When You're Done With Being Beautiful And Young

I always told myself I'd never be one of "those" adults.

You know. The ones who are all "You're too young to understand." and "You'll see when you're older." and "You're not supposed to get it, because you haven't lived enough."

I always hated that.

Know why?

I know seventeen year olds that have lived more than twenty five year olds, and I know twenty five year olds that are less ignorant than fifty year olds. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that age is a number, and you cannot (or should not) decide what a person does and does not know based solely on their age.

You COULD make sweeping generalizations, it is only that they are so often flawed that makes them bad.

There is a certain coworker of mine. She's a lovely girl, truly. It is only when things get busy that she just gets nasty towards the rest of us, particularly whoever is packing orders for her. And she turns on attitude towards the customers.

I can't say I blame her. When we're busy, we're busy, and it makes everyone on edge.

For the longest time, I wondered what her deal was. Then I realized that she just turned seventeen. Like, literally yesterday. It hit me "OH! OF COURSE! BECAUSE SHE'S SO YOUNG!"

And then I wanted to kick myself in the damn teeth.

Maybe it is because she's young. Maybe that's just the way she is and always will be. My point is, I don't like that I jumped to her age to say that. I don't like when people say I think or feel or act a certain way because I'm twenty one. Why should I do it anyone else?

Never Fail Like Common People

Today in my English class, we were talking about Bakhtin and how he saw writing. There's one level of a story which was for the "common people". Then there was another level, a level of the story that was full of symbolism all the real meaning of the story.

My instructor was telling us about this because she wanted to discuss what literacy is. Sylvia Scribner wrote an essay and said that literacy is three things; literacy is adaptation, literacy is power, and literacy is a state of grace.

My instructor was really hung up on this whole literacy as power thing. Now, of course, I can agree with that to a point. When you are literate (and I don't just mean reading here, I mean communicating with your society as a whole) you do get power. But I don't think that's all literacy is.

We discussed how, in the past, literacy was held away from certain people. Women, African Americans, Irish, the poor, anyone who wasn't deemed fit somehow. It goes back to that Descarte line "I think, therefore I am." From what my instructor said, illiterate people did not think like the literate, and therefore they were not human.

I've never really linked literacy to humanity. You don't have to be literate in the strictest sense of the word to be human. Of course not! That's obtuse. But apparently people thought this way. Probably because of the time period I'm from, I can't really imagine anyone REALLY being illiterate.

In this day in age, it seems to me that most people have some base of education. Naturally, there are a shit ton of people who don't go to college, but that doesn't make them uneducated, I don't think. Likewise, I know people who go to college and they still aren't educated.

I'm rambling.

By stripping people of their humanity, we are denying them the world. I can agree with that. However, my instructor talked about oral tradition. They seem to hold the statement that "I am because WE are." There is no denial of humanity there.

Perhaps because I am from an individualistic society/culture, I don't understand holding my whole existence on other people acknowledging that I am here. Perhaps because I'm so used to finding my voice and screaming out loud to get noticed, I don't think I could hang my existence on that acknowledgement. I don't know if I could find that fulfilling.

Also, my instructor was talking about how everyone has the right to literacy. Naturally, of they do. Books are not written for a special elite, to educate a group that is already educated.

...Are they?

I write. (Hurr durr.) When I write, I have an audience in mind, I suppose. I don't try and make sure everyone who picks up my "novel" (read: heap of word soup) will understand it. I don't know why I do that. Maybe I always felt like it was patronizing when authors did that?


Is it my responsibility as a writer, to write books that any and all can understand? Or is it the responsibility of the reader to research and figure out what they can't understand?

Toni Morrison wrote Beloved, a prize winning novel. It's very, very post modern and hard to follow if you don't really understand post modernism. And yet, she won all those awards.

I don't know.

Every Time You Point Your Finger, Three More Point Right Back At You

When I was young, She Who Must Be Kept had a best friend with two step kids and two children she had birthed. Her daughter was significantly older than me (and particularly bossy, so I didn't care for her at all), and her son was right around Big Brother's age, so they were about two years older than me.

As you can imagine, I really hated going over to this friend's house, because there was never anything for me to do. Big Brother and the son would run off to do secret boy things that I wasn't allowed to participate in, and the daughter would never let me color with markers--even when I was allowed to according to She Who Must Be Kept, or wouldn't let me drink my juice box, or pick a tape for the VCR or anything. She was pretty much a bitch, actually. I never did get around to liking her.

So, usually, I ended up hanging around in the kitchen where SWMBK and her friend would park themselves at Carrie's table. They'd sip on cups of coffee while I hid against the counter and tried to be inconspicuous. If I was found out, I was always told to "go play", which meant whining after my brother until he got screamed at to let me play.

Carrie and SWMBK typically complained. About their jobs, husbands, and most of all--their children.

It seemed like they saved up every naughty thing we had ever done and complained about it.

"And THEN he got an F! Can you believe that?"
"He got detention for throwing a spit ball."
"She broke curfew by thirty minutes. I was worried sick!"
"She wandered away from me in the store *again*. I'm so tired of it!"

I hated it. Hated hated hated it. Because Carrie hadn't been there, and Carrie didn't get my side of the story. Even at seven, I knew this wasn't fair. Once I burst out in tears as my mother started in.

"Do you know what Tai did earlier this week? It's terrible, she---."

"Stop it!" I cried. SWMBK turned to stare at me. "Don't tell that story! It's about me."

"I can tell whatever story about you I'd like. I'm your mother and you just have to deal with it. If you don't want me to repeat things that you've done, you'd better not do them."

I sobbed like I had a broken heart. I did, and still do, thing SWMBK was cruel to word it that way. Carrie told her off and said I was right, and if a story upset me, it shouldn't be repeated.

But it's led me to thinking, ten or so years later. What if I'm repeating stories that SWMBK wouldn't like? Do I have to ask her permission to have a blog on the Internetz? Does it even matter? All these strangers read it, but *they don't know who I am*. Does that make it better or worse?

The One I Can't Replace-Ode to a Big Brother

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

These were the words spoken about me at my high school graduation. The instructor giving the speech about all ten of us made it seem like a good quality. Something everyone should aspire to.

I barely heard the words that were said that night. I barely remember the words that I spoke myself when I gave my own speech a few minutes later. I have told everyone since that this is because I was hopped up on codeine for the sprained ankle that just wouldn't heal.

It's true that I was high that night.

I was high on my own adrenaline of accomplishment. I, for one in our lives, had something that you didn't. I had gotten to something *first*.

But more importantly, you were there. Getting you to see me walk the stage had been a fight. She Who Must Be Kept wasn't going to make you do it. You had claimed that all I was doing was rubbing in your face that I had graduated and you didn't. And she, like always, bought it hook line and sinker. I raised complaint to the therapist, and you were made to go.

For once in my life, you weren't allowed to ruin my day.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

The day you left was the only time in my whole life that I can remember you telling me you loved me.

I don't know if you love me always, or in that moment you loved me. Loved me because I sounded so lost and pitiful, telling you that you didn't have to go, and I would talk to our mother, and I would make it okay, you could stay!

"Take care of Mom for me. I love you."

Perhaps that day you loved me because when Croc tried to pull his shit, like he always does, I ripped into him. I had Had Enough, and when I have Enough, things start happening. You might have loved me because I was defending you, and you've never felt that anyone in the world has done that before. But there's a lot that you were so blind and deaf to. Everyone was fighting for you... You were just fighting yourself.

I've always been more patient than you. This is probably because I grew up as your little sister. While I sat and waited for people to love me, for people to be able to give me what I needed, you demanded it. I fell into relationships, holding my arms out and trusting that someone or something would be there to catch me when I hit the bottom.

You launched into relationships, clawing and ripping the other person, desperate to hurt them before they hurt you. Eager to establish that status quo, because you knew what it meant to be hurt and you were tired of me.

I... I knew what it was to be hurt too, but I managed to climb up from the dirt when no one caught me. You sought revenge, while I sought to protect people from all the things that had happened to me. I didn't know that this made me more vulnerable, in the end. I've learned my lesson now, learned it through hands on my throat and the way that I cried in the shower, alone and empty, because no one wanted to hear it.

But in the end, I was able to protect and save myself when there was no one to do it.

There should have been someone there to do it. But you demanded everything our mother had. You sucked her dry. She and I have had discussions... Discussions about why she focused so much on you, chose to save you in all the ways that she couldn't save me.

There was only so much to her. And you took everything, while I survived on guilt and empty promises.

We've discussed why she let you beat the shit out of me. For years. Why she let you degrade, belitte, and ABUSE me. For years. You were, and still are, an abusive person. I can't say that I blame you. I can say that I didn't deserve what happened to me.

Nothing you did was okay. There is about a decade of my life that is just Not Okay. And never will be. It's taken me a lot of therapy to come to that conclusion. I am not a bad person.

I am not ugly. I am not worthless. I am not unlovable.I am not stupid. I am not any of the things that you said I was. I suspect you said these things to me because you felt them about yourself, and if it was true about me, it couldn't be true about you, because we were just so opposite.

You struggled to survive the most basic things in life, for reasons I will never understand. You had the tools. You knew what you had to do. I guess you were just waiting for someone to come and save you from yourself.

And more painful than that, you watched me soar. You watched me graduate, get friends, relationships. You watched me have a very strong relationship with our mother, based on trust and honesty and forgiveness. You watched me get into college and soar there, too. You watched me be such a loved person, even though you tried to pull me down, and make me miserable with you.

I don't apologize for that.

I have every reason to hate you. And yet, I don't.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

In this month or so since you've run off, I've spoken to you more than in the past two years of living with you. You and I have our own language, our own inside jokes. We have the things that strike us and no one else has funny. We have Queen and Iron Maiden.

We have a love of World War Two. Although while you are scouring maps and battle plans, I am reading the accounts of the death camps, and the ways that this changed humanity. We love brown soda, although you like Pepsi and I adore Coke.

We lived through the same bullshit. We lived with the same alcoholic father, the same neglectful, unstable mother. You were the only one who validates me. I could always look at you and know that the screaming fights and broken glass were real. I didn't make them up in my head.

We survived. We both bare the scars, although in very different ways. You are cruel and callous to all but a very--VERY few. I am kind and loving, neurotic about those that I care about, desperate for approval and adoration.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

You still call me "baby sister".

I still call you "big brother".

When you left that day, when you told me you loved me... Who were you seeing in your head? Were you seeing the six year old, trailing after you with skinned knees and tangled hair, clutching her Pooh Bear?

Were you seeing the thirteen year old, in long black skirts and too much lipstick, scowling at you and pretending she knew better?

Were you seeing the the twenty one year old woman, in high heels and tight dresses, with short hair and clear eyes, carrying her textbooks?

In your head, just who am I?

I know for me... You're the one I can't replace.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

I know where my loyalties lie.

A Letter to Nintendo

Dear Nintendo,

Recently, I acquired a Nintendo Wii, the system I have been coveting for more than a year. I am a casual gamer at best, and this system seemed to be marketed specifically to my group.

I was elated when I got a copy of Mario Kart Wii as well. Surely this game--THIS GAME would be well and good for me to play. After all, I had played on a friend's Gamecube and had not suffered an aneurysm, nor had I thrown a controller through a window or anything of the sort.

Last night devolved into screaming hysterics from me. After half a dose of my mother's Valium and repeated watchings of The Boondock Saints to settle my nerves, I find myself here on my laptop, writing you this letter. I thought you would like to know about my concerns as a loyal consumer.

1. Why are there blue shells? Why? These are redundant given every other obstacle from hell you put in those magical question boxes.

2. Why are the aforementioned blue shells used more than once in a race? Why is a squid used more than once in a race? I find myself frustrated when I get slammed with a Pow, a shell, and a squid all at once. This is insanity. As a gamer, I anticipate and appreciate a certain level of insanity, but this is on par with Hannibal Lecter. (I do suspect you enjoy Chianti.)

3. I strongly dislike the steering wheel attachment/headache/device from Hell. You cannot properly twist and turn, and instead end up writhing in your seat, much like an epileptic seal.

4. Rainbow Road is the rectum of Satan himself. I know you have painted it so it looks lovely--but no. I am not okay with the fact that if you sneeze, run over an ant, or slightly turn, you fall off the edge. And the fact that you see your character bursting into flames will forever haunt my dreams.

In short, this game could turn me off gaming forever. I find myself thinking day and night of Mario Kart and how I might possibly beat it. I know this is your intent, but it is becoming a sick obsession. My therapist's child is now able to go to Harvard because of me and this game.

Yours Truly,

Taima

My Lack Of Posting

School let out on April 29th.

I was on the bus to Ohio on May 2nd.

I was on the bus back to Michigan on June 1st.

So that's where I've been for about a month now. My best friend needed help packing up and moving, and my trip to see her was *so* short over Christmas, we were due for a long visit. It was so nice to see her. I miss her so much when I don't get to see her.

We're getting older now. I used to go down twice a summer. This summer I *have* to get a job since She Who Must Be Kept has made it clear she wants to shut up our house and move down to New Orleans with Croc. I think it's a terrible idea, and I told her why. She agreed, but stated she was going to do it anyway. I'm getting ready to move out this winter anyway.

I'm not a little kid anymore, and I just can't just shirk my responsibilities to go do something more fun, as much as I'd like to. I have to be a grown up and do grown up things. I don't always like it.

Writing Prompt 25: A Time When You Felt Alone

The year I was sixteen was tumultuous, to say the least.

Perhaps the worst part of that year was the summertime. I was getting ready to start my senior year in high school. I remember going out every Friday night to a cafe that is no longer open, going with my friends and sitting outside in the parking lot, in various circles talking about things I didn't know much about.

I remember She Who Must Be Kept crossing the brink into some place of madness. Her mother had just passed away. SWMBK kept it together for about two months. Then one day she sat in work and began to cry until they sent her home.

I don't know how she made it home from work. Anyway she came home and laid on the couch and didn't get up for days. She was sleeping, I think. But she'd cry and vomit in her sleep. For three days, I didn't sleep because I was watching her.

My Bubby said I needed to call an adult. I don't think he realized I didn't have any other adults. My only adult looked like she was dying. When she was finally able to sit up, I handed her the keys and said we were going to the hospital.

I sat in the room with her while they put the yellow wristband around her. I was there when she began crying when the emergency therapist came in and told me quietly I could leave. She knew that I was tired, new I was close to becoming neurotic myself.

I was sitting in the waiting room of my town's hospital. We had just gotten this new fancy ER in, I remember. In the midsummer heat, my thighs stuck to the chair. I tried to call my Bubby and another friend of mine, but there was no answer.

I sat alone, in the ER.

I sat alone.