Inspired by Langston Hughes's poem "Theme for English B," my AP English teacher told us to write a page about ourselves, that spilled out of us, "like vomit." Here was mine (I know it's not that grammatically sound in all places, but we're making corrections in class, and I might post that later.):
Who am I? Does anybody know? Does anybody even see me? Or are they all staring? They're all staring. Eyes down, don't make a scene. Don't let the secret out. Don't let them know I'm weird. Just act normal.Don't answer the questions the teacher asks. Oh, but I have such a good thought. But what if you're wrong? Everybody will be talking about me. They think I'm weird.
What if I had time, more time? Time to show my peers that I'm not weird, I'm creative! What if I had time to show them the fruits of my creativity? What if school was all Creative Writing, English, Art, Psychology, Piano, Dram, and Animation? Then I could honestly say I love school, and I could hone my crafts to show all my peers. I could share my ideas, my stories.
But no, they're not all that great. Not in their primitive form. And I have no time to evolve my every talent. So, I have to pick and choose just a few to go along with all the important things like Calculus and Chemistry, which we are all destined to use some day.
But until I can prove myself, I must fade into the background and wait for the opportune time--for just the right joke or just the perfect input to come to me. Until then, I have no right to speak. Otherwise, I am weird.
I know I am weird. I watch kids cartoons instead of crime scene dramas, I squeal about books that aren't Twilight, I pace in circles around my room to generate ideas. I hardly get on Facebook to chat, or pull out my phone to text. Instead, I have witty conversations with my favorite story characters. But, I'm not weird in a creepy way, right? I mean, I watch cartoons because I'm interested in animation. And there are thousands of books out there that are more squeal-worthy than Twilight. I get my best ideas when I pace, and the internal dialogue I have with my "imaginary friends" is just an exercise in characterization. It's all explainable, and not all that strange when you hear the full story.
So why am I so afraid of being misjudged? My friends (all 2 1/2 of them) and I joke about how my favorite character is always the one who's misunderstood. I thought it was sympathy, but maybe it's empathy I'm feeling.
Well, I'm out of my page, and I've probably estranged myself from my English teacher, so I shall part with this:
Is it bad that I can relate to all the Paranoid Parrots on Tumblr?
No comments:
Post a Comment