Sirens in the Distance
By John Kaufmann
There was a window in the high school library, looking into a study room, and Rebecca was inside, studying alone. I remember pointing her out to my friends. “She looks like a witch,” I said. And she did. With naturally tightly cured, naturally light, light-blonde hair, pale-white skin and long, black-painted fingernails, she did look like a witch. The environment where I saw here didn’t help. She was in my AP English class, where we read spooky novels of repressed love and stark punishment of sin. A class for which we’d been assigned gravestone rubbing along with our readings. Rebecca even dressed in all-black Nathanial Hawthorne chic. But it was a personal style, not a class assignment.
My friends and I laughed partly out of admiration. We were stupid kids, band and drama geeks at the bottom of the food chain. She seemed to exist outside of the food chain. We struck up a friendship over the course of the semester.
Rebecca was in the theatre club. She did costumes or backstage assignments. At the Hamlet cast party, she was the one who held me as I barfed, and even gave me a toothbrush. I don’t remember where we were. But it was a magical place with no other people. Vomiting out in a yard, and then into an empty house. Then, and at other times, I remember that she really wanted to have sex with me. Instead, we would just fool around and watch Cure videos. She loved Robert Smith so much. Rebecca skipped senior year of high school and went to college early, but we stayed in touch. I’d never seen her parents, and she moved into her own place before she was done with high school. We had a relationship that was completely under the radar of all my others. I hung out with Rebecca a lot, but my family and friends never heard her name.
It wasn’t really her place. It was her boyfriend’s. I don’t remember his name, but I do remember that he was an ambulance driver with one real leg, and one prosthetic leg. We fooled around when he was at work, at odd hours, that as far as I knew, could be over at any time. We didn’t smoke pot or drink. We talked, watched videos, fooled around.
We lost contact for a year or so when I went to college. We began to correspond through letters. I probably still have some somewhere. I can picture her swirling, oddly-girly-for-a-witch handwriting. She’d had a child, and the one-legged ambulance driver was the father. But the thing was, they’d broken up, and she didn’t want him to know about the child. She loved being a mother, but would shop for diapers and baby food in the middle of the night, for fear of being seen by somebody she knew. She’d moved back in with her mother (who was aware of the child). I had to promise to keep the secret.
This was many years ago, but I guess there is legitimate danger of my outing this. I have never written or spoken of this before, nor have I changed any names. Even if I had, the detail of the one-legged ambulance driver is a give-away. A detail that probably seems fabricated, except to the man himself, who I have never met. Might he be sitting in the audience? To find out tonight that you have a son or daughter… Or maybe you know. You found out in the 20 years or so since Rebecca and I lost touch.
And as these memories come back in sudden spurts of hibernating detail, I question my own sexual connection with Rebecca and thus to the child. Did we have sex? It would have been my first time, as I remember the shame of being a virgin throughout high school. But I remembered we “fooled around.” I remember the light blond hair around her fascinating witch-vagina (All vaginas were fascinating to me back then. Hers may wall have been the first I’d seen or touched). But did my shame of virginity save me from acknowledging a deeper sin? Of forgotten sex? Of fatherhood? Was she protecting me with the midnight trips to Rexall for baby wipes? Was I bewitched? Or, like the characters our class encountered in The Crucible, does my memory frame her as a witch to absolve me of staying in the picture? She did have long, black fingernails and blond hair.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #12
This is my best story.
by Mitch Salm
This is my best story. It’s high school, I don’t know, junior year. And I have this girlfriend who I want to show a romantic evening.
For the first ten years of my childhood, my dad worked at the restaurant, so we got, like, a few hours of dad face-time a day. And it was never during movie time, so my mom picked our movies.
My mom describes herself as a hopeless romantic.
We watched love movies. Sleepless in Seattle. While You Were Sleeping. French Kiss.
I’m horny like every junior, but I’ve also got this romantic streak. I want to take my girlfriend out. And I do. My mom drives us, but that’s okay. We go to this nice Italian restaurant.
I live in a small Wisconsin town, and a nice Italian restaurant in a small Wisconsin town. Hah.
It actually was a nice restaurant.
And the restaurant is great. My mom gets wine, we get water and pizza. But really nice pizza.
Actually it was really nice pizza.
And afterwards my mom takes us back home, and my girlfriend and I—
Okay. Her name’s Sara.
Sara and I get the car—
If we can drive, why did Mom take us to dinner? These questions.
And I take her to the apple orchard overlooking Lake Winnebago. It’s beautiful out. Night. Fireflies dance among brown and green grass, the stars, they’re there.
I remember a moon, too, but the stars and the moon? That’s a bit much.
The skyline of Oshkosh across the lake. It’s warm out and crickets. They’re chirping.
No mosquitoes?
And I made a promise to myself—
Backtrack:
Before the night began, I promised myself I wasn’t going to get physical with her.
Uh huh. Stupid kid.
Too physical, I mean. No gross stuff.
This is a junior talking.
I mean, no body…stuff. Fluids. Maybe light kissing, but no other stuff.
Oops, more backtrack:
Also, I was her first everything. First boyfriend. First kiss. First guy you hold hands with.
Her first everything.
Everything. But it’s romantic and perfect out, and she starts kissing me lightly. Fine. But soon we’re making out, first light, but then heavy, and you know, we are making out hard. And what am I gonna do? I’m a horny high school guy. I’ll f*k tree moss.
Just go—
So we’re making out hardcore, and then she whispers—
“Did you come yet?”
And I say “No I didn’t come yet!” But she doesn’t know. I’m her first everything. She doesn’t know! So I think, a teaching moment. You know, this is a teaching moment. She doesn’t know.
She’s also super Catholic.
You went to a seminary.
Yeah, but I wasn’t super Catholic.
So I say, “No. I did not come yet.” And then I explain to her how a guy comes.
And she takes that—
She thinks, “Oh. This is how to make a guy come. I will make him come now.” So she undoes my pants. And yeah, romance, but what high school guy’s turning this down.
And then—
And then you know, she starts giving—
Giving you—
Giving me a handjob.
But—
BUT I’M HER FIRST EVERYTHING. BOYFRIEND, KISS, EVERYTHING!
Oh shit. You’re her first handjob—
I’m her first handjob. And you know, she’s going at it, sanding my dick, and f*k these fireflies I’m in pain.
But you just told her—
I just told her how to make a guy come. I didn’t ask her to try it on me! And now—
If you don’t come—
She’ll feel like shit! So she’s going and I’m thinking of anything hot I can to make myself come.
Brittney Spears, Christina, ANYTHING. And finally after that walk up Calvary, FINALLY—
You come.
I come.
Now. That’s supposed to be it. End of story. Done. No.
What?
What?
What. Well. I’m watching her, and you know, it’s all over the place. Shirt, shorts, everywhere. It’s all over, and some of it’s on my leg. And what does she do.
Oh god.
Oh god.
She takes her hand. And moves it…toward my leg.
What is she doing.
Oh Christ.
And she picks some of it up. And then. She takes her hand. And puts some of it. On.
What?
My.
NO.
Lips. And she rubs it all over my lips.
And then she takes some more of it. And puts it—
What?
On her lips.
Jesus f*k me.
And then she kisses me.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
That’s my best story.
Oh god.
by Mitch Salm
This is my best story. It’s high school, I don’t know, junior year. And I have this girlfriend who I want to show a romantic evening.
For the first ten years of my childhood, my dad worked at the restaurant, so we got, like, a few hours of dad face-time a day. And it was never during movie time, so my mom picked our movies.
My mom describes herself as a hopeless romantic.
We watched love movies. Sleepless in Seattle. While You Were Sleeping. French Kiss.
I’m horny like every junior, but I’ve also got this romantic streak. I want to take my girlfriend out. And I do. My mom drives us, but that’s okay. We go to this nice Italian restaurant.
I live in a small Wisconsin town, and a nice Italian restaurant in a small Wisconsin town. Hah.
It actually was a nice restaurant.
And the restaurant is great. My mom gets wine, we get water and pizza. But really nice pizza.
Actually it was really nice pizza.
And afterwards my mom takes us back home, and my girlfriend and I—
Okay. Her name’s Sara.
Sara and I get the car—
If we can drive, why did Mom take us to dinner? These questions.
And I take her to the apple orchard overlooking Lake Winnebago. It’s beautiful out. Night. Fireflies dance among brown and green grass, the stars, they’re there.
I remember a moon, too, but the stars and the moon? That’s a bit much.
The skyline of Oshkosh across the lake. It’s warm out and crickets. They’re chirping.
No mosquitoes?
And I made a promise to myself—
Backtrack:
Before the night began, I promised myself I wasn’t going to get physical with her.
Uh huh. Stupid kid.
Too physical, I mean. No gross stuff.
This is a junior talking.
I mean, no body…stuff. Fluids. Maybe light kissing, but no other stuff.
Oops, more backtrack:
Also, I was her first everything. First boyfriend. First kiss. First guy you hold hands with.
Her first everything.
Everything. But it’s romantic and perfect out, and she starts kissing me lightly. Fine. But soon we’re making out, first light, but then heavy, and you know, we are making out hard. And what am I gonna do? I’m a horny high school guy. I’ll f*k tree moss.
Just go—
So we’re making out hardcore, and then she whispers—
“Did you come yet?”
And I say “No I didn’t come yet!” But she doesn’t know. I’m her first everything. She doesn’t know! So I think, a teaching moment. You know, this is a teaching moment. She doesn’t know.
She’s also super Catholic.
You went to a seminary.
Yeah, but I wasn’t super Catholic.
So I say, “No. I did not come yet.” And then I explain to her how a guy comes.
And she takes that—
She thinks, “Oh. This is how to make a guy come. I will make him come now.” So she undoes my pants. And yeah, romance, but what high school guy’s turning this down.
And then—
And then you know, she starts giving—
Giving you—
Giving me a handjob.
But—
BUT I’M HER FIRST EVERYTHING. BOYFRIEND, KISS, EVERYTHING!
Oh shit. You’re her first handjob—
I’m her first handjob. And you know, she’s going at it, sanding my dick, and f*k these fireflies I’m in pain.
But you just told her—
I just told her how to make a guy come. I didn’t ask her to try it on me! And now—
If you don’t come—
She’ll feel like shit! So she’s going and I’m thinking of anything hot I can to make myself come.
Brittney Spears, Christina, ANYTHING. And finally after that walk up Calvary, FINALLY—
You come.
I come.
Now. That’s supposed to be it. End of story. Done. No.
What?
What?
What. Well. I’m watching her, and you know, it’s all over the place. Shirt, shorts, everywhere. It’s all over, and some of it’s on my leg. And what does she do.
Oh god.
Oh god.
She takes her hand. And moves it…toward my leg.
What is she doing.
Oh Christ.
And she picks some of it up. And then. She takes her hand. And puts some of it. On.
What?
My.
NO.
Lips. And she rubs it all over my lips.
And then she takes some more of it. And puts it—
What?
On her lips.
Jesus f*k me.
And then she kisses me.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (etc.)
That’s my best story.
Oh god.
Monday, February 16, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #11
Eight am. Groggy. Barely dressed
Lockers slam. Not really impressed
Working through words to say
Shirking blue--high today
Keep the lines and make it real
Win her now--nerves of steel
Stumbling, bumbling shot right down
Falter stutter look like a clown
Rebound back to lunchtime chatter
Pushing around indescribable platter
Quick rush out hop the fence
Stupid kids make no sense
Loosened up take the day
Make it right be ok
Something clicks try again
Hit the mark, score a ten
Bell rings scream on out
Exultation let it shout
Hang with the crew at the usual spot
World is great with you on top
Lockers slam. Not really impressed
Working through words to say
Shirking blue--high today
Keep the lines and make it real
Win her now--nerves of steel
Stumbling, bumbling shot right down
Falter stutter look like a clown
Rebound back to lunchtime chatter
Pushing around indescribable platter
Quick rush out hop the fence
Stupid kids make no sense
Loosened up take the day
Make it right be ok
Something clicks try again
Hit the mark, score a ten
Bell rings scream on out
Exultation let it shout
Hang with the crew at the usual spot
World is great with you on top
Thursday, February 12, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #10
STUPID KIDS
by Sharon Madanes
Acrylic on Canvas, 6' x 8', Party at the Art Barn
Copper Plate Etching, 12 x 16, The Norfolk Kidos
by Sharon Madanes
Acrylic on Canvas, 6' x 8', Party at the Art Barn
Copper Plate Etching, 12 x 16, The Norfolk Kidos
CONTEST ENTRY #9
One True Love
It all started in First Grade, when this girl became a nerd. Christmas, 1997, I do recall. She was given a book, but it was not just any book. It was the book that would change her life.
It was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
She was so small, so innocent, and had so much to offer. She could have been the most popular kid in school. She could have attended hundreds of parties by now. But no. Harry Potter grabbed hold of her heart and never let go. She was wholly and irrevocably in love and nothing could get in the way. They were so happy together in those young, halcyon days. By the fifth book's release, she was ready to stand in line for hours in the rain just to get my hand on a copy. She soaked in everything – Harry's Quidditch games, Fred and George's pranks, Ron and Hermione's subtle romantic advances, Hagrid's tragic past… their struggle was hers, and she shared their triumphs.
However, this makes for a very lacking social life. No one wants to party with the girl who spends six nights out of seven on internet forums for her favorite book series, discussing the presence of Nargles in the present-day forests of England. No one wants to gossip with the girl whose only crush was the dorkiest boy in the dorkiest series: Neville Longbottom. No one wants a sleepover with the girl who tried to coax an owl into her garage to try to attach a letter and send it to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's headmaster when she turned 11.
No, life was different for this girl. She spent most summers alone. She couldn't help it that her small-talk was all Potter-centric, it was her passion. And it expanded. She read frequently and feverishly. Anything she could get her hands on. Books that the librarian called "Young Adult" were too childish. Books couldn't be borrowed from the school library: that place so infested with books for the illiterate. She had to venture to the Big Girl library and read the Animorphs series and the complete works of Avi and Roald Dahl and Louis Sacher. They were her muses, her true loves, closer to her than any peer could be. And she liked it that way.
Friends came and went her whole life, but one was always there for her, always ready to cheer her up at a moment's notice: Harry Potter. Any of the seven in the series could do. They took her away from her high school and into the world that Harry and his friends lived in. The Draco Malfoys of her world were just stupid kids, and she was a valiant Gryffindor, brave and honest and true. There was a whole world in that little book: a world that changed her life forever. From Number 4 Privet Drive to Diagon Alley to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – she followed her real friends.
I was… different back then. Not just different from who I am now, but different than my peers. I try hard to "fit in," to play the roles given to me, but on the inside I just want to curl up and be myself. I want people to like that part of me – the part that would rather read a book than go out, the part that enjoys intellectual conversation instead of asking "How drunk were you?" when speaking to peers. I want to be accepted; fully accepted, unquestioned, loved. It'd be nice to find at least one person – male or female; it doesn't matter – to share everything with.
And people claim to and try to understand, but I know they don't. So I just hide my best friend, my true love. I mask him and push him aside and put up with other people. But when I am alone, or when I am exceptionally upset, I know where to turn. I know who will embrace me with open arms, who will make me feel incalculably better.
That person is – and will always be – Harry Potter.
It all started in First Grade, when this girl became a nerd. Christmas, 1997, I do recall. She was given a book, but it was not just any book. It was the book that would change her life.
It was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
She was so small, so innocent, and had so much to offer. She could have been the most popular kid in school. She could have attended hundreds of parties by now. But no. Harry Potter grabbed hold of her heart and never let go. She was wholly and irrevocably in love and nothing could get in the way. They were so happy together in those young, halcyon days. By the fifth book's release, she was ready to stand in line for hours in the rain just to get my hand on a copy. She soaked in everything – Harry's Quidditch games, Fred and George's pranks, Ron and Hermione's subtle romantic advances, Hagrid's tragic past… their struggle was hers, and she shared their triumphs.
However, this makes for a very lacking social life. No one wants to party with the girl who spends six nights out of seven on internet forums for her favorite book series, discussing the presence of Nargles in the present-day forests of England. No one wants to gossip with the girl whose only crush was the dorkiest boy in the dorkiest series: Neville Longbottom. No one wants a sleepover with the girl who tried to coax an owl into her garage to try to attach a letter and send it to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's headmaster when she turned 11.
No, life was different for this girl. She spent most summers alone. She couldn't help it that her small-talk was all Potter-centric, it was her passion. And it expanded. She read frequently and feverishly. Anything she could get her hands on. Books that the librarian called "Young Adult" were too childish. Books couldn't be borrowed from the school library: that place so infested with books for the illiterate. She had to venture to the Big Girl library and read the Animorphs series and the complete works of Avi and Roald Dahl and Louis Sacher. They were her muses, her true loves, closer to her than any peer could be. And she liked it that way.
Friends came and went her whole life, but one was always there for her, always ready to cheer her up at a moment's notice: Harry Potter. Any of the seven in the series could do. They took her away from her high school and into the world that Harry and his friends lived in. The Draco Malfoys of her world were just stupid kids, and she was a valiant Gryffindor, brave and honest and true. There was a whole world in that little book: a world that changed her life forever. From Number 4 Privet Drive to Diagon Alley to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – she followed her real friends.
I was… different back then. Not just different from who I am now, but different than my peers. I try hard to "fit in," to play the roles given to me, but on the inside I just want to curl up and be myself. I want people to like that part of me – the part that would rather read a book than go out, the part that enjoys intellectual conversation instead of asking "How drunk were you?" when speaking to peers. I want to be accepted; fully accepted, unquestioned, loved. It'd be nice to find at least one person – male or female; it doesn't matter – to share everything with.
And people claim to and try to understand, but I know they don't. So I just hide my best friend, my true love. I mask him and push him aside and put up with other people. But when I am alone, or when I am exceptionally upset, I know where to turn. I know who will embrace me with open arms, who will make me feel incalculably better.
That person is – and will always be – Harry Potter.
CONTEST ENTRY #8
Undeniably Me
“Wooooooah! I never meant to brag! But I got him where I want him now! Woooah it was never my intention to brag! To steal it all away from you now!” Yes, it is nice to wake up to your favorite song every morning…but that doesn’t mean that mornings are any easier. I groan as I realize the day has begun, remembering everything and everyone I have to put up with. Awesome.
I stumble to turn on the light as I am instantly blinded by its uncomfortable glow. With my eyes closed I find my outfit I had picked out the night before, as I pull the chiffon top over my bed head. I then stroll down the cold hallway to my bathroom and OW!! There’s a door in front of it. For got about that. I glace at the clock and realize there is no time to make myself look “pretty”, because I have a stupid bus to catch.
With my infuriating mother yelling after me to pay attention in class I sprint down the street and climb on the fart reeking bus. My best friends are there to greet me, but calling it a greeting is lying because all we can manage to do it smile. I shove my headphones in my ears and check out for a while as the bus shakes and wheezes on to Shawnee mission wonderful. Then bus stops after a while, and I peel open my eyes, as I mumble a string of curse words. We all get off the bus and walk into the fiery hell hole, as my eyes fall on a few couples cuddling by lockers. Ugh. I finally reach the fith floor, where all the sophomores are, and my friend goes to her boyfriend for their morning hello. Honestly I would rather die than put up with this. Being one of the only single people in my large group of friends is incredibly degrading on many levels. Everybody has a somebody, but the fugly me. This fact eats at me in a way that’s not normal, and makes me desperate, and tear up. “Carly, are you ok?” my annoying friend asks. Crap. “Yeah dude I’m fine…just didn’t do any homework.” Which was true but would never bring me to tears. “ You sure? Its not good for you to bottle things up. Remember what happened last time?” Memories of me screaming into a pillow, sobbing, hitting things and shaking on the floor flash through my head. I shudder at the fact that I might just be crazy. “ I know…but I’m gonna be late. See ya.”
I run to my first hour and sit down in my study skills class. They don’t teach you study skills at all. Its just a study hall for kids who have an IEP and need “extra help” as the aggravating paras called it. Whatever just tell me I’m stupid, it would save me a lot of worry. After 10 seconds of sitting down, a para lady marches over to me and shoves a piece of paper in my face of all the stuff I’ve failed in the past week. “Work harder!” she scream whispers. “Certainly” I say with a smirk. Nothing bugs me more than having an IEP and have paras in the majority of my classes. Once again for “extra help.” Yeah I am a little spacey and have to take ADD medication but am I a mentally disabled person? I don’t know for sure, but I know I’m not sever.
“Wooooooah! I never meant to brag! But I got him where I want him now! Woooah it was never my intention to brag! To steal it all away from you now!” Yes, it is nice to wake up to your favorite song every morning…but that doesn’t mean that mornings are any easier. I groan as I realize the day has begun, remembering everything and everyone I have to put up with. Awesome.
I stumble to turn on the light as I am instantly blinded by its uncomfortable glow. With my eyes closed I find my outfit I had picked out the night before, as I pull the chiffon top over my bed head. I then stroll down the cold hallway to my bathroom and OW!! There’s a door in front of it. For got about that. I glace at the clock and realize there is no time to make myself look “pretty”, because I have a stupid bus to catch.
With my infuriating mother yelling after me to pay attention in class I sprint down the street and climb on the fart reeking bus. My best friends are there to greet me, but calling it a greeting is lying because all we can manage to do it smile. I shove my headphones in my ears and check out for a while as the bus shakes and wheezes on to Shawnee mission wonderful. Then bus stops after a while, and I peel open my eyes, as I mumble a string of curse words. We all get off the bus and walk into the fiery hell hole, as my eyes fall on a few couples cuddling by lockers. Ugh. I finally reach the fith floor, where all the sophomores are, and my friend goes to her boyfriend for their morning hello. Honestly I would rather die than put up with this. Being one of the only single people in my large group of friends is incredibly degrading on many levels. Everybody has a somebody, but the fugly me. This fact eats at me in a way that’s not normal, and makes me desperate, and tear up. “Carly, are you ok?” my annoying friend asks. Crap. “Yeah dude I’m fine…just didn’t do any homework.” Which was true but would never bring me to tears. “ You sure? Its not good for you to bottle things up. Remember what happened last time?” Memories of me screaming into a pillow, sobbing, hitting things and shaking on the floor flash through my head. I shudder at the fact that I might just be crazy. “ I know…but I’m gonna be late. See ya.”
I run to my first hour and sit down in my study skills class. They don’t teach you study skills at all. Its just a study hall for kids who have an IEP and need “extra help” as the aggravating paras called it. Whatever just tell me I’m stupid, it would save me a lot of worry. After 10 seconds of sitting down, a para lady marches over to me and shoves a piece of paper in my face of all the stuff I’ve failed in the past week. “Work harder!” she scream whispers. “Certainly” I say with a smirk. Nothing bugs me more than having an IEP and have paras in the majority of my classes. Once again for “extra help.” Yeah I am a little spacey and have to take ADD medication but am I a mentally disabled person? I don’t know for sure, but I know I’m not sever.
CONTEST ENTRY #7
“What Stupid Kids?”
Why are these adults having us write about stupid moments we had or are having? What point are they trying to show the future generations of America? That we are at a clumsy, unintelligent age? I think that this assignment should have been writing about a moment in one’s childhood, when you realized that you were growing more mature and less awkward. Had the assignment been changed to this, I would have written about a time at Kanakuk, a Christian athletic camp, in which I realized what it truly meant to be Christian. When this happens, you go to the main office to ring a large bell that tolls across the entire camp, sending the message to everyone that a new Christian has accepted Jesus Christ as his/her savior. At first I thought it was just going to be fun to ring the bell, but as my week at the camp bore on, I realized that it was more than just ringing the bell, because the bell itself was insignificant. It was what the bell symbolized that was important. When I rang the bell, for the true meaning, not just to ring it, I felt that I matured that instant and became more of a man because of it. That was in 7th grade, and I still feel that way.
Why are these adults having us write about stupid moments we had or are having? What point are they trying to show the future generations of America? That we are at a clumsy, unintelligent age? I think that this assignment should have been writing about a moment in one’s childhood, when you realized that you were growing more mature and less awkward. Had the assignment been changed to this, I would have written about a time at Kanakuk, a Christian athletic camp, in which I realized what it truly meant to be Christian. When this happens, you go to the main office to ring a large bell that tolls across the entire camp, sending the message to everyone that a new Christian has accepted Jesus Christ as his/her savior. At first I thought it was just going to be fun to ring the bell, but as my week at the camp bore on, I realized that it was more than just ringing the bell, because the bell itself was insignificant. It was what the bell symbolized that was important. When I rang the bell, for the true meaning, not just to ring it, I felt that I matured that instant and became more of a man because of it. That was in 7th grade, and I still feel that way.
CONTEST ENTRY #6
Stupid Kids
There was once a boy in suburban Kansas who absolutely loved snow days. He craved the activities he would engage in on these particular days. He would usually do the typical things most other 6th graders would at that time. He would have snowball fights, or just throw snowballs at random people walking on the streets, or he would make snow angels. He would also make a snowman with his friends with the available chunks of snow he could form into a round ball. He would also participate in neighborhood Football games, where he was fortunate to not get frostbite, for he never dressed warm enough for the occasion. He always came home from these games completely red and shivering. This boy, named Andrew, was just your average 6th grader in a suburban area, who was as normal as can be. Until one incident changed his reputation.
There was a large hill just a couple blocks away from Andrew’s house. It sat next to a Lowe’s Home Improvement Store, and coined the phrase “Lowe’s Hill”. He and his friends would always meet up and climb up the hill, and go sledding down it. Usually, they would do tricks like spinning, or jumping off in the middle of the descent. On this day, Andrew made up his mind that he wanted to race his friends down the hill. As it turned out, the results of this decision were painful. Andrew was winning by a wide margin when he looked to his side, and the next thing he knew, boom, he hit an electrical box, serving as an obstacle to this prestigious event, on impact, and he felt the pain instantly. “Ouch, my leg!”, shouted Andrew in disbelief. And the area around him was suddenly a bloody red and then reality hit him. He had broken his nose and it wasn’t going to stop bleeding anytime soon. He was too embarrassed to do anything at the time, but he needed medical attention soon.
One of his friends was able to call his mother and she picked him up to go to the hospital. The doctor diagnosed him with a fractured leg and obviously a broken nose. He was to miss 2 days of school in recovery, that way he didn’t look like a reincarnation of Frankenstein in front of all his friends. Andrew was excited about this. He got to sit at home and play videogames for 2 whole days and have his mom pamper him with food and anything he wanted. He felt a sense of embarrassment, but he was truly thankful for the opportunity to miss school, outweighing the consequences and shame in breaking his nose. Now, he had a story to tell. Something that most 12-year olds don’t get to do too often, and he was now in the infamous club of stupid kids, at least for the time being.
There was once a boy in suburban Kansas who absolutely loved snow days. He craved the activities he would engage in on these particular days. He would usually do the typical things most other 6th graders would at that time. He would have snowball fights, or just throw snowballs at random people walking on the streets, or he would make snow angels. He would also make a snowman with his friends with the available chunks of snow he could form into a round ball. He would also participate in neighborhood Football games, where he was fortunate to not get frostbite, for he never dressed warm enough for the occasion. He always came home from these games completely red and shivering. This boy, named Andrew, was just your average 6th grader in a suburban area, who was as normal as can be. Until one incident changed his reputation.
There was a large hill just a couple blocks away from Andrew’s house. It sat next to a Lowe’s Home Improvement Store, and coined the phrase “Lowe’s Hill”. He and his friends would always meet up and climb up the hill, and go sledding down it. Usually, they would do tricks like spinning, or jumping off in the middle of the descent. On this day, Andrew made up his mind that he wanted to race his friends down the hill. As it turned out, the results of this decision were painful. Andrew was winning by a wide margin when he looked to his side, and the next thing he knew, boom, he hit an electrical box, serving as an obstacle to this prestigious event, on impact, and he felt the pain instantly. “Ouch, my leg!”, shouted Andrew in disbelief. And the area around him was suddenly a bloody red and then reality hit him. He had broken his nose and it wasn’t going to stop bleeding anytime soon. He was too embarrassed to do anything at the time, but he needed medical attention soon.
One of his friends was able to call his mother and she picked him up to go to the hospital. The doctor diagnosed him with a fractured leg and obviously a broken nose. He was to miss 2 days of school in recovery, that way he didn’t look like a reincarnation of Frankenstein in front of all his friends. Andrew was excited about this. He got to sit at home and play videogames for 2 whole days and have his mom pamper him with food and anything he wanted. He felt a sense of embarrassment, but he was truly thankful for the opportunity to miss school, outweighing the consequences and shame in breaking his nose. Now, he had a story to tell. Something that most 12-year olds don’t get to do too often, and he was now in the infamous club of stupid kids, at least for the time being.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #5
“Project”
It was supposed to be a normal night out. But no, Belle (a girl with a boy’s name-don’t ask) had to invite her knew “project.” Her name is Marianne and, trusts me, it wasn’t my idea. Belle is forever adopting “projects.” I know because I was a project; however with me things didn’t turn out as planned. I have this thing about doing whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want. It drives my mother crazy, but hey, I’m 16. I know what I’m doing. I’ll agree with you that most teenagers are just a bunch of stupid kids, but I assure you I’m not like them. Really. You see, the life of your basic teenager revolves around getting cool clothes, looking hot, getting a hot boyfriend/girlfriend and being popular. Not my life. I’m not saying I don’t care about those things, I just don’t think they’re that important. My thing is about seeing the world, seeing stuff I’ve never seen and doing stuff I’ve never seen. And I will…soon. You see, I’m going away for college. I’m going to be on my own and continue my trend of doing whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want, but without the parental intrusion. But I digress.
So the three of us go out, and of course everything that could go wrong goes wrong. First of all, the temperature that night is like 40 degrees. It’s Miami, Florida! Miami! And of course, we’re by the water so it’s windy and it feels colder than it actually is. And did I mention we’re in MIAMI! Anyway, we were supposed to meet Belle’s new boyfriend, who of course didn’t show. Not to mention Cujo (my friend, a guy) showed up late and then only stayed for a short time (bummer). So now I’m stuck with Marianne (Belle was busy trying to find her guy). Marianne, who is the complete opposite of me. We have nothing in common and nothing to talk about. Ok, maybe not nothing to talk about. We actually discussed some books. It turns out we both like to read mysteries, so I guess we have one thing in common. So, it really wasn’t that bad…but it wasn’t great.
After hours of waiting, Belle finally gives up (thank God) and we head out to get something to eat. OK, so now we’re on the highway, Belle’s mom is driving. We’re about to get off the highway at an exit we have used since as long as I can remember. We’ve never had a problem on this exit ramp. Of course, that was before Marianne. WE ALMOST DIED! Belle’s mom somehow took the turn to fast or something. Whatever it was, we almost crashed into the cement barrier. It was crazy. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes…it wasn’t very interesting (bummer).
We FINALLY make it to the restaurant (you’d be surprised how ravenous waiting out in the cold and then almost dying can make you). We’re in the restaurant, having our food, minding our own business. But remember, Marianne is with us, so it’s just a matter of time. Just as we finish ordering our desserts, we hear a thunderous CRASH. Some idiot threw a rock at the glass wall of the restaurant. The glass wall only a few feet from where I was sitting! I almost died…again!! (Ok, I wasn’t that close, but you never know.) I’m telling you, I’m never hanging with Marianne again!
I can’t believe I’m graduating. I’m really excited about leaving home and going away to college (I told you I’d do it). It’s not all perfect. I’m really going to miss Belle, and of course Marianne. What? Yeah, yeah…I know, I know. But let me explain. I’m not saying the girl isn’t jinxed (I can’t recall a time we went out and something didn’t go wrong). And I wasn’t wrong about us being complete opposites, because we totally are. But I was wrong about the other stuff. It turns out we have a lot in common despite how different we are. Not to mention she’s wicked smart and kind of funny (sometimes). And she’s a good balance for Belle and I (Belle can get pretty emotional and I tend to be overly dramatic at times (if you knew my dad, you’d see where I get it). Anyway, it turns out we’re a good combination. Our teachers have taken to calling us the Three Graces. We’ve become inseparable. Actually, lately I’ve been spending more time with Marianne than Belle. Belle has yet another boyfriend and she’s been spending a lot of time with him. Marianne and I have taken to sharing books and music (she’s been on this weird 1950s and 1960s kick). Anyway, it’s gonna suck not hanging with them but I’m sure they’ll visit and I’ll see them when I come home on holidays. So, it’s all good. And who knows, maybe now I’ll take on some “projects” of my own. (God help us all!)
It was supposed to be a normal night out. But no, Belle (a girl with a boy’s name-don’t ask) had to invite her knew “project.” Her name is Marianne and, trusts me, it wasn’t my idea. Belle is forever adopting “projects.” I know because I was a project; however with me things didn’t turn out as planned. I have this thing about doing whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want. It drives my mother crazy, but hey, I’m 16. I know what I’m doing. I’ll agree with you that most teenagers are just a bunch of stupid kids, but I assure you I’m not like them. Really. You see, the life of your basic teenager revolves around getting cool clothes, looking hot, getting a hot boyfriend/girlfriend and being popular. Not my life. I’m not saying I don’t care about those things, I just don’t think they’re that important. My thing is about seeing the world, seeing stuff I’ve never seen and doing stuff I’ve never seen. And I will…soon. You see, I’m going away for college. I’m going to be on my own and continue my trend of doing whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want, but without the parental intrusion. But I digress.
So the three of us go out, and of course everything that could go wrong goes wrong. First of all, the temperature that night is like 40 degrees. It’s Miami, Florida! Miami! And of course, we’re by the water so it’s windy and it feels colder than it actually is. And did I mention we’re in MIAMI! Anyway, we were supposed to meet Belle’s new boyfriend, who of course didn’t show. Not to mention Cujo (my friend, a guy) showed up late and then only stayed for a short time (bummer). So now I’m stuck with Marianne (Belle was busy trying to find her guy). Marianne, who is the complete opposite of me. We have nothing in common and nothing to talk about. Ok, maybe not nothing to talk about. We actually discussed some books. It turns out we both like to read mysteries, so I guess we have one thing in common. So, it really wasn’t that bad…but it wasn’t great.
After hours of waiting, Belle finally gives up (thank God) and we head out to get something to eat. OK, so now we’re on the highway, Belle’s mom is driving. We’re about to get off the highway at an exit we have used since as long as I can remember. We’ve never had a problem on this exit ramp. Of course, that was before Marianne. WE ALMOST DIED! Belle’s mom somehow took the turn to fast or something. Whatever it was, we almost crashed into the cement barrier. It was crazy. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes…it wasn’t very interesting (bummer).
We FINALLY make it to the restaurant (you’d be surprised how ravenous waiting out in the cold and then almost dying can make you). We’re in the restaurant, having our food, minding our own business. But remember, Marianne is with us, so it’s just a matter of time. Just as we finish ordering our desserts, we hear a thunderous CRASH. Some idiot threw a rock at the glass wall of the restaurant. The glass wall only a few feet from where I was sitting! I almost died…again!! (Ok, I wasn’t that close, but you never know.) I’m telling you, I’m never hanging with Marianne again!
I can’t believe I’m graduating. I’m really excited about leaving home and going away to college (I told you I’d do it). It’s not all perfect. I’m really going to miss Belle, and of course Marianne. What? Yeah, yeah…I know, I know. But let me explain. I’m not saying the girl isn’t jinxed (I can’t recall a time we went out and something didn’t go wrong). And I wasn’t wrong about us being complete opposites, because we totally are. But I was wrong about the other stuff. It turns out we have a lot in common despite how different we are. Not to mention she’s wicked smart and kind of funny (sometimes). And she’s a good balance for Belle and I (Belle can get pretty emotional and I tend to be overly dramatic at times (if you knew my dad, you’d see where I get it). Anyway, it turns out we’re a good combination. Our teachers have taken to calling us the Three Graces. We’ve become inseparable. Actually, lately I’ve been spending more time with Marianne than Belle. Belle has yet another boyfriend and she’s been spending a lot of time with him. Marianne and I have taken to sharing books and music (she’s been on this weird 1950s and 1960s kick). Anyway, it’s gonna suck not hanging with them but I’m sure they’ll visit and I’ll see them when I come home on holidays. So, it’s all good. And who knows, maybe now I’ll take on some “projects” of my own. (God help us all!)
CONTEST ENTRY #4
I cannot say that teenagers are stupid kids.
Because they are in truth omnipotent beings
Capable of ruling the world, if only the evil
Adults would roll over and die. This is the
Tragedy of the world. Too bad it will never
Happen. Maybe we should all stage an enormous
Military coup of the entirety of the adult world.
Destroy them all and create a utopian society
Of booze and drugs and sex.
Because they are in truth omnipotent beings
Capable of ruling the world, if only the evil
Adults would roll over and die. This is the
Tragedy of the world. Too bad it will never
Happen. Maybe we should all stage an enormous
Military coup of the entirety of the adult world.
Destroy them all and create a utopian society
Of booze and drugs and sex.
CONTEST ENTRY #3
“She”
She’ll tell him today.
He’ll be happy…surprised, but happy.
Maybe not that surprised.
He must have sensed it, he has to know.
Yeah, they’ve always been friends.
But things have changed.
She’s changed.
They’re in high school after all.
It’ll be great.
He arrives, cap on backwards, jeans slung low.
Woefully underdressed for a quincenera.
She’s in a dress, a rarity.
Her makeup is perfect, her hair stylish.
It’s not her, but it’s what he wants.
It’s what they all want.
Her parents, her friends, boys, men, this is how they want her.
This is what she has to be.
She opens her mouth to speak.
He stops her by blurting out the unexpected.
He wants her…she knew it!
He continues…to help him get with Jacqueline.
Jacqueline, her best friend.
She stares at him, wind knocked out of her.
She recovers quickly with a smile.
The same smile she used when he told her about Lisa.
The same smile she used when he told her about Tanya.
The same smile she used for all the others.
The “others.”
Jacqueline is like the “others.”
Beautiful, feminine, sassy, graceful, popular.
Everything she is not.
Everything everyone wants her to be.
Everything she will never be.
She’ll never be an “other.”
She pushes away the pain.
Like she always does.
She keeps herself from crying by making a joke.
Like she always does.
She agrees to help him.
Like she always does.
She continues to pretend.
Like she always does.
OK, this time will be different.
It’s been a year since Jacqueline.
He’s totally over her.
She’ll tell him tonight.
It’ll be great.
She doesn’t understand.
How did it all go so wrong?
One moment she was about to tell him.
The next he was on a date with Anne.
Her other best friend.
Anne is just like the “others.”
She’s not like the “others.”
She will never be like the “others.”
She hates the “others.”
She’s graduated!
She’s leaving, getting away from him.
Getting away from the “others.”
Getting away from the stupid kids.
Stupid kids with their cars and their nice clothes.
Stupid kids with their nice straight hair and cool tans.
Stupid kids with their perfect bodies and beautiful smiles.
Stupid kids who don’t have to pay their way through college.
Stupid kids with their “others.”
She’s going where she won’t have to put up with the “others.”
Where she won’t be compared to the “others.”
Where she won’t be told she has to be an “other” to be wanted.
She’s going where he won’t be.
Where he can’t reach her.
Where what could have been with him won’t haunt her.
She won’t have to hear about anymore of his “others.”
She’s going where she won’t have to pretend anymore.
Where she is good enough as she is.
She’ll tell him today.
He’ll be happy…surprised, but happy.
Maybe not that surprised.
He must have sensed it, he has to know.
Yeah, they’ve always been friends.
But things have changed.
She’s changed.
They’re in high school after all.
It’ll be great.
He arrives, cap on backwards, jeans slung low.
Woefully underdressed for a quincenera.
She’s in a dress, a rarity.
Her makeup is perfect, her hair stylish.
It’s not her, but it’s what he wants.
It’s what they all want.
Her parents, her friends, boys, men, this is how they want her.
This is what she has to be.
She opens her mouth to speak.
He stops her by blurting out the unexpected.
He wants her…she knew it!
He continues…to help him get with Jacqueline.
Jacqueline, her best friend.
She stares at him, wind knocked out of her.
She recovers quickly with a smile.
The same smile she used when he told her about Lisa.
The same smile she used when he told her about Tanya.
The same smile she used for all the others.
The “others.”
Jacqueline is like the “others.”
Beautiful, feminine, sassy, graceful, popular.
Everything she is not.
Everything everyone wants her to be.
Everything she will never be.
She’ll never be an “other.”
She pushes away the pain.
Like she always does.
She keeps herself from crying by making a joke.
Like she always does.
She agrees to help him.
Like she always does.
She continues to pretend.
Like she always does.
OK, this time will be different.
It’s been a year since Jacqueline.
He’s totally over her.
She’ll tell him tonight.
It’ll be great.
She doesn’t understand.
How did it all go so wrong?
One moment she was about to tell him.
The next he was on a date with Anne.
Her other best friend.
Anne is just like the “others.”
She’s not like the “others.”
She will never be like the “others.”
She hates the “others.”
She’s graduated!
She’s leaving, getting away from him.
Getting away from the “others.”
Getting away from the stupid kids.
Stupid kids with their cars and their nice clothes.
Stupid kids with their nice straight hair and cool tans.
Stupid kids with their perfect bodies and beautiful smiles.
Stupid kids who don’t have to pay their way through college.
Stupid kids with their “others.”
She’s going where she won’t have to put up with the “others.”
Where she won’t be compared to the “others.”
Where she won’t be told she has to be an “other” to be wanted.
She’s going where he won’t be.
Where he can’t reach her.
Where what could have been with him won’t haunt her.
She won’t have to hear about anymore of his “others.”
She’s going where she won’t have to pretend anymore.
Where she is good enough as she is.
CONTEST ENTRY #2
Stupid Kids
Every high school has those kids that are constantly getting into accidents and getting hurt. I, unfortunately, am one of the many. Being into sports can always have consequences in the long run. Swimming and taekwondo is an interesting combination of sports to choose from, but that’s just who I am. No basket ball, soccer, or the most ridiculous, cheerleading for me. I prefer to stick with sports that can help a person gain self-confidence.
In the past year, I have put myself on crutches at lest three times, and have been forced to where knee and ankle braces constantly. Just recently, I have had surgery on my hip for tearing something; I can’t quite remember the name. Stuck on crutches for about a month, getting around school is not the greatest thing in the world. Sure, you get to ride in the elevator, but then there are the ramps in our school that lead to the second floor.
Making my way down the ramps, I try to go slowly. My eyes dart from side to side to make sure I don’t slip on food droppings or spilled drinks. I start to move faster and faster as the ramp’s incline increases. I hit level ground at last and lean against the wall. My friend walks up and grabs my crutches. “Can I play with them?” She asks. I told her it was ok as long as she didn’t break her neck while doing it.
Hopping and spinning around in the hall she pretends she is a fabulous acrobat. At first she seems to be doing really well, but everything has to come to an end at some point. One of the crutches lands in a pile of spilled mashed potatoes, and down she goes to the floor. Unfortunately, someone had spilled their entire lunch on the ground behind her, and she landed in it. She got up slowly and carefully, while I watched. I was just trying to fight back the laughter. She turned around, only to find food covering her rear end. Her clothes were disgusting, her hair was a tangled mess, but she was alright. My crutches were too, if you were wondering. As our eyes met we broke out in laughter. I told her to be careful, but do any high school students do? Walking to the nurse was the best part. Kids stared as we walked by. Some whispered and others snickered. I don’t think it was the sight of the food covered girl that did it either. I think it was my friend’s strange humor. After she fell, she grabbed a piece of paper and pasted it on back. “I’m a dirty dancer.” It read in big bold lettering. That was great, I thought. Such a stupid situation had occurred, and she had to make even funnier. That’s just another high school clown for you though.
Every high school has those kids that are constantly getting into accidents and getting hurt. I, unfortunately, am one of the many. Being into sports can always have consequences in the long run. Swimming and taekwondo is an interesting combination of sports to choose from, but that’s just who I am. No basket ball, soccer, or the most ridiculous, cheerleading for me. I prefer to stick with sports that can help a person gain self-confidence.
In the past year, I have put myself on crutches at lest three times, and have been forced to where knee and ankle braces constantly. Just recently, I have had surgery on my hip for tearing something; I can’t quite remember the name. Stuck on crutches for about a month, getting around school is not the greatest thing in the world. Sure, you get to ride in the elevator, but then there are the ramps in our school that lead to the second floor.
Making my way down the ramps, I try to go slowly. My eyes dart from side to side to make sure I don’t slip on food droppings or spilled drinks. I start to move faster and faster as the ramp’s incline increases. I hit level ground at last and lean against the wall. My friend walks up and grabs my crutches. “Can I play with them?” She asks. I told her it was ok as long as she didn’t break her neck while doing it.
Hopping and spinning around in the hall she pretends she is a fabulous acrobat. At first she seems to be doing really well, but everything has to come to an end at some point. One of the crutches lands in a pile of spilled mashed potatoes, and down she goes to the floor. Unfortunately, someone had spilled their entire lunch on the ground behind her, and she landed in it. She got up slowly and carefully, while I watched. I was just trying to fight back the laughter. She turned around, only to find food covering her rear end. Her clothes were disgusting, her hair was a tangled mess, but she was alright. My crutches were too, if you were wondering. As our eyes met we broke out in laughter. I told her to be careful, but do any high school students do? Walking to the nurse was the best part. Kids stared as we walked by. Some whispered and others snickered. I don’t think it was the sight of the food covered girl that did it either. I think it was my friend’s strange humor. After she fell, she grabbed a piece of paper and pasted it on back. “I’m a dirty dancer.” It read in big bold lettering. That was great, I thought. Such a stupid situation had occurred, and she had to make even funnier. That’s just another high school clown for you though.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
CONTEST ENTRY #1
I was a stupid kid with a mouth of sparkly braces and a cello sometimes slung over my shoulder. I did not hang out at Burger King after school because I had to change into my tights and get to ballet on the city bus. I did not do terribly stupid things or abuse substances. I did not know about substances except that the President's wife thought I should "just say no." I did not go to parties--I went to church lock ins. I wore cable knit sweaters with broaches after the fashions of Miss Molly Ringwald. I liked a boy who wore combat boots and drew anarchy signs on his jacket. He referred to his parents as "fascists" and seemed to know a lot about the Iran -Contra scandal. He listened to really, loud, angry music. I told everyone that I was now really into the Sex Pistols but I secretly loved Wham and Duran Duran. My dad told me to do the dishes and I called him a fascist and he laughed.
In those days, you could walk out onto the front lawn of school and see dudes just spinning on their heads and backs. Breakdancing was so cool. I longed to grand jete into a perfect backspin like my other idol, Jennifer Beals. I pictured myself in one of those teen movies where the young ballerina tosses her point shoes in favor of spontaneous street dancing. I would be a success. And somehow that success would be witnessed by everyone at my scary, urban high school. Even the boy of my dreams, the anarchist, he would see it and be, like, wow.
But my dancing aptitude gravitated towards graceful arms and pointed toes. I loved turning--but on my back?
So one time, my sister and I were hanging out in her room. We had 2 or 3 friends over. Church friends? Relatives? I don't remember. We were talking about breakdancing and how cool it was and everyone was trying out different moves. Someone did the worm--awesome! Someone else stood on the side of thier neck and pitched their body high into the air. Someone did a back spin. And then my little sister gets down and crouches into this frog position--arms wrapped around her legs--she starts hopping! How does she do it? I am furious with her for showing off like that. What am I supposed to do now? Some double pirouettes and an arabesque ala second? Do I dare enter this dance battle with my nerdy, ballet class moves?
No. I decide that I will do the same move. "Oh, come on! " says my sister.
"Please be careful!" everyone advises me, as if I will break a hip.
"I can do it" I tell them
"I don't know. Maybe it's not a good idea..." they say as I crouch into position, arms around legs, staring at the yellow shag carpet on my sister's bedroom floor.
"I'm gonna do it!" I tell them, and a hush goes over the crowd. Someone turns up the volume on the casio and I go for it.
And then.....
just as soon as I hop forward, I tumble, straight down, mouth to the carpet. Yellow shag stuck in the braces. Everyone laughs. " We told you!" they shout. They were right. I can't get up. My intricate orthodontics are attached to the floor and I am still twisted into the frog shape, unable to move.
One by one, sister and friends help me up. They are kind for a second and then they see my mouth with its mess of teeth, metal, and yarn. They can't contain themselves. I can't really blame them.
Ultimately I go back to being the best kind of stupid kid I know how to be: a ballet and orchestra nerd. I do not attempt breakdancing again. I work on my extensions in ballet class.
I do not pretend to like Sid Vicious more than Simon LeBon. Although I like him a little.
I do not go to parties and hope that someone's older brother will purchase beer for us. No, I go to see Flashdance in the broad light of day with my mother, who I must persuade to take me to an R rated movie in the first place.
I do not go to rock shows. I go to church camp.
One year later, I still like that safety-pinned anarchist. He thinks I am a dork but he cannot help but notice my beautiful, straight teeth.
In those days, you could walk out onto the front lawn of school and see dudes just spinning on their heads and backs. Breakdancing was so cool. I longed to grand jete into a perfect backspin like my other idol, Jennifer Beals. I pictured myself in one of those teen movies where the young ballerina tosses her point shoes in favor of spontaneous street dancing. I would be a success. And somehow that success would be witnessed by everyone at my scary, urban high school. Even the boy of my dreams, the anarchist, he would see it and be, like, wow.
But my dancing aptitude gravitated towards graceful arms and pointed toes. I loved turning--but on my back?
So one time, my sister and I were hanging out in her room. We had 2 or 3 friends over. Church friends? Relatives? I don't remember. We were talking about breakdancing and how cool it was and everyone was trying out different moves. Someone did the worm--awesome! Someone else stood on the side of thier neck and pitched their body high into the air. Someone did a back spin. And then my little sister gets down and crouches into this frog position--arms wrapped around her legs--she starts hopping! How does she do it? I am furious with her for showing off like that. What am I supposed to do now? Some double pirouettes and an arabesque ala second? Do I dare enter this dance battle with my nerdy, ballet class moves?
No. I decide that I will do the same move. "Oh, come on! " says my sister.
"Please be careful!" everyone advises me, as if I will break a hip.
"I can do it" I tell them
"I don't know. Maybe it's not a good idea..." they say as I crouch into position, arms around legs, staring at the yellow shag carpet on my sister's bedroom floor.
"I'm gonna do it!" I tell them, and a hush goes over the crowd. Someone turns up the volume on the casio and I go for it.
And then.....
just as soon as I hop forward, I tumble, straight down, mouth to the carpet. Yellow shag stuck in the braces. Everyone laughs. " We told you!" they shout. They were right. I can't get up. My intricate orthodontics are attached to the floor and I am still twisted into the frog shape, unable to move.
One by one, sister and friends help me up. They are kind for a second and then they see my mouth with its mess of teeth, metal, and yarn. They can't contain themselves. I can't really blame them.
Ultimately I go back to being the best kind of stupid kid I know how to be: a ballet and orchestra nerd. I do not attempt breakdancing again. I work on my extensions in ballet class.
I do not pretend to like Sid Vicious more than Simon LeBon. Although I like him a little.
I do not go to parties and hope that someone's older brother will purchase beer for us. No, I go to see Flashdance in the broad light of day with my mother, who I must persuade to take me to an R rated movie in the first place.
I do not go to rock shows. I go to church camp.
One year later, I still like that safety-pinned anarchist. He thinks I am a dork but he cannot help but notice my beautiful, straight teeth.
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