"Of course this is happening inside your head, Harry. But why on Earth does that mean it is not real?"
-Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
"To Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived!"
Sunday, July 17, 2011
A Walk Through Diversity
“All my life, I've been waiting for diversity.”-Max Von Sydow
In the morning, the first sister awoke at six o' three, because that was the time she always did. She sat up in bed, folded her hair down with her right hand, lifted the left corner of her quilt, and stepped with both feet to floor.
Her nightgown was always pale pink. Her socks were always white, with a ribbon at the ankle. Every morning, at exactly the same minute, of exactly the same hour, she would open her window, and lift her rosy cheeks to the same sun she awoke to a thousand mornings past. She would stand in the morning breeze for precisely nine seconds.
She would comb her hair, change her clothes, and the same day would begin again.
At seven o' four, of that same morning, the second sister opened her eyes.
She stared at the ceiling. She hid her head beneath her pillow.
Finally, she would stand, and begin her day with a cup of coffee, or maybe a piece of toast. Some mornings, she would simply remain in the safety of her bed. Sometimes, she'd wake up and don a mask and cape, to make herself feel invincible.
On this morning, after memorizing the scents of her bedsheets, the first sister spoke to her.
“You woke up an hour later than usual today.” she said in the sweet, innocent tone that she had beheld forever.
And the second sister rolled out of bed, and began applying her mask.
In a deeper tone than what once was, she bid the first a good morning.
* * *
On the next morning, the second sister awoke at eight o' five. She stretched. She went to her closet, and began to dress herself for the day ahead.
The first sister had been awake for two hours, and two minutes now, living the same day.
The phone rang, and the second sister would answer it. She would giggle, nervously adding more paints to her dripping mask, teasing and joking with the voice on the other end. And the first sister did not understand the conversation. The second was using words the first did not know. She was acting in a way that the first could not comprehend.
The second sister would tell her goodbye, and leave their house, to see the caller in person. And the first sister would frown, and continue her day.
She would play with her dolls, and remember when her sister was almost identical to her, in looks and in manner. They would both wake at the same time. They would share a breakfast of 147 cheerios, in a white bowl with a cup and three quarters of skim milk. They would smile, don the same dress, the same pink shoes. They'd play the same games, and use the same words.
And the first sister remembered this time, and she missed it terribly. She missed the sister that was not the same anymore.
The second sister was taller now. Her hair was longer. Her shoes had heels. Her clothes were tighter. She wore the mask. The first sister prayed every night at eight o' seven, that her sister would take that mask off. But she never did.
* * *
It was a brisk, bleary morning. Nine o' eight. The two sisters walked through the wood they had once played in together, before the second sister grew her hair out.
The first sister felt as though that time were only seconds ago. The second sister had nearly forgotten them.
They used to play games in the tree house at the end of the dirt path. The first sister was always the princess, content with her frivolous life, endlessly coming her hair in front of the window, longing for her prince.
The second sister would be the stepmother, who was sometimes very kind, and sometimes rather cruel. She would never do the same things twice. She would move very fast, the second sister. And the first would have to struggle to keep up with her.
On this morning, the first sister wore the same, simple pink frock, cut at the knees, with long white socks, adorned with ribbon, and flat white shoes. Her hair was in the same, perfect two braids.
The second sister wore very tight blue jeans, with a red sweater that hung slightly too low for the first sisters preference. Her hair was down, and flowing. Her mask was on, her heels were high. She was much taller now. She walked very fast, her arms folded in front of her as she stared at the morning sun hanging above their heads.
The first sister spoke.
“I like to think that no matter where we are, we will always look at the same sun.”
The second sister said nothing, for she disagreed. Her sister saw a bigger sun, that made her feel small. But this sister's sun had gotten much smaller over the years. Much dimmer.
They walked beneath their separate glowing stars, crushing autumn leaves beneath their feet.
“We need to talk.” the second sister told the first. And they did.
“I'm growing up now.” said the second.
“You can't. You're not ready.”
“I am, sissy. I really am. It's time.”
But the first sister simply shook her head. “You can't leave me. You can't forget about me.”
But the second sister already had, so it seemed. She walked right past the tree house, leaving her sister to stand at the latter alone, tangled in a net of memories that only she remembered.
“It's time. Thanks for everything.” And the second sister began walking again.
“No, come back! We've never walked past the tree house before! You'll get lost!” The first sister tried to run for her, but found that she was rooted to the spot. Her feet, clad in age old pink slippers, would not let her go any farther.
“Sissy, wait! Wait for me!” But her sister was so far ahead now. She tilted her head behind her shoulder, and smiled at her.
“I won't forget you.” she said simply, and then she faded away, and her sister could not see her anymore.
The first began to cry. She collapsed where she stood, burying her young head in the folds of her little pink dress, trying to understand.
She stood, and began to climb the latter that would lead her to the tree house of every yesterday ever hatched, where everything would feel okay again.
She patted her braids back into place, looking around her. On the walls were framed pictures of two girls, who looked very much alike. One was small, with round cheeks, and a pink dress. The other was older, taller, cleverer, and she wore different things in every picture. Her hair was never quite the same, her expressions would change from frame to frame.
The first sister grew dizzy, for she did not understand. She began to cry, stomping her feet. But no one could hear her.
And then, the first sister began to fade away. Her features grew pale, until nearly translucent. And she crossed her fingers, something her sister had taught her to do many years ago when she wanted something desperately to happen, and she disappeared.
The first sister was never seen again.
The second sister kept changing.
And because you've all heard this story countless times before, you understand that the second sister lied when she said that she would not forget the first.
The tree house grew old, and the second sister could scarcely remember it now. Photographs and memories, her innocence, faded away inside, wearing a small pink dress.
But these things weren't important anymore.
The years spun on, the hours changed every day. The mask grew thicker.
She'd forgotten herself, left her in the wood.
But, alas, you've all heard this story.
You understand, I assume, that the first sister still lives out there somewhere. You understand that she should never be forgotten, but that, in life, the best of us fade.
And so the second sister, who's name was Diversity, walked on.
In the morning, the first sister awoke at six o' three, because that was the time she always did. She sat up in bed, folded her hair down with her right hand, lifted the left corner of her quilt, and stepped with both feet to floor.
Her nightgown was always pale pink. Her socks were always white, with a ribbon at the ankle. Every morning, at exactly the same minute, of exactly the same hour, she would open her window, and lift her rosy cheeks to the same sun she awoke to a thousand mornings past. She would stand in the morning breeze for precisely nine seconds.
She would comb her hair, change her clothes, and the same day would begin again.
At seven o' four, of that same morning, the second sister opened her eyes.
She stared at the ceiling. She hid her head beneath her pillow.
Finally, she would stand, and begin her day with a cup of coffee, or maybe a piece of toast. Some mornings, she would simply remain in the safety of her bed. Sometimes, she'd wake up and don a mask and cape, to make herself feel invincible.
On this morning, after memorizing the scents of her bedsheets, the first sister spoke to her.
“You woke up an hour later than usual today.” she said in the sweet, innocent tone that she had beheld forever.
And the second sister rolled out of bed, and began applying her mask.
In a deeper tone than what once was, she bid the first a good morning.
* * *
On the next morning, the second sister awoke at eight o' five. She stretched. She went to her closet, and began to dress herself for the day ahead.
The first sister had been awake for two hours, and two minutes now, living the same day.
The phone rang, and the second sister would answer it. She would giggle, nervously adding more paints to her dripping mask, teasing and joking with the voice on the other end. And the first sister did not understand the conversation. The second was using words the first did not know. She was acting in a way that the first could not comprehend.
The second sister would tell her goodbye, and leave their house, to see the caller in person. And the first sister would frown, and continue her day.
She would play with her dolls, and remember when her sister was almost identical to her, in looks and in manner. They would both wake at the same time. They would share a breakfast of 147 cheerios, in a white bowl with a cup and three quarters of skim milk. They would smile, don the same dress, the same pink shoes. They'd play the same games, and use the same words.
And the first sister remembered this time, and she missed it terribly. She missed the sister that was not the same anymore.
The second sister was taller now. Her hair was longer. Her shoes had heels. Her clothes were tighter. She wore the mask. The first sister prayed every night at eight o' seven, that her sister would take that mask off. But she never did.
* * *
It was a brisk, bleary morning. Nine o' eight. The two sisters walked through the wood they had once played in together, before the second sister grew her hair out.
The first sister felt as though that time were only seconds ago. The second sister had nearly forgotten them.
They used to play games in the tree house at the end of the dirt path. The first sister was always the princess, content with her frivolous life, endlessly coming her hair in front of the window, longing for her prince.
The second sister would be the stepmother, who was sometimes very kind, and sometimes rather cruel. She would never do the same things twice. She would move very fast, the second sister. And the first would have to struggle to keep up with her.
On this morning, the first sister wore the same, simple pink frock, cut at the knees, with long white socks, adorned with ribbon, and flat white shoes. Her hair was in the same, perfect two braids.
The second sister wore very tight blue jeans, with a red sweater that hung slightly too low for the first sisters preference. Her hair was down, and flowing. Her mask was on, her heels were high. She was much taller now. She walked very fast, her arms folded in front of her as she stared at the morning sun hanging above their heads.
The first sister spoke.
“I like to think that no matter where we are, we will always look at the same sun.”
The second sister said nothing, for she disagreed. Her sister saw a bigger sun, that made her feel small. But this sister's sun had gotten much smaller over the years. Much dimmer.
They walked beneath their separate glowing stars, crushing autumn leaves beneath their feet.
“We need to talk.” the second sister told the first. And they did.
“I'm growing up now.” said the second.
“You can't. You're not ready.”
“I am, sissy. I really am. It's time.”
But the first sister simply shook her head. “You can't leave me. You can't forget about me.”
But the second sister already had, so it seemed. She walked right past the tree house, leaving her sister to stand at the latter alone, tangled in a net of memories that only she remembered.
“It's time. Thanks for everything.” And the second sister began walking again.
“No, come back! We've never walked past the tree house before! You'll get lost!” The first sister tried to run for her, but found that she was rooted to the spot. Her feet, clad in age old pink slippers, would not let her go any farther.
“Sissy, wait! Wait for me!” But her sister was so far ahead now. She tilted her head behind her shoulder, and smiled at her.
“I won't forget you.” she said simply, and then she faded away, and her sister could not see her anymore.
The first began to cry. She collapsed where she stood, burying her young head in the folds of her little pink dress, trying to understand.
She stood, and began to climb the latter that would lead her to the tree house of every yesterday ever hatched, where everything would feel okay again.
She patted her braids back into place, looking around her. On the walls were framed pictures of two girls, who looked very much alike. One was small, with round cheeks, and a pink dress. The other was older, taller, cleverer, and she wore different things in every picture. Her hair was never quite the same, her expressions would change from frame to frame.
The first sister grew dizzy, for she did not understand. She began to cry, stomping her feet. But no one could hear her.
And then, the first sister began to fade away. Her features grew pale, until nearly translucent. And she crossed her fingers, something her sister had taught her to do many years ago when she wanted something desperately to happen, and she disappeared.
The first sister was never seen again.
The second sister kept changing.
And because you've all heard this story countless times before, you understand that the second sister lied when she said that she would not forget the first.
The tree house grew old, and the second sister could scarcely remember it now. Photographs and memories, her innocence, faded away inside, wearing a small pink dress.
But these things weren't important anymore.
The years spun on, the hours changed every day. The mask grew thicker.
She'd forgotten herself, left her in the wood.
But, alas, you've all heard this story.
You understand, I assume, that the first sister still lives out there somewhere. You understand that she should never be forgotten, but that, in life, the best of us fade.
And so the second sister, who's name was Diversity, walked on.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Dear Mr. Potter
If you're like me, childhood ends on July 15th, 2011. This poem is for all of us who believe that magic is only a page turn away.
Dedicated to J.K Rowling, and the home she built for me.
Long Live The Boy Who Lived.
In the year 1997,
Britain gave Hong Kong to China.
People were massacred in Algeria.
A Picasso painting was stolen.
In the year 1997,
a gallon of gasoline was a dollar seventeen.
Missy Elliot topped Mtv's playlists.
In the year 1997,
3,880,894 people were born.
Among them are
Gresyson Chance
Cody Simpson
Chloe Moretz
Myself
and
Harry Potter.
And Mr. Potter,
this one's for you.
Because on June 30th, 1997
you were born,
and so were millions of muggles
who'd been waiting their entire lives
for a little magic.
That was fifteen years ago, now.
And I wish I had Hermione's time turner,
because, Harry, it's gone so fast.
And I can't believe it's almost over.
I remember when I was seven,
and for me, Harry, you had just turned eleven.
I found you, then, for the first time
and it was beautiful, Harry,
how you taught me to fly.
Four years later,
I waited at the mail box
for my letter to arrive.
And I dreamt every night
of the adventures we could share
the triumphs we'd live.
The battles we'd fight.
I like to think I got the letter, Harry
because you taught me that magic
no matter the boundaries
is the greatest gift of all.
And could be found within me
If ever I sought it.
You taught me to follow the spiders
even when it might be easier
to follow butterflies.
You taught me that happiness could be found
in even the darkest of times
If I simply remembered.
To turn on the lights.
You taught me about love,
and how its powers triumph all.
You taught me about bravery
when the best of us, begin to fall.
But most of all, Harry,
You gave me this:
You gave me the desire
to seek the snitch.
You showed me
to open at the close
to believe in friendship
to rely on love
and live for magic.
You gave me a scar of lightning
round glasses, red and gold robes.
And Harry, I want you to know,
that I wear them proudly
Everyday.
You have your mother's eyes, Harry,
You have your father's heart.
So thank you for showing me
that life is lived apart.
That when I'm lost, when I'm confused,
I've got a home at Hogwarts.
That no matter where I go,
you'll walk with me,
the entire way.
Until the very end.
You've made me who I am, Harry,
this mad and twisted Ravenclaw.
And without you, Mr. Potter,
without the Boy Who Lived,
I can only imagine
where I might have thought to fly.
Because without you, Harry,
I wouldn't have realized,
that all I needed was a cupboard
under the stairs.
So thanks for the ride, mate.
Thanks for the spells.
And forever, I solemnly swear,
that I'll be waiting, up to no good, to meet again
someday.
Lost in the pages of the home
that you have given me.
I'll meet you on Platform 9 and ¾
and we'll stare out the train windows
at all of our memories,
rushing by.
Thank you, Mr. Potter
for everything.
With you here, all is well for me.
And I'll believe the same of you.
It's ending now, mate
but not for good.
May our mischief
never manage.
I'll see you in the common room, Harry,
When I'm lonely, from time to time.
I'll meet you in Diagon Ally,
when I need a little magic.
When I'm lost, when I'm upset,
I'll count on you to save me.
This isn't the end, Mr. Potter
for friendship never dies.
And if I leave my heart in the Chamber, Harry,
I know you'll bring it
back to life.
Thanks for the memories,
for wizard chess, and exploding snaps.
Thanks for the ride, mate.
Quidditch games, and Potions class.
I'll see you again, soon, I know
so don't forget me,
because I'll never
forget you.
Long live the Boy Who Lived,
and those of us who lived beside him.
May our magic never falter,
may our wands point high, forever.
Thank you, Mr. Potter
for our worlds,
and the stories built there.
Thank you, Mr. Potter
for bringing me
to life.
Dedicated to J.K Rowling, and the home she built for me.
Long Live The Boy Who Lived.
In the year 1997,
Britain gave Hong Kong to China.
People were massacred in Algeria.
A Picasso painting was stolen.
In the year 1997,
a gallon of gasoline was a dollar seventeen.
Missy Elliot topped Mtv's playlists.
In the year 1997,
3,880,894 people were born.
Among them are
Gresyson Chance
Cody Simpson
Chloe Moretz
Myself
and
Harry Potter.
And Mr. Potter,
this one's for you.
Because on June 30th, 1997
you were born,
and so were millions of muggles
who'd been waiting their entire lives
for a little magic.
That was fifteen years ago, now.
And I wish I had Hermione's time turner,
because, Harry, it's gone so fast.
And I can't believe it's almost over.
I remember when I was seven,
and for me, Harry, you had just turned eleven.
I found you, then, for the first time
and it was beautiful, Harry,
how you taught me to fly.
Four years later,
I waited at the mail box
for my letter to arrive.
And I dreamt every night
of the adventures we could share
the triumphs we'd live.
The battles we'd fight.
I like to think I got the letter, Harry
because you taught me that magic
no matter the boundaries
is the greatest gift of all.
And could be found within me
If ever I sought it.
You taught me to follow the spiders
even when it might be easier
to follow butterflies.
You taught me that happiness could be found
in even the darkest of times
If I simply remembered.
To turn on the lights.
You taught me about love,
and how its powers triumph all.
You taught me about bravery
when the best of us, begin to fall.
But most of all, Harry,
You gave me this:
You gave me the desire
to seek the snitch.
You showed me
to open at the close
to believe in friendship
to rely on love
and live for magic.
You gave me a scar of lightning
round glasses, red and gold robes.
And Harry, I want you to know,
that I wear them proudly
Everyday.
You have your mother's eyes, Harry,
You have your father's heart.
So thank you for showing me
that life is lived apart.
That when I'm lost, when I'm confused,
I've got a home at Hogwarts.
That no matter where I go,
you'll walk with me,
the entire way.
Until the very end.
You've made me who I am, Harry,
this mad and twisted Ravenclaw.
And without you, Mr. Potter,
without the Boy Who Lived,
I can only imagine
where I might have thought to fly.
Because without you, Harry,
I wouldn't have realized,
that all I needed was a cupboard
under the stairs.
So thanks for the ride, mate.
Thanks for the spells.
And forever, I solemnly swear,
that I'll be waiting, up to no good, to meet again
someday.
Lost in the pages of the home
that you have given me.
I'll meet you on Platform 9 and ¾
and we'll stare out the train windows
at all of our memories,
rushing by.
Thank you, Mr. Potter
for everything.
With you here, all is well for me.
And I'll believe the same of you.
It's ending now, mate
but not for good.
May our mischief
never manage.
I'll see you in the common room, Harry,
When I'm lonely, from time to time.
I'll meet you in Diagon Ally,
when I need a little magic.
When I'm lost, when I'm upset,
I'll count on you to save me.
This isn't the end, Mr. Potter
for friendship never dies.
And if I leave my heart in the Chamber, Harry,
I know you'll bring it
back to life.
Thanks for the memories,
for wizard chess, and exploding snaps.
Thanks for the ride, mate.
Quidditch games, and Potions class.
I'll see you again, soon, I know
so don't forget me,
because I'll never
forget you.
Long live the Boy Who Lived,
and those of us who lived beside him.
May our magic never falter,
may our wands point high, forever.
Thank you, Mr. Potter
for our worlds,
and the stories built there.
Thank you, Mr. Potter
for bringing me
to life.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Daddy.
When I was four, my dad was my world.
He was the smartest creature on the planet. He knew everything. He could hit a baseball all the way from the patio to the woods. He could speak German. He knew all the words to the Star Spangled Banner. He owned more books than I could count. He loved my mother. He was never cross, or angry. He sang songs that made me laugh, and told jokes I could only pretend to understand.
We played games, in my big back yard. Games we invented all by ourselves. My favorite was “Rock Detectives”, which consisted of the two of us crouched to our hands and knees in the middle of our gravel driveway, searching to find the biggest, prettiest rocks in the world. He would find a stone, hold up, and I'd inspect it. Only the smoothest, most pristine ones made the final cut.
And my daddy never once complained about the cuts the rocks made in the palms of his hands, or the scrapes this game wreaked upon his knees. He just smiled, and messed up my hair. And it was beautiful, but I didn't know it yet. I was young and blind to the world around me. I didn't understand why he never complained, or wonder why his patience never ran low. Because that's just what daddy's do, I'm told. They love their little girls, and would do anything for them.
We played a game called Rescue Heroes. Daddy would lie on the basement floor, place a chair on top of him, shout “Rescue Heroes! Help!” and I would run onto the scene, pink blanket cape trailing behind me. I'd use the whole of my power to remove the chair from his chest, releasing him of what was then an endless turmoil. And he'd ask how he could ever repay me, and I'd salute him, one hand on my hip, and say “That's JUST what we DO!”
And off I'd fly.
There were other battles I needed to fight. Being a Rescue Hero was no easy job.
During the winter Olympics of 2002, inspired by the impossibly tall ski slopes I'd been marveling at through the kitchen television, daddy helped me place a small card table and some stools at the foot of our staircase. We pretended the stairs were slopes, covered in ice and snow, avalanches just waiting to fall. I called it “Rocky Mountain Ice Cafe”, and we shared pop-sicles and crackers with squirt cheese at the card table, the towering slopes waiting cold and powerful above us.
And something else would distract me, so I'd leave him there.
And I wouldn't think anything of it. I wouldn't care that these moments wouldn't last forever. I didn't know to cherish them. I thought that there would always be tomorrow. Another day. Full of fun, and rocks, and super powers, and the games that meant so much to him, but that to me, were just a days play.
I didn't know that “tomorrow” was always different than “today.” I didn't realize that eventually I'd grow up, and want more than he could give me. I didn't know I'd ever have to leave, or that these games I loved would suddenly become memories, and stories to put in a scrap book. I didn't understand that tomorrows change things.
All my life, my daddy's been here for me. For my family. I can't remember a time in my life where he was not the owner of my steadfast admiration and love. He was everything.
In the winter of 2011, I went skiing with my friends. The slopes were tall, but suddenly, I didn't feel so small next to them. I'd forgotten entirely about the “Rocky Mountain Ice Cafe” and the other skiers weren't superheroes anymore. They were my peers.
That's what tomorrows do to you. They make you forget all the yesterdays.
I spent the day laughing and goofing around, cracking pointless jokes I can't remember now. I lived in the moment. Nothing mattered but the top of the hill, whether my makeup was running, and whether or not we'd see any cute guys in the lodge.
But now, months later, no matter how much fun I had...some piece of me wishes I'd have stayed home. Because while I was off being a teenager, forgetting everything, not caring, my childhood, life as I knew it, was ending. And I'll never forget how as soon as I got home, my mood changed. The day changed. My family changed. Everything I'd known changed.
My father took my in his arms. He asked me if I loved him, and I rolled my eyes behind an exasperated “yes.”
And I noticed that there were tears in his eyes, but I didn't understand them.
“Do you remember how we used to play Rock Detectives?” He asked me, smiling just a little, speaking softly into my ear.
I nodded.
“And Rescue Heroes?”
And it went on like that for a while. He listed the things I did as a kid, things I did with him. And we both smiled, because for a moment, we both wished those things could still happen.
But they couldn't. Time had taken us both by the necks. It was tomorrow now, and there was no time for a game. Just life.
My dad hugged me close, and he cried into my damp, snow covered hair.
“Promise you'll always be my er-bear?”
And by that point, I'd noticed that my mother and brother weren't in the kitchen with us. They were upstairs already, even though it wasn't bed time. And I heard my brothers quiet tears, from all the way downstairs. And I'll never forget how it sounded to finally understand. How it sounded when I finally had to grow up.
Mommy and Daddy had been fighting for years. That much I knew.
But on this day, they both decided that they didn't want to wait for tomorrow anymore.
So he kissed my forehead, as I cried. And he told me that he hoped everything would all work out. All he needed was some time to think.
So he walked out the door, and he drove to the apartment I didn't know he'd rented, and he's lived there for the past six months. I see him everyday. He's still my rock detective. I'm still his rescue hero.
And life sped on. And for a while, we all seemed to forget that things were less than normal. He'd hang around the house during the day, playing catch with my brother and running me back and forth to skating practices. Sometimes he'd stay for dinner. We'd forget that anything had changed, until around eight o clock when he'd say goodbye, and drive off to his apartment. And then it'd be real again.
I'm writing this on Wednesday July sixth, 2011. It was eighty eight degrees at 5:30, when daddy joined us and my mom's sister and son for the last meal he'd eat as part of our family. It was stir fry. And he was silent as he tossed bits of onions and peppers around in a pool of teriyaki sauce.
Early today, my parents filed for divorce. I don't know how to feel, or how to think, or what to say.
My mind just keeps replaying that day in January with the ski slopes that were real, and the sounds of change and uncertainty. Replaying memories of which I wish I remembered the details, of rock hunting, super powers, and feeling small next to things like staircases that really aren't even all that big to begin with.
At 7:24, when he came up to my bedroom to say goodbye, he held me close and cried. He stroked my back, and I said nothing. This couldn't really be happening.
“You're always gonna be my baby.” He whispered through tears. And I held onto his blue polo shirt, and forbid myself to cry. Because this wouldn't change anything. He'd still be my hero.
“Don't ever forget that I love you.”
And it felt just like that winters day, only this time, I wasn't relying on tomorrow anymore. All I wanted was yesterday. To wake up in the morning to the sounds of him singing in the shower, to go to bed at night listening to him clap and groan at the baseball game on TV. On school nights he'd iron his shirts for the next morning, and if I went down in the night for a glass of water, he'd put down the iron and tell me some story about my great great grandparents in Ireland, or some memory of my grandfather from when he was little. And I'd smile through a haze of drowsiness, and amble back to bed. And everything would feel safe. And tomorrow was nothing but another day.
I think that's what I'm going to miss most about all of this. That feeling of normalcy, serenity. Knowing that if a thunder storm came, he'd be there to tune the radio in the basement. That if we were snowed in, all we'd have to do was wake him up, and he'd be out with the snow blower in minutes. Waking up on Christmas morning, and curling up next to him in front of the tree while my brother and I tore open our presents. Every night on Christmas Eve, even when we were too old to really care, he'd open the old copy of “Twas the Night Before Christmas”, and he'd read with a voice like Orson Wells, that made us laugh and hug him even closer.
For once in my life, I haven't the slightest idea as to what tomorrow brings. And that's the most horrifying feeling you can ever imagine.
I can only hope that life will go on. That my mom will smile again, and that, soon, things might go back to the way they were, or at least bear a resemblance.
I hope I don't forget about Rock Detectives, or Rescue Heroes, or any of the priceless memories of my childhood that make me who I am today. Daddy won't be living with me anymore, but I hope that doesn't change much. I hope that we can add to these memories. Still laugh at nerdy jokes that only he and I would ever understand.
They always told me things would change. To stop yearning to grow up, because once I'm there, I'll wish I was a kid again. And I laughed at that, because I didn't believe it.
But they were right, all those dreamers who had to grow up one day. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm finally growing up. But right now, all I want is to be six years old again, battling the world just to save my daddy from danger, smearing squirt cheese all over my face at the imaginary cafe that we built together.
Someday, daddy, let's go back. Let's pretend to be small again, meaningless compared to the towering world above us. Let's hunt for rocks, and I'll save you from any danger that comes your way, just like I promised when I was four.
I wish I could save you now, daddy. From whatever trouble you've gotten your heart in today. I wish that Rescue Heroes were really as invincible as we believed them to be.
But you'll always be my world, daddy. No matter what happens. So thank you for every yesterday that you've filled with laughter and love, and thank you for the memories. You're the best dad in the entire world, and I'll love you until the end of time. This doesn't mean we can't play those games anymore. All it means is that we've both got some growing up to do. But I know that you'll be there with me every step of the way, no matter what hardships meet us at the top of the mountain.
I love you. And I won't ever forget these memories, or the luster of the childhood you've built for me.
You'll always be my rock detective.
He was the smartest creature on the planet. He knew everything. He could hit a baseball all the way from the patio to the woods. He could speak German. He knew all the words to the Star Spangled Banner. He owned more books than I could count. He loved my mother. He was never cross, or angry. He sang songs that made me laugh, and told jokes I could only pretend to understand.
We played games, in my big back yard. Games we invented all by ourselves. My favorite was “Rock Detectives”, which consisted of the two of us crouched to our hands and knees in the middle of our gravel driveway, searching to find the biggest, prettiest rocks in the world. He would find a stone, hold up, and I'd inspect it. Only the smoothest, most pristine ones made the final cut.
And my daddy never once complained about the cuts the rocks made in the palms of his hands, or the scrapes this game wreaked upon his knees. He just smiled, and messed up my hair. And it was beautiful, but I didn't know it yet. I was young and blind to the world around me. I didn't understand why he never complained, or wonder why his patience never ran low. Because that's just what daddy's do, I'm told. They love their little girls, and would do anything for them.
We played a game called Rescue Heroes. Daddy would lie on the basement floor, place a chair on top of him, shout “Rescue Heroes! Help!” and I would run onto the scene, pink blanket cape trailing behind me. I'd use the whole of my power to remove the chair from his chest, releasing him of what was then an endless turmoil. And he'd ask how he could ever repay me, and I'd salute him, one hand on my hip, and say “That's JUST what we DO!”
And off I'd fly.
There were other battles I needed to fight. Being a Rescue Hero was no easy job.
During the winter Olympics of 2002, inspired by the impossibly tall ski slopes I'd been marveling at through the kitchen television, daddy helped me place a small card table and some stools at the foot of our staircase. We pretended the stairs were slopes, covered in ice and snow, avalanches just waiting to fall. I called it “Rocky Mountain Ice Cafe”, and we shared pop-sicles and crackers with squirt cheese at the card table, the towering slopes waiting cold and powerful above us.
And something else would distract me, so I'd leave him there.
And I wouldn't think anything of it. I wouldn't care that these moments wouldn't last forever. I didn't know to cherish them. I thought that there would always be tomorrow. Another day. Full of fun, and rocks, and super powers, and the games that meant so much to him, but that to me, were just a days play.
I didn't know that “tomorrow” was always different than “today.” I didn't realize that eventually I'd grow up, and want more than he could give me. I didn't know I'd ever have to leave, or that these games I loved would suddenly become memories, and stories to put in a scrap book. I didn't understand that tomorrows change things.
All my life, my daddy's been here for me. For my family. I can't remember a time in my life where he was not the owner of my steadfast admiration and love. He was everything.
In the winter of 2011, I went skiing with my friends. The slopes were tall, but suddenly, I didn't feel so small next to them. I'd forgotten entirely about the “Rocky Mountain Ice Cafe” and the other skiers weren't superheroes anymore. They were my peers.
That's what tomorrows do to you. They make you forget all the yesterdays.
I spent the day laughing and goofing around, cracking pointless jokes I can't remember now. I lived in the moment. Nothing mattered but the top of the hill, whether my makeup was running, and whether or not we'd see any cute guys in the lodge.
But now, months later, no matter how much fun I had...some piece of me wishes I'd have stayed home. Because while I was off being a teenager, forgetting everything, not caring, my childhood, life as I knew it, was ending. And I'll never forget how as soon as I got home, my mood changed. The day changed. My family changed. Everything I'd known changed.
My father took my in his arms. He asked me if I loved him, and I rolled my eyes behind an exasperated “yes.”
And I noticed that there were tears in his eyes, but I didn't understand them.
“Do you remember how we used to play Rock Detectives?” He asked me, smiling just a little, speaking softly into my ear.
I nodded.
“And Rescue Heroes?”
And it went on like that for a while. He listed the things I did as a kid, things I did with him. And we both smiled, because for a moment, we both wished those things could still happen.
But they couldn't. Time had taken us both by the necks. It was tomorrow now, and there was no time for a game. Just life.
My dad hugged me close, and he cried into my damp, snow covered hair.
“Promise you'll always be my er-bear?”
And by that point, I'd noticed that my mother and brother weren't in the kitchen with us. They were upstairs already, even though it wasn't bed time. And I heard my brothers quiet tears, from all the way downstairs. And I'll never forget how it sounded to finally understand. How it sounded when I finally had to grow up.
Mommy and Daddy had been fighting for years. That much I knew.
But on this day, they both decided that they didn't want to wait for tomorrow anymore.
So he kissed my forehead, as I cried. And he told me that he hoped everything would all work out. All he needed was some time to think.
So he walked out the door, and he drove to the apartment I didn't know he'd rented, and he's lived there for the past six months. I see him everyday. He's still my rock detective. I'm still his rescue hero.
And life sped on. And for a while, we all seemed to forget that things were less than normal. He'd hang around the house during the day, playing catch with my brother and running me back and forth to skating practices. Sometimes he'd stay for dinner. We'd forget that anything had changed, until around eight o clock when he'd say goodbye, and drive off to his apartment. And then it'd be real again.
I'm writing this on Wednesday July sixth, 2011. It was eighty eight degrees at 5:30, when daddy joined us and my mom's sister and son for the last meal he'd eat as part of our family. It was stir fry. And he was silent as he tossed bits of onions and peppers around in a pool of teriyaki sauce.
Early today, my parents filed for divorce. I don't know how to feel, or how to think, or what to say.
My mind just keeps replaying that day in January with the ski slopes that were real, and the sounds of change and uncertainty. Replaying memories of which I wish I remembered the details, of rock hunting, super powers, and feeling small next to things like staircases that really aren't even all that big to begin with.
At 7:24, when he came up to my bedroom to say goodbye, he held me close and cried. He stroked my back, and I said nothing. This couldn't really be happening.
“You're always gonna be my baby.” He whispered through tears. And I held onto his blue polo shirt, and forbid myself to cry. Because this wouldn't change anything. He'd still be my hero.
“Don't ever forget that I love you.”
And it felt just like that winters day, only this time, I wasn't relying on tomorrow anymore. All I wanted was yesterday. To wake up in the morning to the sounds of him singing in the shower, to go to bed at night listening to him clap and groan at the baseball game on TV. On school nights he'd iron his shirts for the next morning, and if I went down in the night for a glass of water, he'd put down the iron and tell me some story about my great great grandparents in Ireland, or some memory of my grandfather from when he was little. And I'd smile through a haze of drowsiness, and amble back to bed. And everything would feel safe. And tomorrow was nothing but another day.
I think that's what I'm going to miss most about all of this. That feeling of normalcy, serenity. Knowing that if a thunder storm came, he'd be there to tune the radio in the basement. That if we were snowed in, all we'd have to do was wake him up, and he'd be out with the snow blower in minutes. Waking up on Christmas morning, and curling up next to him in front of the tree while my brother and I tore open our presents. Every night on Christmas Eve, even when we were too old to really care, he'd open the old copy of “Twas the Night Before Christmas”, and he'd read with a voice like Orson Wells, that made us laugh and hug him even closer.
For once in my life, I haven't the slightest idea as to what tomorrow brings. And that's the most horrifying feeling you can ever imagine.
I can only hope that life will go on. That my mom will smile again, and that, soon, things might go back to the way they were, or at least bear a resemblance.
I hope I don't forget about Rock Detectives, or Rescue Heroes, or any of the priceless memories of my childhood that make me who I am today. Daddy won't be living with me anymore, but I hope that doesn't change much. I hope that we can add to these memories. Still laugh at nerdy jokes that only he and I would ever understand.
They always told me things would change. To stop yearning to grow up, because once I'm there, I'll wish I was a kid again. And I laughed at that, because I didn't believe it.
But they were right, all those dreamers who had to grow up one day. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm finally growing up. But right now, all I want is to be six years old again, battling the world just to save my daddy from danger, smearing squirt cheese all over my face at the imaginary cafe that we built together.
Someday, daddy, let's go back. Let's pretend to be small again, meaningless compared to the towering world above us. Let's hunt for rocks, and I'll save you from any danger that comes your way, just like I promised when I was four.
I wish I could save you now, daddy. From whatever trouble you've gotten your heart in today. I wish that Rescue Heroes were really as invincible as we believed them to be.
But you'll always be my world, daddy. No matter what happens. So thank you for every yesterday that you've filled with laughter and love, and thank you for the memories. You're the best dad in the entire world, and I'll love you until the end of time. This doesn't mean we can't play those games anymore. All it means is that we've both got some growing up to do. But I know that you'll be there with me every step of the way, no matter what hardships meet us at the top of the mountain.
I love you. And I won't ever forget these memories, or the luster of the childhood you've built for me.
You'll always be my rock detective.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Currently Untitled
Once, in the midst of an autumn night,
I opened brand new eyes, and met a man,
Whom they called granpa, I think...
though I'm starting to forget.
When I grew a little taller, he told me
That for a very long time, he'd waited
to finally meet me.
He'd painted some pretty pictures,
and I tried to copy them, with a sticky child's hand,
and in the pictures we would make,
he'd tell me a story, about how all of them were real,
somewhere.
Stories of his youth, of cherry pies and apple dumplings,
of the war, his fear of sharks.
Impossible tales of a time with no Television,
when your imagination, was all you ever had
Or so I'm told.
It was a long time ago
and I really can't remember.
And when he got even older,
he talked a lot of home, and how he missed it.
He really missed it, he said.
He'd give anything.
And finally, when he left me, one summer at lunch time,
that's where he went, they told me.
He'd gone home, and that's all.
He's happy now
or so they tell me.
Because I really don't know.
Years before, on a sunny, summer morning,
Alice met a man, named Charles,
who'd been watching her, for a very long time.
She was smart, and he was strange,
Or so I'm told.
I can't remember.
He had a camera in one hand,
hers in the other.
She was very young, then,
and he rather old.
But he told her a story, that day,
that a thousand ages, now behold.
He told her that there was a place, out there,
one like you'd never imagine.
A place of wonder, of curious madness
And beneath the sun, that day so long ago,
Little Alice, she fell down a rabbit hole
and years later, when her time came,
again, that's where she went.
She's drinking tea, right now and forever,
With a rabbit and a hatter, or so I'm told.
Because honestly,
I can't be sure.
I don't remember.
A few years later, waiting on a park bench,
there sat a play-write, by the name of James,
pondering the pages of an empty tale he couldn't tell,
when he found a woman, and her son.
Her name was Wendy, or so I'm told,
Because, truly, I'm not sure that's really it,
and his was Peter, I suppose,
and they were very tired.
So James took them to a faraway place,
on the second star to the right,
and he called it Neverland
or so I'm told.
Because, I'm starting to forget these things.
And I hear that, when you stayed there,
all you had to do
was believe.
And anything could happen.
You wouldn't have to grow up,
so you'd never have to die.
You could stay young forever.
Or so I'm told.
I don't know.
But if this place exists,
then Peter, and Wendy and James,
They're there, right now, I bet.
Playing games with the fairies,
just like Alice, down in Wonderland,
just like my Grandpa, wherever home becomes
when finally, it's time to go back.
Wherever they went, I'm sure they're happy.
Atleast, that's what they say.
It's nicer there, there are streets of gold,
sometimes, they call it “they yellow brick road.”
and Dorothy...I think she walks that road every night, up there,
and the poppies can't make here go to sleep
because she's already in the nicest, sweetest dream.
Or so I tell myself
because, really, I'll never know
until, finally, it's my turn.
And someday then,
when life's book ends,
I'll get to really do all those things
That I've dreamt of, for all these years.
I'll play croquet with the Queen of Hearts,
I'll battle Captain Hook.
I'll walk a road of yellow brick,
with shoes that bring me home.
And I'll paint a picture, one more time,
with my grandpa, who'd been waiting for me
who'd been watching me, for all these years.
And I'll be home, this time.
Or so I pray.
I'll go to that place, that I've built in my heart,
where my dreams will all come true.
And that's all I know, really,
even when I'm too old to remember all the rest.
And so I hang on
to this cup of ageless tea.
And this journal
where every story ever told
once began, with nothing but a dream.
And that's what I tell them,
when they fear the dark ahead.
I tell them that, really,
at the end of the road to Oz,
When the sun goes down, in wonderland,
when the moon shines bright, in Neverland,
When your mother calls you home, to dinner....
This place, it's always open to you.
And, honestly, that's all we ever
need to know.
So don't forget that.
Please remember.
And don't lose your sense of home.
Imagine one, a place of make believe,
and someday, I think,
you'll really get to go there.
And you'll smile, and you'll fly,
and you'll remember everything.
Everything.
Every moment of your childhood, every breath of your youth,
and you'll taste it all, on your tongue, again.
Forget everything, for now,
because someday, it'll all come back to you.
And in the end,
that's all I ever
did remember.
I opened brand new eyes, and met a man,
Whom they called granpa, I think...
though I'm starting to forget.
When I grew a little taller, he told me
That for a very long time, he'd waited
to finally meet me.
He'd painted some pretty pictures,
and I tried to copy them, with a sticky child's hand,
and in the pictures we would make,
he'd tell me a story, about how all of them were real,
somewhere.
Stories of his youth, of cherry pies and apple dumplings,
of the war, his fear of sharks.
Impossible tales of a time with no Television,
when your imagination, was all you ever had
Or so I'm told.
It was a long time ago
and I really can't remember.
And when he got even older,
he talked a lot of home, and how he missed it.
He really missed it, he said.
He'd give anything.
And finally, when he left me, one summer at lunch time,
that's where he went, they told me.
He'd gone home, and that's all.
He's happy now
or so they tell me.
Because I really don't know.
Years before, on a sunny, summer morning,
Alice met a man, named Charles,
who'd been watching her, for a very long time.
She was smart, and he was strange,
Or so I'm told.
I can't remember.
He had a camera in one hand,
hers in the other.
She was very young, then,
and he rather old.
But he told her a story, that day,
that a thousand ages, now behold.
He told her that there was a place, out there,
one like you'd never imagine.
A place of wonder, of curious madness
And beneath the sun, that day so long ago,
Little Alice, she fell down a rabbit hole
and years later, when her time came,
again, that's where she went.
She's drinking tea, right now and forever,
With a rabbit and a hatter, or so I'm told.
Because honestly,
I can't be sure.
I don't remember.
A few years later, waiting on a park bench,
there sat a play-write, by the name of James,
pondering the pages of an empty tale he couldn't tell,
when he found a woman, and her son.
Her name was Wendy, or so I'm told,
Because, truly, I'm not sure that's really it,
and his was Peter, I suppose,
and they were very tired.
So James took them to a faraway place,
on the second star to the right,
and he called it Neverland
or so I'm told.
Because, I'm starting to forget these things.
And I hear that, when you stayed there,
all you had to do
was believe.
And anything could happen.
You wouldn't have to grow up,
so you'd never have to die.
You could stay young forever.
Or so I'm told.
I don't know.
But if this place exists,
then Peter, and Wendy and James,
They're there, right now, I bet.
Playing games with the fairies,
just like Alice, down in Wonderland,
just like my Grandpa, wherever home becomes
when finally, it's time to go back.
Wherever they went, I'm sure they're happy.
Atleast, that's what they say.
It's nicer there, there are streets of gold,
sometimes, they call it “they yellow brick road.”
and Dorothy...I think she walks that road every night, up there,
and the poppies can't make here go to sleep
because she's already in the nicest, sweetest dream.
Or so I tell myself
because, really, I'll never know
until, finally, it's my turn.
And someday then,
when life's book ends,
I'll get to really do all those things
That I've dreamt of, for all these years.
I'll play croquet with the Queen of Hearts,
I'll battle Captain Hook.
I'll walk a road of yellow brick,
with shoes that bring me home.
And I'll paint a picture, one more time,
with my grandpa, who'd been waiting for me
who'd been watching me, for all these years.
And I'll be home, this time.
Or so I pray.
I'll go to that place, that I've built in my heart,
where my dreams will all come true.
And that's all I know, really,
even when I'm too old to remember all the rest.
And so I hang on
to this cup of ageless tea.
And this journal
where every story ever told
once began, with nothing but a dream.
And that's what I tell them,
when they fear the dark ahead.
I tell them that, really,
at the end of the road to Oz,
When the sun goes down, in wonderland,
when the moon shines bright, in Neverland,
When your mother calls you home, to dinner....
This place, it's always open to you.
And, honestly, that's all we ever
need to know.
So don't forget that.
Please remember.
And don't lose your sense of home.
Imagine one, a place of make believe,
and someday, I think,
you'll really get to go there.
And you'll smile, and you'll fly,
and you'll remember everything.
Everything.
Every moment of your childhood, every breath of your youth,
and you'll taste it all, on your tongue, again.
Forget everything, for now,
because someday, it'll all come back to you.
And in the end,
that's all I ever
did remember.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Quote of the Week, June 9th
Hey guys!
I think I'll start posting these "Quotes of the Week" every now and then, for I'm helplessly obsessed with quotes. Enjoy!
"In the midst of Winter,
I finally learned,
That there lived within me
an Invincible Summer."
-Albert Camus
I think I'll start posting these "Quotes of the Week" every now and then, for I'm helplessly obsessed with quotes. Enjoy!
"In the midst of Winter,
I finally learned,
That there lived within me
an Invincible Summer."
-Albert Camus
An Ode to Middle School: It's Been Fun :)
Well, I'm officially a Freshie :) Middle school ended yesterday, and the night before, I wrote this. It's become a tradition, actually, to write something similar to this on the eve before the last day of school. On these nights, I'm emotional, sentimental, ecstatic, nervous...I feel everything possible to feel without exploding. Writing, like always, is the only thing that calms me down and brings me closer to the way I really feel.
So, here's my ode to middle school.
If you're in the same position as I am, I know you'll understand how I feel :)
-EES
June 7th, 2011, Grade 8
I remember when I was in elementary school; an awkward, always sticky brunette with a tendency to never shut up. I wore things that never matched, and my hair would undoubtedly be a mess all day, because really, who cared about what anyone looked like? There were more important things to worry about: who's crayon box had the built in sharpener, the latest installment in the haunting saga of Spongebob Square Pants, or what would be served for snack time that day, for instance.
I remember idly sitting on my friend Mattias's swing set one morning when we were about eight or nine, talking about high school.
“I can't wait 'till high school!” She said. “I mean, we'll all be so pretty, with boyfriends, and we'll wear skirts and stuff!”
“Skirts?” I ventured. “Why can't we wear skirts now? What's the difference?”
Matti just shook her head at my ignorance. “In elementary school, you get made fun of for dressing like that! In high school, it's how the 'populars' dress.”
~ ~
All through childhood, we dream of growing up. We dream of being a so called “teenager”, breaking the rules, having all the fun. We pictured a life of glamor and popularity, pedicures and perfect hair, pretty outfits and a seclusive circle of friends. We pictured dating as the modern equivalent of “Romeo and Juliet”, school as just another thing for our teenage selves to complain about.
I think that, as a kid, you take childhood for granted. Until it's almost over, we don't realize that these are the best years of our lives, that every second is a memory. That every step we take in our youth leads us closer to the future, and the miles we'll run to make our dreams come true. That this is the time of our lives where we don't relic in the things out of our reach, where we smile at every little mistake we make, because for few more years, they won't ever really matter. Just bumps in the road, quirks that will one day shape us into the people we've been waiting to become.
And until we get there...it's all just this crazy, surreal dream, before it turns into reality, and we realize that not much has changed, after all.
Nearing the end of sixth grade, my peers and I were bombarded with lectures and pamphlets galore about the “struggles of middle school” and “an easy transition.” Guidance counselors talked to us about high school drama and homework, relationships and managing our schedules. We were all scared out of our wits, thinking that whoever invented high school belonged in a respectably hostile prison, and wondering how the seniors made it look so easy.
On the first day of seventh grade, after a long summer of anxiety and dread, we all came to the stunning realization that at the end of elementary school, they prep you a bit too much. That really, nothing changes, after all.
On the bus that morning, my best friend, Lexie, hardly spoke, and neither did I. We were too nervous. We had no idea what was waiting for us behind those doors, no idea if we'd still be friends at the end of the day, for high school, or so they told us, was a place of drama above all else.
It's funny how the world changes when you go to middle school. You see that it's not all glamor and parties like the movies like to say it is. You see that girls still wear sweat pants and tee shirts, that skirts and makeup don't make you popular. You notice that you're still best friends with the idiots you've always hung around, because switching schools doesn't switch who you are.
It's just school, in the end.
But school's a lot more than books and numbers. Like childhood, it's the time in your life where you figure out who you are, what you want to be, who you'll become. It's the best time of our lives, so why bother worrying about the transition? Everyone grows up, eventually. It's life. It's terrible and it's beautiful, all at the same time.
Seventh grade went by in an absolute breeze. I was friends with the same group of morons, still obsessed with the same stupid things, still laughing at the same pointless jokes. The only difference is that we'd all gotten a little taller. That we'd caught a little taste of what reality might become one day, though we still refused to believe it'd be anything less than perfect. Our concerns were still minor: homework, lunch money, what was to be served for dinner tonight.
Now, nearing the end of eighth grade, it amazes me how scared I was at this time, two years ago. How high school was still something out of horror movies and soap operas. How I thought that everything would change, at the end of the summer. That we'd all grow up, and leave our old, awkward selves behind.
But that's not true. I know that now.
Tomorrow, middle school's done and over with, and still, nothing's changed. My hair's still messy, I still get peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I laugh too loud at things that really aren't even all that funny. I'm immature, I'm obnoxious, I dress like I just rolled out of bed some days. But that's alright, I guess. It's what makes me who I am.
And I'm proud to say that, now, at the end of middle school, high school racing fast around the corner...I'm not scared. No matter where high school takes me, I'll always be me, at the end of the day. I'll have my books and my keyboard to come home to every night, idiotic friends who love me no matter what I do or say to fall back on when life gets in the way.
I may not be that cheerleader with the perfect smile and boyfriend that television forced me to believe I'd become, but I'm happy, and I'm living the most incredible childhood, that I know I will always look back on it as being the best time of my life.
This year was no different from Kindergarten, I see now. My peers are still immature, and always will be. My friends and I still make up pointless songs at lunch, and sing them in study hall. We still don't really worry about the way we look, or the things we say. Because, after all, what does it matter?
This is the best time of our lives, and I'm thrilled to be riding the roller coaster. I'm only half way up the first hill, right now, but at the start of the school year in the fall, I know I'm going to love every second of the free fall, knowing that so many more twists and turns are ahead of me, but not caring about how long it takes me to get there. The ride is the only part that matters, so I'm not scared of the destination. Not at all. When I get there, I'll know myself, inside and out. I'll be all grown up, a lopsided vision of the dreams I had in Kindergarten.
The rest of my life will greet me at the bottom, and I'll embrace it with open arms.
I won't be scared. Because in high school, I will have found myself, and in the end, that's all that ever mattered.
I hope that, when I get there, nothing will have changed. Just like nothing changed from elementary to high school, just like nothing changed when, finally, we all had to grow up a little bit.
It's been an incredible ride, and when it comes time to get off, I'll know that all my dreams have finally come true.
It was fun.
Thanks for the memories.
I'll see you at the class reunion, in twenty years, when again we'll see that time will always be on our sides. That we're always gonna be those awkward kids with high hopes, big dreams, and sticky fingers.
Middle school was full of memories, and high school will be just the same.
In just three months...I'll be old enough to have an ABC Family drama written about my life. I'll be called a “teenager.”
Funny, how it's not as exciting as it sounds, anymore. Just part of life. Just reality.
But reality's a magical thing. Don't ever forget that. Use these years to find yourself, and aim for the highest of stars.
I'll meet you there, one day, when I'm finally all grown up.
We'll say things like “remember in high school when...” and it'll seem like a lifetime ago. A beautiful, quirky, pimply, embarrassing, sickly sweet time of our lives where everything fell into place. The best years of our lives.
So now...
Thank you, middle school.
It's been an amazing few years, spent with you.
I'll never forget them.
So, here's my ode to middle school.
If you're in the same position as I am, I know you'll understand how I feel :)
-EES
June 7th, 2011, Grade 8
I remember when I was in elementary school; an awkward, always sticky brunette with a tendency to never shut up. I wore things that never matched, and my hair would undoubtedly be a mess all day, because really, who cared about what anyone looked like? There were more important things to worry about: who's crayon box had the built in sharpener, the latest installment in the haunting saga of Spongebob Square Pants, or what would be served for snack time that day, for instance.
I remember idly sitting on my friend Mattias's swing set one morning when we were about eight or nine, talking about high school.
“I can't wait 'till high school!” She said. “I mean, we'll all be so pretty, with boyfriends, and we'll wear skirts and stuff!”
“Skirts?” I ventured. “Why can't we wear skirts now? What's the difference?”
Matti just shook her head at my ignorance. “In elementary school, you get made fun of for dressing like that! In high school, it's how the 'populars' dress.”
~ ~
All through childhood, we dream of growing up. We dream of being a so called “teenager”, breaking the rules, having all the fun. We pictured a life of glamor and popularity, pedicures and perfect hair, pretty outfits and a seclusive circle of friends. We pictured dating as the modern equivalent of “Romeo and Juliet”, school as just another thing for our teenage selves to complain about.
I think that, as a kid, you take childhood for granted. Until it's almost over, we don't realize that these are the best years of our lives, that every second is a memory. That every step we take in our youth leads us closer to the future, and the miles we'll run to make our dreams come true. That this is the time of our lives where we don't relic in the things out of our reach, where we smile at every little mistake we make, because for few more years, they won't ever really matter. Just bumps in the road, quirks that will one day shape us into the people we've been waiting to become.
And until we get there...it's all just this crazy, surreal dream, before it turns into reality, and we realize that not much has changed, after all.
Nearing the end of sixth grade, my peers and I were bombarded with lectures and pamphlets galore about the “struggles of middle school” and “an easy transition.” Guidance counselors talked to us about high school drama and homework, relationships and managing our schedules. We were all scared out of our wits, thinking that whoever invented high school belonged in a respectably hostile prison, and wondering how the seniors made it look so easy.
On the first day of seventh grade, after a long summer of anxiety and dread, we all came to the stunning realization that at the end of elementary school, they prep you a bit too much. That really, nothing changes, after all.
On the bus that morning, my best friend, Lexie, hardly spoke, and neither did I. We were too nervous. We had no idea what was waiting for us behind those doors, no idea if we'd still be friends at the end of the day, for high school, or so they told us, was a place of drama above all else.
It's funny how the world changes when you go to middle school. You see that it's not all glamor and parties like the movies like to say it is. You see that girls still wear sweat pants and tee shirts, that skirts and makeup don't make you popular. You notice that you're still best friends with the idiots you've always hung around, because switching schools doesn't switch who you are.
It's just school, in the end.
But school's a lot more than books and numbers. Like childhood, it's the time in your life where you figure out who you are, what you want to be, who you'll become. It's the best time of our lives, so why bother worrying about the transition? Everyone grows up, eventually. It's life. It's terrible and it's beautiful, all at the same time.
Seventh grade went by in an absolute breeze. I was friends with the same group of morons, still obsessed with the same stupid things, still laughing at the same pointless jokes. The only difference is that we'd all gotten a little taller. That we'd caught a little taste of what reality might become one day, though we still refused to believe it'd be anything less than perfect. Our concerns were still minor: homework, lunch money, what was to be served for dinner tonight.
Now, nearing the end of eighth grade, it amazes me how scared I was at this time, two years ago. How high school was still something out of horror movies and soap operas. How I thought that everything would change, at the end of the summer. That we'd all grow up, and leave our old, awkward selves behind.
But that's not true. I know that now.
Tomorrow, middle school's done and over with, and still, nothing's changed. My hair's still messy, I still get peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I laugh too loud at things that really aren't even all that funny. I'm immature, I'm obnoxious, I dress like I just rolled out of bed some days. But that's alright, I guess. It's what makes me who I am.
And I'm proud to say that, now, at the end of middle school, high school racing fast around the corner...I'm not scared. No matter where high school takes me, I'll always be me, at the end of the day. I'll have my books and my keyboard to come home to every night, idiotic friends who love me no matter what I do or say to fall back on when life gets in the way.
I may not be that cheerleader with the perfect smile and boyfriend that television forced me to believe I'd become, but I'm happy, and I'm living the most incredible childhood, that I know I will always look back on it as being the best time of my life.
This year was no different from Kindergarten, I see now. My peers are still immature, and always will be. My friends and I still make up pointless songs at lunch, and sing them in study hall. We still don't really worry about the way we look, or the things we say. Because, after all, what does it matter?
This is the best time of our lives, and I'm thrilled to be riding the roller coaster. I'm only half way up the first hill, right now, but at the start of the school year in the fall, I know I'm going to love every second of the free fall, knowing that so many more twists and turns are ahead of me, but not caring about how long it takes me to get there. The ride is the only part that matters, so I'm not scared of the destination. Not at all. When I get there, I'll know myself, inside and out. I'll be all grown up, a lopsided vision of the dreams I had in Kindergarten.
The rest of my life will greet me at the bottom, and I'll embrace it with open arms.
I won't be scared. Because in high school, I will have found myself, and in the end, that's all that ever mattered.
I hope that, when I get there, nothing will have changed. Just like nothing changed from elementary to high school, just like nothing changed when, finally, we all had to grow up a little bit.
It's been an incredible ride, and when it comes time to get off, I'll know that all my dreams have finally come true.
It was fun.
Thanks for the memories.
I'll see you at the class reunion, in twenty years, when again we'll see that time will always be on our sides. That we're always gonna be those awkward kids with high hopes, big dreams, and sticky fingers.
Middle school was full of memories, and high school will be just the same.
In just three months...I'll be old enough to have an ABC Family drama written about my life. I'll be called a “teenager.”
Funny, how it's not as exciting as it sounds, anymore. Just part of life. Just reality.
But reality's a magical thing. Don't ever forget that. Use these years to find yourself, and aim for the highest of stars.
I'll meet you there, one day, when I'm finally all grown up.
We'll say things like “remember in high school when...” and it'll seem like a lifetime ago. A beautiful, quirky, pimply, embarrassing, sickly sweet time of our lives where everything fell into place. The best years of our lives.
So now...
Thank you, middle school.
It's been an amazing few years, spent with you.
I'll never forget them.
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