and the occasional "Free Parking" were beginning to add up. I decided I'd buy some houses. Then, I looked down at the rent price of my lots with the added houses. And suddenly, the game became interesting. My dad was the most successful so far, and he'd been picking on me throughout the game. He bankrupted my sister, and we were sure he was going to win. Quietly, I kept buying houses for Mario and Luigi.
Then, the unthinkable happened. My mom landed on Luigi and got wiped clean. She was out, and suddenly my money and my property had doubled. I looked up at my Dad, my remaining contender, and readjusted myself on the floor so that we faced each other head-on. This was no longer a game--it was war. I bought up enough houses to put down two hotels on my Marios Brothers. Still, even with my mom's lots, I only owned about a third of the board, if even that. At almost every turned, I was fined for landing on my dad's property. It was slowly chipping away at my stock of multi-colored paper money. I began to fear the worst.
At last, my Dad landed on Luigi. With a hotel on the lot, it cost him $1500. That's right--three orange ones. But, he could just afford it and still have about six hundred left over. For now, he was safe. I took my turn, and landed on one of his lots. It cost me a couple hundred bucks.
My dad rolled again. He only needed a three to get back to "Go." The dice fell from his hand, and clattered and spun across the board before coming to an abrupt stop. Snake eyes. One, two, and he landed on Mario. With the hotel, it was a $2000 dollar fine that he could never hope to pay.
Everyone laughed in amazement at my victory. I jumped back and sprawled across the couch. "Don't ever make me play Monopoly again!!" I warned them all, now that they had seen the fruit of my wrath. In a swirl of victorious electiricity mixed with the storms of fury, I dashed upstairs to my lair.
We haven't played Monopoly since.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Family for Christmas
*Note: I realize there are some crazy tense issues here. I wanted to scream when I found out that my mom's side of the family would be coming to our house for Christmas. A) I don't like people in my house, B) I don't like rednecks, and the family coming to spend the day Christmas Eve would entail my house being full of rednecks. Not that I don't love my aunts, and uncles, and cousins, but you'd be surprised at the culture shock that occurs just from one end of a state to the other. As soon as they get here, the local news will be on to sedate my grandfather. My grandma will be on the phone talking about the latest sick and/or dying and/or dead person in her community, and my uncles boisterous antics will crowd the room.
But, when they got here, I put on my big smile and let them hug and squeeze and crush me, and reminded them what grade I was in, and let them comment on how heavy my book bag always looked. Then, as the news droned in the background, the current segment on the latest local homicide would start up an in-home news brief of ten other horror stories, usually somewhere in the ballpark of murder, rape, and child endangerment. I would smile and nod and glance at my sister as she gives 'tudy looks to her least favorite relatives.
Dinner was the best part. The food was great, and it was just my sister, my beloved cousin, and I at the kitchen table while the adults sat in the dining room. Then came present-opening. There's no time I'm more in touch with my Jewish roots than when it comes to being stingy with money. Therefore, I take full advantage of the holiday season as my oppurtunity to stock up on all my heart's desires that I've so patiently waited upwards of six months for. Needless to say, I had a very simple, yet specific list, which I instructed my parents to share with the rest of the family. Unfortunately, gift-giving is not my family's strong suit.
I doubt my aunt and uncle even bothered to ask what I wanted. They got me a sack of candy and a nice necklace from Wal-Mart. The real kicker was what my grandparents got me. One of the things on my list was a bathrobe. I didn't specify on type or description, because I'd have been fine with anything cute, fuzzy, and brightly colored, as most bathrobes are.
My grandparents hand me a big, slightly dented giftbag that I know had been reduced, reused, and recycled one too many times. I pulled out the tissue paper, stuck my head into the bag...and immediately assumed a botox smile as I pulled out a mint green, embroidered, zip-up housecoat. I could have sworn it came from my grandmother's own closet if I hadn't seen her perusing the housecoats once when we went to the store together, asking me all kinds of questions about which fabrics I liked the best and which style I found most suitable. I'd had a foreboding feeling at the time, and had prayed she was shopping for a friend. But nope--the very same housecoat we'd looked at together, and that I told her I liked (for her 65-year-old friend) because the fabric was "soft" (as in the kind of soft that a cheap stuffed animal is) stared back at me from inside the beat up gift bag. Before the break, a teacher asked the class if they had any good stories about the worst Christmas gift they'd ever gotten. Now I have one.
As a part of my nature, I avoid any sort of stressful or frustrating situations. To me, my relatives from Halifax are a stressful and frustrating situation, and even during the holidays I still cringe when they touch me. It's something I really need to work on, because I know "they're not going to be around forever," a hashed old frase that's taken on a new meaning since attending my great-grandmother's funeral (see my blog titled, "Grandma Reese"). Hopefully, with enough prayer, the Christmas spirit will catch up with me, and I'll be able to be a blessing to my family despite my feelings.
But, when they got here, I put on my big smile and let them hug and squeeze and crush me, and reminded them what grade I was in, and let them comment on how heavy my book bag always looked. Then, as the news droned in the background, the current segment on the latest local homicide would start up an in-home news brief of ten other horror stories, usually somewhere in the ballpark of murder, rape, and child endangerment. I would smile and nod and glance at my sister as she gives 'tudy looks to her least favorite relatives.
Dinner was the best part. The food was great, and it was just my sister, my beloved cousin, and I at the kitchen table while the adults sat in the dining room. Then came present-opening. There's no time I'm more in touch with my Jewish roots than when it comes to being stingy with money. Therefore, I take full advantage of the holiday season as my oppurtunity to stock up on all my heart's desires that I've so patiently waited upwards of six months for. Needless to say, I had a very simple, yet specific list, which I instructed my parents to share with the rest of the family. Unfortunately, gift-giving is not my family's strong suit.
I doubt my aunt and uncle even bothered to ask what I wanted. They got me a sack of candy and a nice necklace from Wal-Mart. The real kicker was what my grandparents got me. One of the things on my list was a bathrobe. I didn't specify on type or description, because I'd have been fine with anything cute, fuzzy, and brightly colored, as most bathrobes are.
My grandparents hand me a big, slightly dented giftbag that I know had been reduced, reused, and recycled one too many times. I pulled out the tissue paper, stuck my head into the bag...and immediately assumed a botox smile as I pulled out a mint green, embroidered, zip-up housecoat. I could have sworn it came from my grandmother's own closet if I hadn't seen her perusing the housecoats once when we went to the store together, asking me all kinds of questions about which fabrics I liked the best and which style I found most suitable. I'd had a foreboding feeling at the time, and had prayed she was shopping for a friend. But nope--the very same housecoat we'd looked at together, and that I told her I liked (for her 65-year-old friend) because the fabric was "soft" (as in the kind of soft that a cheap stuffed animal is) stared back at me from inside the beat up gift bag. Before the break, a teacher asked the class if they had any good stories about the worst Christmas gift they'd ever gotten. Now I have one.
As a part of my nature, I avoid any sort of stressful or frustrating situations. To me, my relatives from Halifax are a stressful and frustrating situation, and even during the holidays I still cringe when they touch me. It's something I really need to work on, because I know "they're not going to be around forever," a hashed old frase that's taken on a new meaning since attending my great-grandmother's funeral (see my blog titled, "Grandma Reese"). Hopefully, with enough prayer, the Christmas spirit will catch up with me, and I'll be able to be a blessing to my family despite my feelings.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Grandma Reese
My sister and I cringed when we learned we'd be attending my great-grandmother's funeral just three days before Christmas. It put quite a damper on the holiday spirit, and we would be taxed precious break time to pay our respects to a woman we hardly knew. Still, on the 22nd of December, we found ourselves driving through the gray, wet winter day towards the little Halifax funeral home.
It was the first funeral I'd ever been too. There was a special viewing room just for the family. My great-grandmother, wearing a fuchsia jacket, lay in a silver casket piled with a beautiful, bright bouquet. I stared at her as we walked by. She indeed looked flattened out, like my mother had told me when she'd returned from the viewing the night before. My grandmother behind me started to cry. Like with most emotional situations, I became completely numb. I always take it upon myself to be the "strong one."
The room was packed with family that I'd never even seen. But, even in the presence of a corpse, people were laughing and talking about Christmas plans as if it was only a family reunion. A part of me thought the merry-going a bit disturbing.After we walked by the casket we walked around the room and chatted with all of our distant relatives. There was hardly any mention of Grandma Reese. Instead, we talked about Christmas plans and how good everyone looked.It was far from the stoic, black-veiled occasion I had imagined.
After about twenty minutes, several men walked in and took the casket away. Then, we were ushered across the funeral home and into a small white chapel. Because we were family, we took up the first several rows. My dad and I ended up sitting in the second row, right behind the speaker.
The service was quaint and relatively tearless. A couple of songs were sung. Grandma Reese was given a plaque commemorating her service as a "Pentecostal Holiness Pastor's Wife." Then, the casket was carried out once more, and we all filed outside, then got in our line of cars.
At first we were silent. My sister had been shaken by the emotionality of the service, and my mom reminisced about her father's funeral service that had taken place at the same location fifteen years ago. However, it was a long drive to the cemetery, and after my Dad turned on some Christmas music, we really eased up. About twenty minutes into the drive, my dad called his auto repairmen to talk about his car.
I thought we were going to see Grandma Reese buried. Instead, we had one last, brief service as her casket was suspended over the hole in which she now eternally rests. Still, I didn't feel much emotion. The only time I really teared up is when family members turned and started visiting my grandfather's grave. He was Grandma Reese's son, and my mom's dad. Mom walked up to his grave and cried, and I stood with her as she did, until my uncle came to comfort her. I was glad I'd kept the tears back, and was just about to go when Buddy's (my grandfather) brother caught me up and told me that he can see my grandfather in me. Without knowing exactly what to say, I whispered a thank you, and then slipped away. Eventually, everyone retreated from the cold and back to their cars, leaving the funeral workers to stay and bury the body.
And then, we went out to lunch.
It might seem weird to say, but I'm almost glad this happened so close to Christmas. In retrospect, this experience showed me just how important family is in the holiday season. It took my focus off playing video games and hovering over Tumblr, and set my focus on the more important things. I hope now that through my grandmother, I can live and share this message with others.
It was the first funeral I'd ever been too. There was a special viewing room just for the family. My great-grandmother, wearing a fuchsia jacket, lay in a silver casket piled with a beautiful, bright bouquet. I stared at her as we walked by. She indeed looked flattened out, like my mother had told me when she'd returned from the viewing the night before. My grandmother behind me started to cry. Like with most emotional situations, I became completely numb. I always take it upon myself to be the "strong one."
The room was packed with family that I'd never even seen. But, even in the presence of a corpse, people were laughing and talking about Christmas plans as if it was only a family reunion. A part of me thought the merry-going a bit disturbing.After we walked by the casket we walked around the room and chatted with all of our distant relatives. There was hardly any mention of Grandma Reese. Instead, we talked about Christmas plans and how good everyone looked.It was far from the stoic, black-veiled occasion I had imagined.
After about twenty minutes, several men walked in and took the casket away. Then, we were ushered across the funeral home and into a small white chapel. Because we were family, we took up the first several rows. My dad and I ended up sitting in the second row, right behind the speaker.
The service was quaint and relatively tearless. A couple of songs were sung. Grandma Reese was given a plaque commemorating her service as a "Pentecostal Holiness Pastor's Wife." Then, the casket was carried out once more, and we all filed outside, then got in our line of cars.
At first we were silent. My sister had been shaken by the emotionality of the service, and my mom reminisced about her father's funeral service that had taken place at the same location fifteen years ago. However, it was a long drive to the cemetery, and after my Dad turned on some Christmas music, we really eased up. About twenty minutes into the drive, my dad called his auto repairmen to talk about his car.
I thought we were going to see Grandma Reese buried. Instead, we had one last, brief service as her casket was suspended over the hole in which she now eternally rests. Still, I didn't feel much emotion. The only time I really teared up is when family members turned and started visiting my grandfather's grave. He was Grandma Reese's son, and my mom's dad. Mom walked up to his grave and cried, and I stood with her as she did, until my uncle came to comfort her. I was glad I'd kept the tears back, and was just about to go when Buddy's (my grandfather) brother caught me up and told me that he can see my grandfather in me. Without knowing exactly what to say, I whispered a thank you, and then slipped away. Eventually, everyone retreated from the cold and back to their cars, leaving the funeral workers to stay and bury the body.
And then, we went out to lunch.
It might seem weird to say, but I'm almost glad this happened so close to Christmas. In retrospect, this experience showed me just how important family is in the holiday season. It took my focus off playing video games and hovering over Tumblr, and set my focus on the more important things. I hope now that through my grandmother, I can live and share this message with others.
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Back Room
We finally make it to our Grandparents' house and pile out of the car. My grandma practically gives us a medical exam, just to make sure we're one hundred percent absolutely positively completely okay with the world. Trying to mask our exhausted irritation, my sister and I grab up our stuff and trek towards the living quarters of the house. That's when I have to face it--that narrow, windowless hall leading to the back bedroom. The back bedroom is where my Granddad's sister stayed while she was sick and dying. My grandparents thought she was possessed by a demon. I assume she died in the room where I would now be sleeping.
I walk non-chalantly down the hall, quietly checking for mice or goblins that might scurry under my feet. The door to the bedroom is shut as always. Only a thin film of cloudy light seeps from under the door. I know the curtains in the house are dark.
When I turn the handle, the door comes open with a little pop. Then, there's that one second of hesitation, that one second of wonder and fear, before I push open the door.
My eyes are drawn immediately to the bed, and subsequently, to the rotting body lying within it.
I walk non-chalantly down the hall, quietly checking for mice or goblins that might scurry under my feet. The door to the bedroom is shut as always. Only a thin film of cloudy light seeps from under the door. I know the curtains in the house are dark.
When I turn the handle, the door comes open with a little pop. Then, there's that one second of hesitation, that one second of wonder and fear, before I push open the door.
My eyes are drawn immediately to the bed, and subsequently, to the rotting body lying within it.
Jamie's Project
So, Jamie brought home an interesting project for English. Take a scene from Romeo and Juliet and turn it into a manga. This project would be unheard of at my school, considering the art director things manga is from Satan. Needless to say, I got a little excited about it, and offered to help.
We're doing the famous balcony scene. I had Jamie write out the four characters in the scene--Romeo, Juliet, and two of Romeo's clingy cousins--and then write characteristics of each person. Then, I passed onto her what Beaver told us at the beginning of the year about physiognomies. We brainstormed for the look of each character before she started sketching character designs. Romeo's basically going to be Tamaki from Ouran High School Host Club, and Juliette's going to be cute yet elegant with big curly hair. I can't wait to start storyboarding. I have a feeling this might turn into my project.
Part of the reason I'm so excited is because I've been longing to turn The Tempest into a manga. I think the fantasy characters like Ariel and Caliban, not to mention the scenery of the island, would be enchanting. Unfortunately, The Tempest is a bit underappreciated, and Jamie's CP English class only covers the most prominent classics.
Still, one of the things on my Christmas to-do list was to start drawing again, and maybe this project will inspire me to play with The Tempest in my free time.
We're doing the famous balcony scene. I had Jamie write out the four characters in the scene--Romeo, Juliet, and two of Romeo's clingy cousins--and then write characteristics of each person. Then, I passed onto her what Beaver told us at the beginning of the year about physiognomies. We brainstormed for the look of each character before she started sketching character designs. Romeo's basically going to be Tamaki from Ouran High School Host Club, and Juliette's going to be cute yet elegant with big curly hair. I can't wait to start storyboarding. I have a feeling this might turn into my project.
Part of the reason I'm so excited is because I've been longing to turn The Tempest into a manga. I think the fantasy characters like Ariel and Caliban, not to mention the scenery of the island, would be enchanting. Unfortunately, The Tempest is a bit underappreciated, and Jamie's CP English class only covers the most prominent classics.
Still, one of the things on my Christmas to-do list was to start drawing again, and maybe this project will inspire me to play with The Tempest in my free time.
Fan Fequel Snippet
At last, the line of cars crept into the pickup lane. As it slowed to a stop, Christine parked and leaned forward in her seat to locate her son. Her eyes passed over his “spot”—he wasn’t there. Erik, she thought as a bitter taste filled her mouth. No. He wouldn’t dare… Knuckles white against the steering wheel, Christine pulled around and went through carline once more. Still, Gustave was missing. She pulled into the parking lot in front of the school and rushed inside.
A tall, tight-lipped woman raced her fingers across the keys of the front desk’s computer, and it reminded Christine of a certain someone’s prowess on the piano.
“Can I help you?” the secretary asked absently, her fingers unflinching.
Christine pulled a smile over clenched teeth,
“Hi, I’m here to pick up my son. He’s not in carline.”
The woman ceased to type and pulled up a new window on the monitor.
“Name?”
“Christine de Chagney.”
“No, your son’s name.”
“Oh. Gustave Fantome.”
For the first time, the woman glanced up at Christine, her eybrow raised in prudish skepticism. Still, she punched in the boy’s name, and his school picture popped up, along with a spreadsheet of his grades and attendance. The woman’s expression never changed.
“My record says he was absent today.”
Christine’s stomach twisted. The woman looked up at her,
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Oh, I know exactly where he is.”
Angered past formalities, Christine turned and stormed out of the school.
Music reverberated through the elevator shaft as Christine rode up to the penthouse loft. Her foot tapped impatiently, defying the infectious melody.
Blasts of electric guitar racked her ears as the doors opened to his loft. Erik was standing on his couch, manning a black Gibson les Paul plugged into an amplifier that must have been breaking several building codes. And sure enough, Gustave sat at the grand piano; a powerful melody erupted beneath his fingers. He was still in his PJs, his face alight with glee as he harmonized with his father.
For a moment, Christine stood mesmerized by the two-person symphony. Erik leaped from the sofa without missing a note and faced his son at the piano as the tension in the music rose. Gustave trembled with delight and gazed up at his father as if venerating a god.
Christine forced herself through the deafening music and ripped the guitar cable from its amp. For good measure, she hurled It onto the hard wood floor. Two sets of wide eyes stared at her from the piano, instruments still poised in the couple’s hands.
“You are really a piece of work, Erik,” Christine’s lips curled mirthlessly, teeth still clenched beneath them.
“What do you want?” Erik asked coldly, unflinching.
Christine stepped up to him,
“I want my son to come home where he belongs. Gustave, get dressed. We’re leaving.”
Gustave’s fingers slammed onto the keys, “Mooommm!!”
Erik let out a sigh,
“Gustave, go to your room.”
“But—”
“Go to your room!!” both parents shouted in unison. Their heads snapped back to glare at each other.
Gustave leaped to his feet and rushed down to his bedroom. Christine waited until his footsteps faded and a door slammed shut on the floor below. She refused to break her gaze with Erik, whose wild, icy eyes tried to beat her down.
“I’m calling the police,” she said at last.
A tall, tight-lipped woman raced her fingers across the keys of the front desk’s computer, and it reminded Christine of a certain someone’s prowess on the piano.
“Can I help you?” the secretary asked absently, her fingers unflinching.
Christine pulled a smile over clenched teeth,
“Hi, I’m here to pick up my son. He’s not in carline.”
The woman ceased to type and pulled up a new window on the monitor.
“Name?”
“Christine de Chagney.”
“No, your son’s name.”
“Oh. Gustave Fantome.”
For the first time, the woman glanced up at Christine, her eybrow raised in prudish skepticism. Still, she punched in the boy’s name, and his school picture popped up, along with a spreadsheet of his grades and attendance. The woman’s expression never changed.
“My record says he was absent today.”
Christine’s stomach twisted. The woman looked up at her,
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Oh, I know exactly where he is.”
Angered past formalities, Christine turned and stormed out of the school.
Music reverberated through the elevator shaft as Christine rode up to the penthouse loft. Her foot tapped impatiently, defying the infectious melody.
Blasts of electric guitar racked her ears as the doors opened to his loft. Erik was standing on his couch, manning a black Gibson les Paul plugged into an amplifier that must have been breaking several building codes. And sure enough, Gustave sat at the grand piano; a powerful melody erupted beneath his fingers. He was still in his PJs, his face alight with glee as he harmonized with his father.
For a moment, Christine stood mesmerized by the two-person symphony. Erik leaped from the sofa without missing a note and faced his son at the piano as the tension in the music rose. Gustave trembled with delight and gazed up at his father as if venerating a god.
Christine forced herself through the deafening music and ripped the guitar cable from its amp. For good measure, she hurled It onto the hard wood floor. Two sets of wide eyes stared at her from the piano, instruments still poised in the couple’s hands.
“You are really a piece of work, Erik,” Christine’s lips curled mirthlessly, teeth still clenched beneath them.
“What do you want?” Erik asked coldly, unflinching.
Christine stepped up to him,
“I want my son to come home where he belongs. Gustave, get dressed. We’re leaving.”
Gustave’s fingers slammed onto the keys, “Mooommm!!”
Erik let out a sigh,
“Gustave, go to your room.”
“But—”
“Go to your room!!” both parents shouted in unison. Their heads snapped back to glare at each other.
Gustave leaped to his feet and rushed down to his bedroom. Christine waited until his footsteps faded and a door slammed shut on the floor below. She refused to break her gaze with Erik, whose wild, icy eyes tried to beat her down.
“I’m calling the police,” she said at last.
You know...
Today was a little special. My parents had to catch a flight out to Texas, so I had to skip my early morning class to take my sister to her school. I was already off my game—I slammed on breaks for a yellow light, then went ahead for the next yellow light and wound up caught in the middle of the intersection. By the time I got back to school, I was pretty flustered, and I was confused by over what entrance to use when coming to school late. But then, the worst possible scenario unfolded.
I’m still pretty new at driving and parking is one of the hardest things for me. Usually, I show up before any cars park around me, and I have the freedom to back out and pull back in as desired. But now, it was right before school. People swarmed the parking lot, and there were cars on either side of my space. The clock was ticking; I didn’t want to be any later than I had to be. Carefully, I began to inch into my spot.
I stopped. The front corner of my car was dangerously close to the back corner of the car next to me. I had to decide—did I have room to pull in? Or should I back out and try again. People were walking around behind me. I remembered practicing parking with my parents, and how I would back and out re-park only to have my dad tell me there had been enough room to pull in the first time. I loosened my foot from the breaks.
The sickening sound of metal scraping against metal, and the little lurch that accompanied it. I’d felt it once before when I scraped the side of my car against the garage. A rare stream of profanity spilled out as I backed out and pulled in. I looked around. Someone’s little brother was watching and laughing. But it didn’t seem that anyone else had noticed. I jumped out of my car with another recitation of lewd prose and inspected the back of the other car. None of my blue paint had come off on it. Wait, was that a dent? No, it was part of the car’s design—I checked it with the other side. Some of his paint had rubbed on the corner of my car, but I didn’t care about that. From my panicked inspection, I found not a scratch. Was this a miracle? I looked around to make sure no one had seen, then hurried to class.
Someone had seen. And that someone told everybody, even drawing diagrams of what happened on the board for people to see. By third period, I was in class with my victim. I already knew the rumor had spread, and I braced myself for the worst.
He walked into class a few minutes late along with a couple of his friends.
“I heard about what happened to my car,” he said to me calmly.
I’m an idiot. The first thing I blurted out was,
I didn’t see a scratch!”
“There’s a pretty good scratch,” he smiled thinly at me.
On instinct, I started to spit out a thousand “I’m sorry!”s and “I’ll pay for it!”s. I felt like a coward for not telling him upfront, when we were in homeroom together. I had to be caught.
We were trying to talk about it while my teacher attempted to start class. He wanted to give us some washed-out Christmas sermon, and I figured the car situation was a little more important. I kept talking, but then the teacher addressed my victim and his friends.
“You guys were five minutes late to class,” he accused, even though he’s the one who usually shows up late.
“We were looking at my car,” my victim explained.
“Why would you do that?” my teacher asked in a condescending tone.
“Because I got hit.”
I scraped the tip of my pencil along the underside of my forearm in an act of mock-punishment.
“That’s no excuse for being late to my class,” the teacher retorted, the picture of sympathy and understanding. He told the three that were late to stand up. “Wall sits, five minutes.”
“What?” the boys looked at him, unsure of whether he was serious.
“Yeah, you’re going to wall sit for the length of time you missed my class.”
“I’d rather just take a tardy,” my victim said as he began to sit back down.
“It’s wall sits or a pink slip,” the teacher said, referencing the disciplinary forms used at my school. One pink slip equals one detention.
The class disintegrated into a muddle of chaos and protest.
“How can you get a pink slip for being tardy?!” my friend shouted over the other voices.
The teacher looked at her with a cocky tilt of the chin,
“For skipping class.”
We all stared in disbelief, and I in horror, as the three boys served a wall sitting sentence for the accident I caused. The last thing my victim said to me before assuming the position was,
“We’ll talk about it later.”
Someone turned the car situation into a prayer request, and I could feel the acids in my stomach churning as my folly was prayed over. Then, the teacher began his sermon out of Luke 2, and I started writing this blog on paper while thin of creative ways to kill myself.
The teacher ran out of things to say and gave us the last ten minutes of class to ourselves. I hurried over to my victim’s desk with another outpouring of apologies and promises to pay for it.
He stammered as he tried to downplay the situation. He showed me a gut-wrenching picture he’d taken with his iPhone—I’d ripped ribbons of paint somewhere off of his car, even though I’d never seen it earlier that morning. It looked awful.
I only half-heard his words. He said something to the effect,
“It’s no big deal. I’ll take it to the shop.”
“Send me the bill,” I told him, and the conversation ended there. I shuffled back to my desk and sank into the chair.
For the rest of the day, this guy who’s never looked twice at me stared at me every time we passed in the hall. He’d been super nice when we’d talked about it in third period, if not a little uncomfortable. But, one of my friends went with him to lunch, and came back complaining about what a “douche bag” he was being. I asked her if he’d said anything about me, and she looked like she was about to affirm my worst fear, when my other friend stopped her. She had the best intentions of protecting me from hurt feelings, but it only made me languish all the more.
It’s not the cost of repair that bothers me at all. In fact, when I called my dad about it, I was surprised when he said he’d foot the bill. It’s the social humiliation of it all that kills me. Everyone was talking about it this morning, and the guys who normally joke with all the girls were unusually quiet around me. I can hear the conversations they have with each other in my head,
“Dude, the weird chick hit __________’s car, and she didn’t even tell him! What a *insert your favorite expletive here*!”
Thank God it’s Friday, and that exams are coming up, and that people are too distracted to worry about our less-than-fender-bender for very long.
Still, I know I won’t be able to live it down until my victim’s car is fixed for whatever invisible damage it may have (my same friend who tried to protect me against the rumors inspected his car and claimed she couldn’t find a single scratch). Then, hopefully, I can fade back into invisibility.
I’m still pretty new at driving and parking is one of the hardest things for me. Usually, I show up before any cars park around me, and I have the freedom to back out and pull back in as desired. But now, it was right before school. People swarmed the parking lot, and there were cars on either side of my space. The clock was ticking; I didn’t want to be any later than I had to be. Carefully, I began to inch into my spot.
I stopped. The front corner of my car was dangerously close to the back corner of the car next to me. I had to decide—did I have room to pull in? Or should I back out and try again. People were walking around behind me. I remembered practicing parking with my parents, and how I would back and out re-park only to have my dad tell me there had been enough room to pull in the first time. I loosened my foot from the breaks.
The sickening sound of metal scraping against metal, and the little lurch that accompanied it. I’d felt it once before when I scraped the side of my car against the garage. A rare stream of profanity spilled out as I backed out and pulled in. I looked around. Someone’s little brother was watching and laughing. But it didn’t seem that anyone else had noticed. I jumped out of my car with another recitation of lewd prose and inspected the back of the other car. None of my blue paint had come off on it. Wait, was that a dent? No, it was part of the car’s design—I checked it with the other side. Some of his paint had rubbed on the corner of my car, but I didn’t care about that. From my panicked inspection, I found not a scratch. Was this a miracle? I looked around to make sure no one had seen, then hurried to class.
Someone had seen. And that someone told everybody, even drawing diagrams of what happened on the board for people to see. By third period, I was in class with my victim. I already knew the rumor had spread, and I braced myself for the worst.
He walked into class a few minutes late along with a couple of his friends.
“I heard about what happened to my car,” he said to me calmly.
I’m an idiot. The first thing I blurted out was,
I didn’t see a scratch!”
“There’s a pretty good scratch,” he smiled thinly at me.
On instinct, I started to spit out a thousand “I’m sorry!”s and “I’ll pay for it!”s. I felt like a coward for not telling him upfront, when we were in homeroom together. I had to be caught.
We were trying to talk about it while my teacher attempted to start class. He wanted to give us some washed-out Christmas sermon, and I figured the car situation was a little more important. I kept talking, but then the teacher addressed my victim and his friends.
“You guys were five minutes late to class,” he accused, even though he’s the one who usually shows up late.
“We were looking at my car,” my victim explained.
“Why would you do that?” my teacher asked in a condescending tone.
“Because I got hit.”
I scraped the tip of my pencil along the underside of my forearm in an act of mock-punishment.
“That’s no excuse for being late to my class,” the teacher retorted, the picture of sympathy and understanding. He told the three that were late to stand up. “Wall sits, five minutes.”
“What?” the boys looked at him, unsure of whether he was serious.
“Yeah, you’re going to wall sit for the length of time you missed my class.”
“I’d rather just take a tardy,” my victim said as he began to sit back down.
“It’s wall sits or a pink slip,” the teacher said, referencing the disciplinary forms used at my school. One pink slip equals one detention.
The class disintegrated into a muddle of chaos and protest.
“How can you get a pink slip for being tardy?!” my friend shouted over the other voices.
The teacher looked at her with a cocky tilt of the chin,
“For skipping class.”
We all stared in disbelief, and I in horror, as the three boys served a wall sitting sentence for the accident I caused. The last thing my victim said to me before assuming the position was,
“We’ll talk about it later.”
Someone turned the car situation into a prayer request, and I could feel the acids in my stomach churning as my folly was prayed over. Then, the teacher began his sermon out of Luke 2, and I started writing this blog on paper while thin of creative ways to kill myself.
The teacher ran out of things to say and gave us the last ten minutes of class to ourselves. I hurried over to my victim’s desk with another outpouring of apologies and promises to pay for it.
He stammered as he tried to downplay the situation. He showed me a gut-wrenching picture he’d taken with his iPhone—I’d ripped ribbons of paint somewhere off of his car, even though I’d never seen it earlier that morning. It looked awful.
I only half-heard his words. He said something to the effect,
“It’s no big deal. I’ll take it to the shop.”
“Send me the bill,” I told him, and the conversation ended there. I shuffled back to my desk and sank into the chair.
For the rest of the day, this guy who’s never looked twice at me stared at me every time we passed in the hall. He’d been super nice when we’d talked about it in third period, if not a little uncomfortable. But, one of my friends went with him to lunch, and came back complaining about what a “douche bag” he was being. I asked her if he’d said anything about me, and she looked like she was about to affirm my worst fear, when my other friend stopped her. She had the best intentions of protecting me from hurt feelings, but it only made me languish all the more.
It’s not the cost of repair that bothers me at all. In fact, when I called my dad about it, I was surprised when he said he’d foot the bill. It’s the social humiliation of it all that kills me. Everyone was talking about it this morning, and the guys who normally joke with all the girls were unusually quiet around me. I can hear the conversations they have with each other in my head,
“Dude, the weird chick hit __________’s car, and she didn’t even tell him! What a *insert your favorite expletive here*!”
Thank God it’s Friday, and that exams are coming up, and that people are too distracted to worry about our less-than-fender-bender for very long.
Still, I know I won’t be able to live it down until my victim’s car is fixed for whatever invisible damage it may have (my same friend who tried to protect me against the rumors inspected his car and claimed she couldn’t find a single scratch). Then, hopefully, I can fade back into invisibility.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
NaNo Excerpt
Here's a snippet of my NaNoWriMo story. Enjoy:
Jordan was sitting outside Mr. Sturke’s door, a textbook sitting in her lap. Her face was sullen as she slumped against the wall, her bandaged fingers, tracing along the lines of the text as she read. She could hear my footsteps coming down the hall and put on a thin smile.
“How’d it go?” I asked her.
The first Monday of every month, Jordan had to have an after-school meeting with Mr. Fibb, Dean of Admissions, King of the Douches. It was part of her special scholarship program. Once a month, she would squirm and fidget and stress, thinking she was going to get kicked out. Apparently, Mr. Fibb was really strict about her grades, her attendance (some mornings, she missed the bus, and had no way of getting to school), and even her social life. He hated the fact that we were dating. He thought it “distracted” her from her schoolwork. It was a load of crap.
“It was fine,” she told me as she stood off the ground. Quickly, like she always did, she changed the subject, “Are we here to check your test grade?”
I nodded and rapped twice on Mr. Sturke’s door before heading in.
Sturke was sitting at his desk in the corner of the room, typing grades from his grade book into his computer. He had a grade-same-day-as-test-day policy, and I knew that his Honors Philosophy class was his first priority.
He glanced up as Jordan and I walked in,
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marcus,” he said placidly, glancing down, entering another grade, then glancing back up at Jordan. He nodded at her,
“Mrs. Marcus.”
Jordan blushed a little, and I took the opportunity to intertwine my fingers with hers.
“Have you graded the tests yet?” I asked him, fiddling with the pendulum sitting on the edge of his desk. I could feel that spark of hope swelling in me, along with that growing sense of dread.
“I have indeed,” he said matter-of-factly, ignoring his glasses as they slid a few centimeters down his long nose.
I took a deep, silent breath. This was it—in just a few seconds, I would find out whether I’d broken the Curse.
But, Sturke didn’t make another move.
Finally, I asked,
“Can I see mine?”
“Well, I’m certainly sure you can…” Sturke continued to enter grades.
I took in another frustrated breath,
“May I see my grade…please?”
Mr. Sturke let out a long, playful sigh,
“I suppose…”
He shuffled through the tornado of papers on his desk, and finally singled out my test. He laid it in front of me. There were no marks on the paper, not a single one I could see. My eye travelled to the top left corner, the only red I could find.
57
My jaw dropped. I stared, dumbfounded. Jordan squeezed my hand, and it was like she’d shocked me back to life with a defibrillator. I blinked my eyes,
“Wh-what did I do?” I asked, flipping the paper over and searching for any indicators of errors. There was one fact I’d gotten wrong with a -3 scribbled next to it. But other than that…
“Mr. Sturke,” I looked up at him, desperate for an answer.
He was still entering grades into the computer. After a moment, he glanced up. At last, he told me,
“Wrong philosopher.”
I felt like I could puke.
“What…?”
“The test today was on Kant, not Descartes.”
I had to lean back against the desks for support. The Curse. It beat me again. It always beat me.
A Separate Peace...What? *SPOILER ALERT*
My English class just finished reading A Separate Peace...and I don't think I've disliked a book so much since The Yearling in ninth grade. At first, I thought, "What an insult! Don't go comparing it with The Yearling!" But now that I've mulled it over, I've realized that the books have more in common than I thought.
Jody is to Flag as Gene is to Phineas. Both Jody and Gene suffer from Dependant Personality Disorder, and rely on unrealistic companions (a pet deer and a flawless friend) to support them. As soon as anything happens to their special friend (say, a broken leg), their world crumbles around them in a volcano of fire and dispraportionate angst. The author will then go into a long, lenghty description of either the surrounding forest or the school campus and describe how some how the world revolves around Jody and Gene, and that even nature must contribute to their angst.
What was most frustrating about both the books, is that the deep, inspirational themes become lost in pointless, monotonous detail. The Yearling could have been summed up in a book the size of A Separate Peace. A Seperate Peace could have been at least halved. Mabye that's just my preference--I have a penchant for tight, focused stories, and I'm not one for descriptive writing. Still, it's aggravating to try and think of textual references to support any kind of essay question, because all that comes to mind is a thirty-page trek through the woods.
*SPOILER ALERT* Finally, Gene and Jody's special friends die at the end of each book, for completely random, irrational reasons. Apparently, you can die from a broken leg, and behavioral problems in dear are best solved by blowing their brains out. Gene and Jody both pout for a few days, then get over it, realizing that their special friend really wasn't that special, that what was special was "inside them all along!" Thus, everyone goes on living their lives with no qualms towards contributing to the deaths of their friends.
Don't get me wrong, these books aren't so awful. The descriptive writing is truly beautiful, but in my opinion best appreciated in small quantities, not in thirty-page chapters. And I doubt any book will ever sink as low as The Swiss Family Robinson. Still, these two books are definitely in my bottom five.
Jody is to Flag as Gene is to Phineas. Both Jody and Gene suffer from Dependant Personality Disorder, and rely on unrealistic companions (a pet deer and a flawless friend) to support them. As soon as anything happens to their special friend (say, a broken leg), their world crumbles around them in a volcano of fire and dispraportionate angst. The author will then go into a long, lenghty description of either the surrounding forest or the school campus and describe how some how the world revolves around Jody and Gene, and that even nature must contribute to their angst.
What was most frustrating about both the books, is that the deep, inspirational themes become lost in pointless, monotonous detail. The Yearling could have been summed up in a book the size of A Separate Peace. A Seperate Peace could have been at least halved. Mabye that's just my preference--I have a penchant for tight, focused stories, and I'm not one for descriptive writing. Still, it's aggravating to try and think of textual references to support any kind of essay question, because all that comes to mind is a thirty-page trek through the woods.
*SPOILER ALERT* Finally, Gene and Jody's special friends die at the end of each book, for completely random, irrational reasons. Apparently, you can die from a broken leg, and behavioral problems in dear are best solved by blowing their brains out. Gene and Jody both pout for a few days, then get over it, realizing that their special friend really wasn't that special, that what was special was "inside them all along!" Thus, everyone goes on living their lives with no qualms towards contributing to the deaths of their friends.
Don't get me wrong, these books aren't so awful. The descriptive writing is truly beautiful, but in my opinion best appreciated in small quantities, not in thirty-page chapters. And I doubt any book will ever sink as low as The Swiss Family Robinson. Still, these two books are definitely in my bottom five.
Maria Description
Speaking of Maria, I did a character sketch of her the other day at school, some of which wound up in the roleplay. Some of it you may not get unless you've seen the show. Nevertheless, I share:
Her raising had polluted her. She was too human. She looked the part. Sure, her hair was dark, and her skin was pale, but it was not ashen. Instead, her cheeks, her arms, took an a porcelain glow--she was a large-eyed doll.
She looked not much older than a child, except for those large eyes, calm and knowing, insightful and gentl. The rest of her small frame was decorated with only modest curves. She dressed like an adult though, like a human adult. Simple knee-lenght dresses with quarter sleeves and ballerina flats was her costume of choice. Her rich, dark hair usually stayed pinned up on her head in a neat, spiral pattern. Yes, she looked too much like a little, grown-up human.
And her behavior reflected that of a human's, so much so that it was sickening. She was gentle but firm, resolute in the beliefs and ideas she'd been able to develop. It was too late to indoctrinate her. Ordinarly under these circumstances, Dante (the bad guy, who likes to collect all the artificial humans and use them as slaves) would kill her. But, she needed her power. The best that could be done was to keep the girl silent.
Her raising had polluted her. She was too human. She looked the part. Sure, her hair was dark, and her skin was pale, but it was not ashen. Instead, her cheeks, her arms, took an a porcelain glow--she was a large-eyed doll.
She looked not much older than a child, except for those large eyes, calm and knowing, insightful and gentl. The rest of her small frame was decorated with only modest curves. She dressed like an adult though, like a human adult. Simple knee-lenght dresses with quarter sleeves and ballerina flats was her costume of choice. Her rich, dark hair usually stayed pinned up on her head in a neat, spiral pattern. Yes, she looked too much like a little, grown-up human.
And her behavior reflected that of a human's, so much so that it was sickening. She was gentle but firm, resolute in the beliefs and ideas she'd been able to develop. It was too late to indoctrinate her. Ordinarly under these circumstances, Dante (the bad guy, who likes to collect all the artificial humans and use them as slaves) would kill her. But, she needed her power. The best that could be done was to keep the girl silent.
Profile: Maria
So, my friend and I are doing the unthinkable--we're making a "reboot" of an old roleplay. It was one of my all-time favorites, and it was the first one my friend and I had ever completed. It's been two or three years since then (wow!), and so we decided we'd try our hand at it again and compare the 2010 roleplay to the 2007/2008 roleplay.
Even after the roleplay, I played with the character I created, tweaking her and improving upon her personality as I saw fit. But, I never really wrote it all down, so now I will, just to get my thoughts organized.
Just so you don't think I'm steeling ideas, this is a fanfiction roleplay for the show Fullmetal Alchemist, but the character herself is based off of a character of the same name from the Sonic the Hedgehog series (No, I'm not going to elaborate on why I cross-bred these two series. There are some memories that are best left repressed). I'll change her name later.
Name: Maria
Gender: Female
Species: Artificial Human (homunculus, if you're hip with FMA lingo)
Age: 15
Hair: Dark brown, appears black in most lighting, thick, shiny, slightly wavy, down to mid-back
Eyes: Deep dark blue, large, placid, doll-like
Height: 5'4''
Appearence: Younger adolescent, slender, gentle curves, though could still be mistaken for someone as young as twelve
Personality: Gentle, passive, quiet, passive-aggressive, stubborn, arrogant, curious, ponderer, intelligent, trusting, sympathetic, patient, usually cooperative, but has a limit, free thinker, opinionated
Even after the roleplay, I played with the character I created, tweaking her and improving upon her personality as I saw fit. But, I never really wrote it all down, so now I will, just to get my thoughts organized.
Just so you don't think I'm steeling ideas, this is a fanfiction roleplay for the show Fullmetal Alchemist, but the character herself is based off of a character of the same name from the Sonic the Hedgehog series (No, I'm not going to elaborate on why I cross-bred these two series. There are some memories that are best left repressed). I'll change her name later.
Name: Maria
Gender: Female
Species: Artificial Human (homunculus, if you're hip with FMA lingo)
Age: 15
Hair: Dark brown, appears black in most lighting, thick, shiny, slightly wavy, down to mid-back
Eyes: Deep dark blue, large, placid, doll-like
Height: 5'4''
Appearence: Younger adolescent, slender, gentle curves, though could still be mistaken for someone as young as twelve
Personality: Gentle, passive, quiet, passive-aggressive, stubborn, arrogant, curious, ponderer, intelligent, trusting, sympathetic, patient, usually cooperative, but has a limit, free thinker, opinionated
The Spirit of Christmas
Tonight I had the opportunity to deliver gifts to an underprivileged family. It was a neighborhood project, coordinated by my parents. By the end of yesterday, we had about forty presents stacked up in our dining room. Mom told me they'd be heading out to deliver them the next day, and I asked to go with them.
Another neighborhood family followed us to the house. Well, it wasn't exactly a house. My dad had to explain to me what "public housing" is. The complex was spread across several streets, and we got lost. In the darkness, I could see the silhouettes of guys in brim hats and saggy pants lurking in the darkness. As we past a row of apartments, my sister commented, "That door looks like it has bullet holes in it."
My wild imagination began to paint scenarios of us getting mugged or shot or worse as my mom wound through the gravel streets in her out-of-place Lexus. We had to stop and call the lady we were delivering to, but we finally found her door. Mom went up first, and I wondered if someone would shoot her as soon as they opened the door. Instead, the lady came up, and my mom walked in and talked to her, then waved us to come on.
Our neighbors, my dad, my sister, and I thus gathered up the trunk-full of presents and headed into the narrow hall with them. Immediately to the left were a set of steep stairs. The place smelled like tobacco. The only other room I saw, besides the hallway and the stairs, was the tiny living room. I didn't stop to look around, and only saw the L-shaped couch that dwarfed the small space, and then the four-foot, undecorated plastic Christmas tree shoved in the corner. We stacked the presents around them, and had to set some on the couch.
The lady, in navy sweats, jumper, and headwrap, sat on the couch with her baby in her lap, quiet and timid, and I imagine a bit overwhelmed. Her beautiful five-year-old daughter squirmed with delight as we brought in box after box. The grin on her face made me want to buy her the entire Toys-R-Us store.
My mom and the other ladies that came with us hugged the lady, and told her to call if she ever needed anything. Mom handed her a Wal-Mart gift card for $120. "Thank you, thank you," the lady said, too stunned to say anything else.
We weren't in the house for more than five minutes before we were heading out again. I almost wished we could have stayed and talked to her, but she had a life to get back to, and apparently so did we. As we walked out, the dad of the family drove up (I have no idea if they were married or not) and jumped out of his car to thank us. We met another one of their children, a little boy of about two, with his afro pulled into skewed pony tails. It was too bad we were outside in the dark by then. I would have loved to get a better look at the little boys' face.
I wish we could be there Christmas morning to see them open all of those presents, but I'll have to be satisfied with seeing that little girl's face. I'm so proud of my neighborhood for pitching in and helping out this family. I hope this is their best Christmas yet, and I hope we don't lose contact with them, but continue to love and support them, just like my mom offered.
Another neighborhood family followed us to the house. Well, it wasn't exactly a house. My dad had to explain to me what "public housing" is. The complex was spread across several streets, and we got lost. In the darkness, I could see the silhouettes of guys in brim hats and saggy pants lurking in the darkness. As we past a row of apartments, my sister commented, "That door looks like it has bullet holes in it."
My wild imagination began to paint scenarios of us getting mugged or shot or worse as my mom wound through the gravel streets in her out-of-place Lexus. We had to stop and call the lady we were delivering to, but we finally found her door. Mom went up first, and I wondered if someone would shoot her as soon as they opened the door. Instead, the lady came up, and my mom walked in and talked to her, then waved us to come on.
Our neighbors, my dad, my sister, and I thus gathered up the trunk-full of presents and headed into the narrow hall with them. Immediately to the left were a set of steep stairs. The place smelled like tobacco. The only other room I saw, besides the hallway and the stairs, was the tiny living room. I didn't stop to look around, and only saw the L-shaped couch that dwarfed the small space, and then the four-foot, undecorated plastic Christmas tree shoved in the corner. We stacked the presents around them, and had to set some on the couch.
The lady, in navy sweats, jumper, and headwrap, sat on the couch with her baby in her lap, quiet and timid, and I imagine a bit overwhelmed. Her beautiful five-year-old daughter squirmed with delight as we brought in box after box. The grin on her face made me want to buy her the entire Toys-R-Us store.
My mom and the other ladies that came with us hugged the lady, and told her to call if she ever needed anything. Mom handed her a Wal-Mart gift card for $120. "Thank you, thank you," the lady said, too stunned to say anything else.
We weren't in the house for more than five minutes before we were heading out again. I almost wished we could have stayed and talked to her, but she had a life to get back to, and apparently so did we. As we walked out, the dad of the family drove up (I have no idea if they were married or not) and jumped out of his car to thank us. We met another one of their children, a little boy of about two, with his afro pulled into skewed pony tails. It was too bad we were outside in the dark by then. I would have loved to get a better look at the little boys' face.
I wish we could be there Christmas morning to see them open all of those presents, but I'll have to be satisfied with seeing that little girl's face. I'm so proud of my neighborhood for pitching in and helping out this family. I hope this is their best Christmas yet, and I hope we don't lose contact with them, but continue to love and support them, just like my mom offered.
Burdens
One of the things people admire about me is my ability to keep a secret. They know they can tell me someone and no one else will know about it. It's harder than it looks. I have the deep, dark dirt on a lot of people--ex-friends, current friends, even my dad. The thing is, their secrets that I can never tell anyone effect (affect? Who cares...) me so much. The deepest, darkest points in others' lives have the most profound impact on me. It's like having to carry around the knives they cut me with, and I have to keep them hidden under my coat so no one can know that I was in pain...that I'm still in pain.
Just once, I wish I could talk to a total stranger. Someone who's never met me, and who will never see me again, and who's never met and will never meet the people whose secrets I carry. I wish I could sit down for a couple of hours at a coffee shop with him and pour out all my hurts, all my knives. Just to have one person in the world who knows, who understands how I feel, would relieve at least some of these burdens I carry.
Sure, I've talked to people about how I've been hurt by others in the past, but every time I was still bound by my conscience to keep their secrets. But, if it was someone completely objective, someone who would never have a reason to meet the people I'd tell them about or to tell the secrets I'd give them. Just to tell them, just to share once, I hope would be enough.
Just once, I wish I could talk to a total stranger. Someone who's never met me, and who will never see me again, and who's never met and will never meet the people whose secrets I carry. I wish I could sit down for a couple of hours at a coffee shop with him and pour out all my hurts, all my knives. Just to have one person in the world who knows, who understands how I feel, would relieve at least some of these burdens I carry.
Sure, I've talked to people about how I've been hurt by others in the past, but every time I was still bound by my conscience to keep their secrets. But, if it was someone completely objective, someone who would never have a reason to meet the people I'd tell them about or to tell the secrets I'd give them. Just to tell them, just to share once, I hope would be enough.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Sweet Tea
I watched her skeptically as she spooned sugar into the empty pitcher. The tea in the pot simmered, making the plump tea bags dance. She quickly filled two glasses full of ice, then pulled the pot off the stove and poured its conents into the sugar pitcher. I could feel my lip curl as I watched the sugar at the bottom become molten before she stirred. Then, she poured the hot tea straight into one of the glasses, and the ice cracked and melted in protest. She smiled as she handed it to me,
"Just try it."
I looked down at it for several seconds and hoped that time would be enough for the tea to chill. But, the glass was still warm in my hand. My lips met icy drink, and the sweetness of it made be wince, but I tilted the glass a little more. The cold tea eddied from around the ice, accompanied by the warm tea just beneath. The sensation of warm and cold at the same time made my head swim a little. I'd never had such a sensation. Even with the sugar it was oddly...pleasing.
"Just try it."
I looked down at it for several seconds and hoped that time would be enough for the tea to chill. But, the glass was still warm in my hand. My lips met icy drink, and the sweetness of it made be wince, but I tilted the glass a little more. The cold tea eddied from around the ice, accompanied by the warm tea just beneath. The sensation of warm and cold at the same time made my head swim a little. I'd never had such a sensation. Even with the sugar it was oddly...pleasing.
An Oedipus Complex?
This week, our class had a Bible project due. Each team had to create an interview-based documentary on what people in the area believed about God. One team went to the UNC: Chapel Hill campus, and they were the first to present their project. The room lulled into a glazed silence as the documentary began to play. Face after face appeared on the screen, each one spitting out words we only half-cared to hear. And then, his face appeared.
I noticed his hair first. It was thick, black, and styled with bangs sweeping across his forehead and flipped out around the sides and back of his head, like you would see in a shojo manga. Next, I saw his eyes, a glowing blue color. Blue eyes and black hair, the makeup of my dream-guy. He's cute, I thought upon first glance.
He wasn't exactly a supermodel. He was lanky, with wide lips and a broad nose. But, there was a sing-songy, almost British tone to his voice that charmed me. Still, I found myself disproportionately attracted to him. What is it about him? I pondered as I listened intensely to his atheistic responses. And then, it struck me: He looks like my dad.
His face was a slenderer, younger, charicatured version of my dad's. My dad has black hair--the only difference was the eyes. My dad has brown eyes. But other than that...
I leaned over in my desk and whispered the revelation to my friends. They'd just been over at my house that weekend to work on the project, and with their memory of meeting my dad fresh in their mind, they all agreed. One of my friends started teasing me about how "Frued was right!" and I insisted that, "It's not like that!" And it isn't. But when I saw his face, he reminded me of all the things I love about my dad, all the things I hope to find one day in a husband. I felt giddy--suddenly I was crushing on this guy I'd never even met.
After all, looks wasn't the only thing he had in common with my dad. He was a student at UNC, probably a freshman or sophomore. My dad went to grad school at UNC, which is where he met my mom, who was three years younger than him. I was probably two to four years younger than this guy, and UNC is where I want to go for undergrad. Maybe, just maybe...
Ten minutes passed, and the guy (the documentary never mentioned his name) shared his final thoughts on the last question, and the documentary was over. I let out a wistful sigh that made my friends giggle at me. Of course, I was wrapped up in a fantasy for a brief ten minutes, but now it was time to come back to earth and watch the next project. I'd been quietly rating the attractiveness of the guys in each documentary, but now none of them seemed as cute. I knew the saying "Girls marry their dad" was true, but I'd never experienced its meaning before. And now that I have, I have to admit it's not as creepy as it sounds. It's actually quite hope-inspiring.
I noticed his hair first. It was thick, black, and styled with bangs sweeping across his forehead and flipped out around the sides and back of his head, like you would see in a shojo manga. Next, I saw his eyes, a glowing blue color. Blue eyes and black hair, the makeup of my dream-guy. He's cute, I thought upon first glance.
He wasn't exactly a supermodel. He was lanky, with wide lips and a broad nose. But, there was a sing-songy, almost British tone to his voice that charmed me. Still, I found myself disproportionately attracted to him. What is it about him? I pondered as I listened intensely to his atheistic responses. And then, it struck me: He looks like my dad.
His face was a slenderer, younger, charicatured version of my dad's. My dad has black hair--the only difference was the eyes. My dad has brown eyes. But other than that...
I leaned over in my desk and whispered the revelation to my friends. They'd just been over at my house that weekend to work on the project, and with their memory of meeting my dad fresh in their mind, they all agreed. One of my friends started teasing me about how "Frued was right!" and I insisted that, "It's not like that!" And it isn't. But when I saw his face, he reminded me of all the things I love about my dad, all the things I hope to find one day in a husband. I felt giddy--suddenly I was crushing on this guy I'd never even met.
After all, looks wasn't the only thing he had in common with my dad. He was a student at UNC, probably a freshman or sophomore. My dad went to grad school at UNC, which is where he met my mom, who was three years younger than him. I was probably two to four years younger than this guy, and UNC is where I want to go for undergrad. Maybe, just maybe...
Ten minutes passed, and the guy (the documentary never mentioned his name) shared his final thoughts on the last question, and the documentary was over. I let out a wistful sigh that made my friends giggle at me. Of course, I was wrapped up in a fantasy for a brief ten minutes, but now it was time to come back to earth and watch the next project. I'd been quietly rating the attractiveness of the guys in each documentary, but now none of them seemed as cute. I knew the saying "Girls marry their dad" was true, but I'd never experienced its meaning before. And now that I have, I have to admit it's not as creepy as it sounds. It's actually quite hope-inspiring.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Queer Question
A Little Rant on Societal Ills:
As the last book of the semester, all of the eleventh grade English classes read A Separate Peace. The predominant discussion among Juniors for the past three weeks—are Gene and Phineas gay?
The queer question surfaces a lot in older literature, and it drives me crazy. It reinforces every American macho stereotype and contributes as early as middle school to the undercutting of healthy male relationships. You may think I’m being overdramatic, but revisit some of the books you’ve read in school. Shakespeare is gay because he wrote a poem complimenting a guy, the entire Forrester (ha! I didn't realize that both this family and Gene share the same last name) family from The Yearling is gay because they ran around their house naked, and Gene is gay because he shows genuine affection towards his best friend Phineas, and in one scene mentions a guy’s prominent buttocks.
I’m not saying speculation in literature is the source of our problems, but it’s one of those little facets of our culture that contributes to the whole problem. We’ve forbidden guys from connecting with each other on a deep level of friendship. Anything less than a joking cut or a chest bump is bordering on homosexual. God forbid a hug, unless of course you’re only joking about it.
I don’t think men are as connected as they could or should be in today’s time, especially in America. I feel like it’s a recent development—not that I’ve done a lot of research on the subject, but from the cultural history I’ve looked at, men in the past seemed unabashed to express their affection for each other in a more intimate way than just “homeboys.”
The problem with this kind of speculation in school is that we instill the idea in middle and high school that any kind of intimacy between two guys must by default be sexual in nature. The jokes and borderline inappropriate debates are fun at the time, but subconsciously the message we’re sending sticks with the guys—no male affection aloud.
I feel like I’m beating a dead horse, so I’ll just end with this: Most people would agree that Jesus was not gay. And yet, at The Last Supper, he let John lean against his chest. Jesus displayed his love for his disciples with intimate, non-sexual, physical affection. Of course, I know that cultural perception changes, and that the transition back to closer male relationships has to be gradual, but if Jesus lived the perfect, godly life, then who’s to question the acceptability of affectionate male relationships?
As the last book of the semester, all of the eleventh grade English classes read A Separate Peace. The predominant discussion among Juniors for the past three weeks—are Gene and Phineas gay?
The queer question surfaces a lot in older literature, and it drives me crazy. It reinforces every American macho stereotype and contributes as early as middle school to the undercutting of healthy male relationships. You may think I’m being overdramatic, but revisit some of the books you’ve read in school. Shakespeare is gay because he wrote a poem complimenting a guy, the entire Forrester (ha! I didn't realize that both this family and Gene share the same last name) family from The Yearling is gay because they ran around their house naked, and Gene is gay because he shows genuine affection towards his best friend Phineas, and in one scene mentions a guy’s prominent buttocks.
I’m not saying speculation in literature is the source of our problems, but it’s one of those little facets of our culture that contributes to the whole problem. We’ve forbidden guys from connecting with each other on a deep level of friendship. Anything less than a joking cut or a chest bump is bordering on homosexual. God forbid a hug, unless of course you’re only joking about it.
I don’t think men are as connected as they could or should be in today’s time, especially in America. I feel like it’s a recent development—not that I’ve done a lot of research on the subject, but from the cultural history I’ve looked at, men in the past seemed unabashed to express their affection for each other in a more intimate way than just “homeboys.”
The problem with this kind of speculation in school is that we instill the idea in middle and high school that any kind of intimacy between two guys must by default be sexual in nature. The jokes and borderline inappropriate debates are fun at the time, but subconsciously the message we’re sending sticks with the guys—no male affection aloud.
I feel like I’m beating a dead horse, so I’ll just end with this: Most people would agree that Jesus was not gay. And yet, at The Last Supper, he let John lean against his chest. Jesus displayed his love for his disciples with intimate, non-sexual, physical affection. Of course, I know that cultural perception changes, and that the transition back to closer male relationships has to be gradual, but if Jesus lived the perfect, godly life, then who’s to question the acceptability of affectionate male relationships?
Object Lesson
Love is like an orange, and we're losing the art of picking from the orchard.
One of the problems is that most have begun to pick and choose by looking at the peel. People want the brightest, cleanest, biggest, orange-est orange they can find. Spots of dirt or discoloration are unacceptable. Some spend their whole lives looking for this Holy Grail of fruit, but other lucky pickers actually find that perfect orange. With giddiness on their face and butterflies in their stomach, they put that perfect orange up to their lips and take that first big bite--and suddenly the bitterness of the peel makes them gag. Many throw their orange down in disgust and hurry to find the next perfect orange. The first orange just "wasn't the one." That's for sure.
Some figure out that the peel isn't all there is to eat. With courage and investment they take the time to scrape away the outer shell and find the sweet, juicy fruit. However, they don't expect the bitter white pieces of flesh that still cover the orange slices. All they wanted was the sweet fruit--they didn't ask for this other stuff. After tasting this bitter meat, they back out of their commitment to their orange.
If you want a happy, healthy relationship with your orange, you have to take the time to peel away the thick, deceiving skin. Then, you have to see past the little pieces of white flesh in order to enjoy the sweet, juicy fruit.
I might edit this later, these are just my thoughts. :)
One of the problems is that most have begun to pick and choose by looking at the peel. People want the brightest, cleanest, biggest, orange-est orange they can find. Spots of dirt or discoloration are unacceptable. Some spend their whole lives looking for this Holy Grail of fruit, but other lucky pickers actually find that perfect orange. With giddiness on their face and butterflies in their stomach, they put that perfect orange up to their lips and take that first big bite--and suddenly the bitterness of the peel makes them gag. Many throw their orange down in disgust and hurry to find the next perfect orange. The first orange just "wasn't the one." That's for sure.
Some figure out that the peel isn't all there is to eat. With courage and investment they take the time to scrape away the outer shell and find the sweet, juicy fruit. However, they don't expect the bitter white pieces of flesh that still cover the orange slices. All they wanted was the sweet fruit--they didn't ask for this other stuff. After tasting this bitter meat, they back out of their commitment to their orange.
If you want a happy, healthy relationship with your orange, you have to take the time to peel away the thick, deceiving skin. Then, you have to see past the little pieces of white flesh in order to enjoy the sweet, juicy fruit.
I might edit this later, these are just my thoughts. :)
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
NaNoWriMo
I did it. I really did it. I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days, and now my novel is only a few scenes from being completed. It will be the first novel I've ever finished. I've broken down a wall, a barrier that for years stood between me and the success of completion.
Usually, I'll start a great novel idea, and either give up, get bored, or get busy after the first several pages. The story usually doesn't even make it to the computer. But now, now I have 50,000+ words of one continuous story, the most I've ever written for a single idea.
Some days were grueling.Some days I wanted to give up. I did last year, after only 10,000 words. But this year, I had the time, the energy, and the drive to go all in. This was my year, and now, I'm a novelist.
The new title excites me. And it will become even more exciting tomorrow when I can activate my prize for winning. If you reach the 50,000 word goal by November 30, NaNoWriMo will give you a free proof copy of your book. There are six months to edit, and then you email the publishing company your text, and a few days later you receive a bound, tangible copy of your book
I'm excited about what I've done. I'm excited about the editing that's to come. I know most of what I wrote was less than quality, and I look forward to shaping the skeleton that I wrote into something beautiful. I'm excited about getting a copy of my very own novel to place on my bookshelf along with some of my favorite books. I don't know if I can wait until June to get my proof copy.
Should I try and publish? I would have to make it truly amazing. I would have to find an agent and an editor. I would have to pay for an agent and an editor. No, I decide. It's too soon for that kind of success. For now, I should content myself with what I've already accomplished, and continue to develop my writing skills in preparation for the publishing world.
Even if a little of the joy of victory was drowned in the stress of homework last night, I'm still proud of myself, and excited, and ready to jump up and down and upside down and all around the room. I'm ready to run down the halls screaming, "I'm a novelist! I'm a novelist!!" Of course, I'm going to contain my joy; I won't be a nuisance to my peers. For now, I'll quietly celebrate my victory.
Usually, I'll start a great novel idea, and either give up, get bored, or get busy after the first several pages. The story usually doesn't even make it to the computer. But now, now I have 50,000+ words of one continuous story, the most I've ever written for a single idea.
Some days were grueling.Some days I wanted to give up. I did last year, after only 10,000 words. But this year, I had the time, the energy, and the drive to go all in. This was my year, and now, I'm a novelist.
The new title excites me. And it will become even more exciting tomorrow when I can activate my prize for winning. If you reach the 50,000 word goal by November 30, NaNoWriMo will give you a free proof copy of your book. There are six months to edit, and then you email the publishing company your text, and a few days later you receive a bound, tangible copy of your book
I'm excited about what I've done. I'm excited about the editing that's to come. I know most of what I wrote was less than quality, and I look forward to shaping the skeleton that I wrote into something beautiful. I'm excited about getting a copy of my very own novel to place on my bookshelf along with some of my favorite books. I don't know if I can wait until June to get my proof copy.
Should I try and publish? I would have to make it truly amazing. I would have to find an agent and an editor. I would have to pay for an agent and an editor. No, I decide. It's too soon for that kind of success. For now, I should content myself with what I've already accomplished, and continue to develop my writing skills in preparation for the publishing world.
Even if a little of the joy of victory was drowned in the stress of homework last night, I'm still proud of myself, and excited, and ready to jump up and down and upside down and all around the room. I'm ready to run down the halls screaming, "I'm a novelist! I'm a novelist!!" Of course, I'm going to contain my joy; I won't be a nuisance to my peers. For now, I'll quietly celebrate my victory.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)