Friday, May 25, 2012

Heavy Boots

Last day of high school ever. Ouch.
Here's the piece I wrote that's my last high school English essay ever. Double ouch.

             heavy boots about
drunk drivers & teen smokers, pronouns without proper antecedents, North Korea’s nuclear weapons, tyrants, paper cuts (because
nothing beautiful should draw blood), the Tea Party, best friend friendships that fall apart instead of saying really difficult goodbyes, people saying we can’t afford…
how Hillary Clinton got so much criticism for going one goddam day without makeup, how if I listen for sixty seconds straight the chaos in my head becomes unbearable, how the life expectancy of an American Caucasian woman is 80.8 years and how the life expectancy of an American Caucasian man is 75.9 years, how Sam Hamilton dies every single time,
how hugs (especially hugs from the right people) immediately turn sadness into sobs, how my favorite reddish pinkish purplish maroonesque pen that I bought in Vienna two years ago is running out of ink and how I can’t find a replacement, how I got fired from my first job, how I have to say goodbye to those I love even though I don’t want to and how I’m not allowed to hold on to anything, how if there really is a God – and how I have an impossible time believing in a God no matter how hard I try – that God is doing a really shitty job,
how my mom’s parents have never ever called me
how I’m their daughter’s daughter
how that should be important
how I used to call them but now I just write once or twice a year,
how if I get pregnant too young I will have an abortion
and how I hope that doesn’t ever happen and how if it did it would ugly break my heart,
how I learned to ride a bike on my neighbor’s tennis court while my parents were in Scotland,
how there isn’t a single place in all of Utah that sells Manner cookies,
how I’ll never write with beautiful scrawled writers cursive,
church clothes, three hours of church, church at nine in the morning, church in general, vanilla ice cream that melts then is refrozen, young kids who say fuck, broken sunglasses, headaches from crying too hard too long, conch shells that baby girls hear the ocean in,
how when I’m on my period and hyper-emotional I know it’s just the hormones but that doesn’t make the emotions any less real and how that feels like I’m validating every misogynists who’s ever called women erratically emotional,
 how my ponytail is too short to flip when I walk and bounce when I talk,
how my palm covers my heart 
(holding it in place and signifying it’s not my head that thinks this, it’s my heart that feels it)
I turn my feelings into words
I cry (or want to)
I get afraid
I explain what hurt my feelings
someone tells me they’re praying for me
(or that they love me),
how the mink fur coats of two of great-grandmothers are in the cedar closet upstairs and how I will never find a place to wear them even though I want to,
how in the next decade my hair will almost certainly turn brown,
how I can’t give everyone I know the book to break their hearts, a box of tissues and some dark chocolate,
how I bite my nails,
how every globe in my house recognizes the USSR,
how the greatest writers were drunks but now people are just plain alcoholics,
how jarring memories can come bubbling into consciousness, ambush me, and stab me in the gut,
78 cents to the dollar, The Rolling Stones “Wild Horses”, bookstores (because of all the beautiful literature I’ll never get to read enough times), August 2nd, wanting to be easy to love,
how Gregory Orr’s father became addicted to amphetamines after Gregory Orr’s mother committed suicide after Gregory Orr accidently killed his little brother in a hunting accident and how Gregory Orr still writes beautiful things and how it might be because his father became addicted to amphetamines after his mother committed suicide after he accidently killed his little brother in a hunting accident that Gregory Orr writes beautiful things,
how I don’t know what to do to fix any of it, except green tea soy lattes and that maybe if I put a little trampoline or even some small springs (with extra boing obviously) in my hair ribbon then, even though my hair isn’t long enough, when I put it in a ponytail it will play and beat, bump, bound, sway and swing around and that will finally be enough to,
how little boys are taught to stuff their emotions and
how when they grow up they never cry in the shower,
how we haven’t had a red car since,
how coffee tastes best with cigarettes,
how my dad always lets me pick the restaurant because I want do something with you,     
how I’ll never have Toni Morrison’s hair,
how I’m going to college fifteen minutes away from the house that my parents
lived in when I was born and how I can’t explain why that matters so much,
You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go.

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