On the first day of sixth grade, I sat beside a girl in homeroom. We talked. We became friends. We talked on the phone endlessly, even though I always hated talking on the phone. We killed half the Amazon Rain Forest writing notes, including one of the true cementing factors to our friendship: The Notebook. We passed the The Notebook back and forth every day at school after writing in it each night. We made up symbols for the names we didn't want exposed in case it fell into the wrong hands, and confessed our deepest worries in that black binder.
Always a private person, I found I could open up to her, and even now seven years later, I still tell her things I can't tell anyone else. Even though we never really had the most in common, we've remained friends through it all.
I don't know what I'd do without her. But the realization came crashing down tonight--I might have to.
I know there's the internet and letters and telephones, but it's not the same. It's not the same as being able to meet up at Talquepaque for lunch and the rain that always seems to accompany these trips. How do I survive without seeing her name pop up on my messenger list every day, and the typing style I've come to know so well spill out the worries of her day?
Even though I'm 18, applying to college, and generally on the threshold of adulthood, it never really seemed that real to me until my best friend from sixth grade tells me she's contemplating marriage and moving halfway across the country, away from everything she's known, away from me. I told her a million times in middle school that her beloved would come around and see her for the amazing girl she is, and now my prophecy is coming true to a dizzying degree.
But I'm also so excited for her. I'm excited that she gets a new and exciting life. Truly, there is not much here for her. She could reach her higher potential somewhere else, and maybe help her maybe-husband reach his too. There is room to grow outside of the little world she's always lived in, and it would be a shame if fear kept her from inhabiting this new life.
Just last week, we were sitting in my floor playing board games, one of which was Life. As we moved the cars through the rapidly progression lifetime, I never imagined her real life would move as quickly so soon.
But I wish her a little plastic husband who is devoted and loving, a career card that she enjoys with a salary card she doesn't want to trade, Life Tiles full of things she's always dreamed of, and maybe, someday, a plastic car full of beautiful plastic peg children. And when she gets to the end of the gameboard, I hope she takes it all at Millionaire Acres.
But most of all, I hope we can still mail back and forth our secrets and dreams and hopes in a proverbial The Notebook.
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Aug 5, 2010
May 19, 2010
Freshmen
"Please tell me we weren't like that when we were freshmen!"
I hear that sentence a lot. And what's scary is, we probably were. I choose not to think about it too hard for fear of remembering too vividly.
I do remember various parts of my first day of freshman year quite well. It was a pretty important day in relation to the rest of my life, looking back. I finally got the perfect reassurance that I'd made the right choice regarding my secondary education. What reassurance that was!
I remember what I wore and I remember walking sheepishly into the auditorium for the first time. I remember scanning around for a familiar face and making a beeline towards it, and even though those faces weren't entirely familiar, they accepted me without question. The auditorium clumped into middle school groups.
I remember the Bon Jovi song "Welcome to Wherever You Are" blaring, and the line "that right here, right now, you're exactly where you're supposed to be" sticking out to me. I sat there, pulling at my already-annoying nametag, and hoping with all my heart that Bon Jovi was correct. He was.
I remember my teacher (who would later become one of my favorite people in the world) telling me to write on the poster cause I looked like I'd have good hand writing, and panicking inwardly cause my look is deceiving. I remember being scared of a large, gothic kid, who would later become a good friend and the most unscary person I know.
I remember the cheesiness of getting little pieces of metal with words of inspiration on them. A level of cheesiness that was to permeate my high school experience.
But what I remember most of all was sitting there with my pencil poised above the first fresh sheet of notebook paper of the year, trying to figure out where I was from for my poem. I don't really remember what I said, but I'm pretty sure I'd write a totally different version now. I'm from this weird school and these exceptional classmates and this strange ride I embarked on what feels like so long ago.
This week, I've been standing in front of groups of freshmen with four years of experience behind me. They couldn't even fathom what the next four years hold in store for them. Knowing what I know now, I would want freshman me to jump at the chance to talk to an ECHS Senior, though I know I was just as naive as those are, and wouldn't see the value. There are just some things you have to learn on your own.
I never really appreciated how much maturing occurs during those years until I was staring it right in the face. I'm both glad it's over for me and jealous of their unfolding opportunity. I feel so old.
My "I Am From" poem may change many more times as I meander through life, but I'm pretty sure "I Am From ECHS" will be a permanent fixture.
I hear that sentence a lot. And what's scary is, we probably were. I choose not to think about it too hard for fear of remembering too vividly.
I do remember various parts of my first day of freshman year quite well. It was a pretty important day in relation to the rest of my life, looking back. I finally got the perfect reassurance that I'd made the right choice regarding my secondary education. What reassurance that was!
I remember what I wore and I remember walking sheepishly into the auditorium for the first time. I remember scanning around for a familiar face and making a beeline towards it, and even though those faces weren't entirely familiar, they accepted me without question. The auditorium clumped into middle school groups.
I remember the Bon Jovi song "Welcome to Wherever You Are" blaring, and the line "that right here, right now, you're exactly where you're supposed to be" sticking out to me. I sat there, pulling at my already-annoying nametag, and hoping with all my heart that Bon Jovi was correct. He was.
I remember my teacher (who would later become one of my favorite people in the world) telling me to write on the poster cause I looked like I'd have good hand writing, and panicking inwardly cause my look is deceiving. I remember being scared of a large, gothic kid, who would later become a good friend and the most unscary person I know.
I remember the cheesiness of getting little pieces of metal with words of inspiration on them. A level of cheesiness that was to permeate my high school experience.
But what I remember most of all was sitting there with my pencil poised above the first fresh sheet of notebook paper of the year, trying to figure out where I was from for my poem. I don't really remember what I said, but I'm pretty sure I'd write a totally different version now. I'm from this weird school and these exceptional classmates and this strange ride I embarked on what feels like so long ago.
This week, I've been standing in front of groups of freshmen with four years of experience behind me. They couldn't even fathom what the next four years hold in store for them. Knowing what I know now, I would want freshman me to jump at the chance to talk to an ECHS Senior, though I know I was just as naive as those are, and wouldn't see the value. There are just some things you have to learn on your own.
I never really appreciated how much maturing occurs during those years until I was staring it right in the face. I'm both glad it's over for me and jealous of their unfolding opportunity. I feel so old.
My "I Am From" poem may change many more times as I meander through life, but I'm pretty sure "I Am From ECHS" will be a permanent fixture.
Mar 10, 2010
Zacky-Poo
The other day I arrived at what I thought was a startling revelation: my brother is the only person that I've known for their entire life.
I remember when he made a grand entrance into this word; I remember his first steps; I remember the first time he careened over the side of his crib; I remember him crying with pure anger on his first day of school; I remember his first video game (that was actually mine); I remember more of his life than he does.
I know every nuance of his existence, simply because I've spent more time with him than any other human on this earth. I know all his favorite foods (even the crap, fake pizza from Golden Coral) and how he doesn't eat the grape Sweetarts (gives them to me). I know how he never sleeps at the same angle is his bed every night. I know how he never picks up a drink until he finishes his entire meal. I know how his hair won't lay flat in some places and how it reacts the exact same way mine does to sun, chlorine, and rain.
Even though we're about as different as two siblings we can be, there are certain experiences that link us intricately and uniquely. I didn't teach anyone else how to play every board game on the planet or the good seats on the bus or the finer points of surviving school lunches. I didn't invent games (such as the infamous "zzz zzz" that annoyed mom to no end and the ever-pleasant "Toss the Rufum") that only we know the rules to with very many other people. I didn't ride in the backseat of a mini-van, fighting over which VHS to watch or what course to play on Mario Kart ("NOT Rainbow Road!" "But you picked last time!" "But I'm older!" " But I'm winning!"), or making up extensive stories with stuffed animals (who occasionally broke into vigorous dance to whatever was on the radio) so he wouldn't ask "are we there yet?" with anyone else.
Some of my favorite weekends have been spent holed up in his room, playing massive video game marathons all day, only breaking to eat and fight. We would laugh and laugh and laugh until mom came in to see what was so funny, but neither of us could explain it adequately.
Sometimes, when I begin to feel overwhelmed, I retreat back to that place. Our marathons have grown scarce since we've both grown into teenhood, but this Saturday, we left our cell-phone-facebook-teenager clogged worlds behind, and lost ourselves to Raving Rabids, Blow Pops, and our patented "That's-what-she-said" wars.
Every morning as he exits the (debatable) safe shelter of my car and hurries into worlds unknown, in his 13-year-old boy standard-issue hobo uniform, I want to grab the handle of his bookbag and pull him back in with all the pseudo-motherly strength of an older sister. I know what happens in that place and he's morphing into a new human being, one that I don't know. One I can't watch grow up as closely from the confines of a play pen.
But I don't have to be scared, because as different as we may be, we come from the same foundation. Two people made of the same substance growing in different directions. He can never grow too far away from me. After all, we'll always have "Toss the Rufum."
I remember when he made a grand entrance into this word; I remember his first steps; I remember the first time he careened over the side of his crib; I remember him crying with pure anger on his first day of school; I remember his first video game (that was actually mine); I remember more of his life than he does.
I know every nuance of his existence, simply because I've spent more time with him than any other human on this earth. I know all his favorite foods (even the crap, fake pizza from Golden Coral) and how he doesn't eat the grape Sweetarts (gives them to me). I know how he never sleeps at the same angle is his bed every night. I know how he never picks up a drink until he finishes his entire meal. I know how his hair won't lay flat in some places and how it reacts the exact same way mine does to sun, chlorine, and rain.
Even though we're about as different as two siblings we can be, there are certain experiences that link us intricately and uniquely. I didn't teach anyone else how to play every board game on the planet or the good seats on the bus or the finer points of surviving school lunches. I didn't invent games (such as the infamous "zzz zzz" that annoyed mom to no end and the ever-pleasant "Toss the Rufum") that only we know the rules to with very many other people. I didn't ride in the backseat of a mini-van, fighting over which VHS to watch or what course to play on Mario Kart ("NOT Rainbow Road!" "But you picked last time!" "But I'm older!" " But I'm winning!"), or making up extensive stories with stuffed animals (who occasionally broke into vigorous dance to whatever was on the radio) so he wouldn't ask "are we there yet?" with anyone else.
Some of my favorite weekends have been spent holed up in his room, playing massive video game marathons all day, only breaking to eat and fight. We would laugh and laugh and laugh until mom came in to see what was so funny, but neither of us could explain it adequately.
Sometimes, when I begin to feel overwhelmed, I retreat back to that place. Our marathons have grown scarce since we've both grown into teenhood, but this Saturday, we left our cell-phone-facebook-teenager clogged worlds behind, and lost ourselves to Raving Rabids, Blow Pops, and our patented "That's-what-she-said" wars.
Every morning as he exits the (debatable) safe shelter of my car and hurries into worlds unknown, in his 13-year-old boy standard-issue hobo uniform, I want to grab the handle of his bookbag and pull him back in with all the pseudo-motherly strength of an older sister. I know what happens in that place and he's morphing into a new human being, one that I don't know. One I can't watch grow up as closely from the confines of a play pen.
But I don't have to be scared, because as different as we may be, we come from the same foundation. Two people made of the same substance growing in different directions. He can never grow too far away from me. After all, we'll always have "Toss the Rufum."
Jan 2, 2010
Everything I Know About Being a Girl, I Learned From Judy Blume
Some books are just better by booklight and 3 a.m.
I'm no statistician, but I'm going to guess that in 75% of women's pasts, they've spent a few late nights huddled underneath the covers, reading a forbidden but juicy Judy Blume book by a flashlight (or booklight).
I know I'm no exception. Judy Blume pretty much wrote the book(s) on being a girl. When I saw a book titled "Everything I Needed To Know About Being a Girl I Learned From Judy Blume," I simply couldn't leave the store without it. The title alone sums it up perfectly.
Last night, true to my typical fashion, I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, out comes the books. Usually, I just turn on the lamp strategically placed beside my bed. But for some reason, I felt compelled to attach the small pink booklight that sits uselessly on my nightstand to the cover and read by the glow of a single, tiny LED bulb. I also felt compelled to set aside the interesting novel I'm currently in the middle of, and pick up the aforementioned Judy Blume homage.
As I sat there, staring at the title page, I couldn't help but laugh. This is exactly how most girls read a Judy Blume original.
Judy has managed to become one of the most challenged authors of all time. She isn't charged with the crime of promoting witchcraft like J.K. Rowling or religious sacrilege like Philip Pullman. She simply told prepubescent girls how it is when nobody else would.
The middle school and early high school years are notoriously tumultuous, and tv would to tell you that everybody has a wise mother or a cool aunt to assist you in navigating it. I'm here to tell you that not everyone does. My mother, while great and perfectly adequate, is definitely not nurturing and pretty much as embarrassed as I was. She was also an only child. No cool aunts.
So I turned to the one thing that had always worked for me before: books. I discovered Judy Blume in a random chance-grabbing at my middle school library, which is how many good things happen. But I discovered more than just something to read. I discovered my cool aunt and wise mom and best friends and beautiful reassurance all alphabetically arranged on the bottom shelf in the first row in the library.
Judy Blume knew all and knew how to make a confused twelve year old girl understand. No time in life is more embarrassing than puberty. There's not a soul alive that doesn't blush a little at just the word. But Judy made it alright. Judy made it alright for so many young girls.
Judy teaches the pitfalls of bras and boys and even God. Though she pisses a lot of people off (the audacity to suggest that it's okay for girls to masturbate or that going to your parents isn't always the best solution for bullying or that sometimes the heroine just doesn't get the guy), she teaches so many girls how to be girls, how to be women. Even though her books are banned so often, by libraries and over-protective parents alike, somehow anybody who wants the books somehow gets them and reads them surreptitiously under the covers.
Though I read almost all of her books in the course of my growing up, I never got around to reading Forever..., the most notorious Blume title (even more notorious than her refreshingly blunt and explicit novel intended for emotionally and sexually frustrated housewives). Often known as the The Sex Book, it simply tells the tale of a high school couple exploring the boundaries of their relationship, physically and mentally.
I don't think it's the sex scenes themselves that make people cringe at the content. The female lead, Katherine, has sex and nothing bad happens. She doesn't get pregnant, an STD, or become a raging sex addict. She satisfies her curiosity, and eventually, moves on. I'm sure this story plays out over and over in high schools all over the country. Judy Blume recognized this, and helped so many Katherines feel a little less alone.
Though life has yet to present me with that particular problem, I know I'll be just a little more prepared when it does. After all, I have Judy Blume in my corner.
Are You There God, It's Me Margaret affected me more soundly than almost any book I've ever read, and I read it in middle school. If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she reads this book. But perhaps I'll leave it lying about, and let her experience it the way most girls have experienced Judy Blume--at 3 a.m. with a booklight and a sense of wonder.
I'm no statistician, but I'm going to guess that in 75% of women's pasts, they've spent a few late nights huddled underneath the covers, reading a forbidden but juicy Judy Blume book by a flashlight (or booklight).
I know I'm no exception. Judy Blume pretty much wrote the book(s) on being a girl. When I saw a book titled "Everything I Needed To Know About Being a Girl I Learned From Judy Blume," I simply couldn't leave the store without it. The title alone sums it up perfectly.
Last night, true to my typical fashion, I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, out comes the books. Usually, I just turn on the lamp strategically placed beside my bed. But for some reason, I felt compelled to attach the small pink booklight that sits uselessly on my nightstand to the cover and read by the glow of a single, tiny LED bulb. I also felt compelled to set aside the interesting novel I'm currently in the middle of, and pick up the aforementioned Judy Blume homage.
As I sat there, staring at the title page, I couldn't help but laugh. This is exactly how most girls read a Judy Blume original.
Judy has managed to become one of the most challenged authors of all time. She isn't charged with the crime of promoting witchcraft like J.K. Rowling or religious sacrilege like Philip Pullman. She simply told prepubescent girls how it is when nobody else would.
The middle school and early high school years are notoriously tumultuous, and tv would to tell you that everybody has a wise mother or a cool aunt to assist you in navigating it. I'm here to tell you that not everyone does. My mother, while great and perfectly adequate, is definitely not nurturing and pretty much as embarrassed as I was. She was also an only child. No cool aunts.
So I turned to the one thing that had always worked for me before: books. I discovered Judy Blume in a random chance-grabbing at my middle school library, which is how many good things happen. But I discovered more than just something to read. I discovered my cool aunt and wise mom and best friends and beautiful reassurance all alphabetically arranged on the bottom shelf in the first row in the library.
Judy Blume knew all and knew how to make a confused twelve year old girl understand. No time in life is more embarrassing than puberty. There's not a soul alive that doesn't blush a little at just the word. But Judy made it alright. Judy made it alright for so many young girls.
Judy teaches the pitfalls of bras and boys and even God. Though she pisses a lot of people off (the audacity to suggest that it's okay for girls to masturbate or that going to your parents isn't always the best solution for bullying or that sometimes the heroine just doesn't get the guy), she teaches so many girls how to be girls, how to be women. Even though her books are banned so often, by libraries and over-protective parents alike, somehow anybody who wants the books somehow gets them and reads them surreptitiously under the covers.
Though I read almost all of her books in the course of my growing up, I never got around to reading Forever..., the most notorious Blume title (even more notorious than her refreshingly blunt and explicit novel intended for emotionally and sexually frustrated housewives). Often known as the The Sex Book, it simply tells the tale of a high school couple exploring the boundaries of their relationship, physically and mentally.
I don't think it's the sex scenes themselves that make people cringe at the content. The female lead, Katherine, has sex and nothing bad happens. She doesn't get pregnant, an STD, or become a raging sex addict. She satisfies her curiosity, and eventually, moves on. I'm sure this story plays out over and over in high schools all over the country. Judy Blume recognized this, and helped so many Katherines feel a little less alone.
Though life has yet to present me with that particular problem, I know I'll be just a little more prepared when it does. After all, I have Judy Blume in my corner.
Are You There God, It's Me Margaret affected me more soundly than almost any book I've ever read, and I read it in middle school. If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she reads this book. But perhaps I'll leave it lying about, and let her experience it the way most girls have experienced Judy Blume--at 3 a.m. with a booklight and a sense of wonder.
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