Hands Off My 'Za

My college is doing some renovations. Because the dining room is in the same building as the bookstore, which is being renovated, there's a lot of noise in the dining room, and it makes it hard to do our Between Class activities.

Some people play that game Magic, or watch something on a laptop, or wonder of wonders, study. Our college has break out rooms, small rooms (with dry erase boards for walls!) with table, chairs, and a television. They're for studying.

Since the renovations, my group of misfits has been checking out a break out room for a chunk of the day.

I want to pull my hair out.

I'm not proud of this next part of the story...

One kid that hangs out went to high school with me. He has Asperger's Syndrome. The real kind, not the Internet jerk kind. He is difficult to be around. I'm more used to it and have learned to ignore a bunch of stuff. And, I don't play Magic. He does, and according to the kids that do, he is almost impossible to play with and drives them crazy.

I can't attest to that part of the story.

One day, we had a breakout room, and the kid came knocking. I didn't have the room in my name, so I couldn't say who could not come in. Rosie had the room in her name and decided that he couldn't come in. But she didn't open the door to tell him that. Instead, we all ignored him until he left.

I feel like shit that I did that. There's no reason I couldn't have opened the door and said; "Look dude, we're full (which was true, there were already five of us in the room, and these are small rooms) we're not playing Magic (there was no room to, apparently. Again, don't play so I don't know), and there isn't room for you to set up your laptop." (That was true, too. He wants to use a table, and the table space was taken. The general rule in our group is first come, first claim. No one is going to move--unless they're in class--for you to set up camp.)

I didn't do any of those things. I let him feel like a fool. And I feel terrible about it. Ugh. I understand that it's hard for people to deal with people like that. I need to figure out something else to do.

But also, one day, I decided to order some pizza. I wanted some, and getting lunch made is now a pain in the ass, so why not, right? Mistah Jay decided he'd order two pizzas too. So now there are four pizzas being ordered.

One kid's friend and girlfriend (note: this girl? She sat NEAR us all semester and never spoke to us. We have tried speaking to her, but she steadfastly ignored us. I don't know if she's shy or what, but it was really off putting) asked if they could "Wait for Reptar--someone we actually know-- in here".

Before I could say anything, they were allowed in. So now I'd have to have three extra people eating the food I'd bought. Two of these kids I didn't even know. That irked me, because you can't just eat in front of other people, especially when there's an abundance of food!

And this chick was pretty rude, too. She got snippy because Mistah Jay lent me fifty cents, and snapped that he bought pizza, so he shouldn't give me ANYTHING. I said that I had also bought pizza, and Mistah Jay blinked and said he always gave me quarters.

And it's true, throughout the day he usually gives me a dollar or two for a drink or to get some fries or candy or whatever. I rarely ask, he usually just gives it to me and tells me to get whatever I'd like. It's lovely of him, and I always say thank you.

so this chick rolled her eyes and said she wished she had someone to give HER money. I wondered where Reptar was to give her some money, but kept mum.

Anyway, the pizza arrived, and I put down my two and said those were the only two we were opening. She glared at me.

"Mistah Jay said we could eat his."
"He asked me to save his when he was on his way to the comic book store."
"No! He said two pieces! So we can eat it."
"We are NOT eating his food unless HE is here."

So she sulked. Reptar arrived and began to dig into the food. Without saying thank you. Or hello, actually. He just started shoveling food in his mouth. And his girl who KNEW I bought the pizza refused to thank me, and waited until my back was turned to take some.

I'm pretty irritated about it. I shouldn't be. I told everyone flatly that was the last time I bought food for other people. I did get plenty of thank yous, but I don't like being treated rudely when I spend a lot of money on food for people I don't even know. Who then think they're above thanking me.

Also, I am mad at Rosie for telling everyone who walked in that I bought lunch and they could help themselves. Thanks for giving away my food!

Things I've Learned At Work

I work at a fast food joint now. Although I suppose "fast" is sort of stretching it. We're not as fast as McDonald's. I don't know if this is because we're less streamlined or what.

Anyway, my place of employment is a "Southern" style place. Let's say--Virginia Prepared Poultry? VPP?

I've been working there for--mmm, about twoish months. Here are the things I have learned.

-The moment you run out of something, everyone will come in and want it.

-You WILL run out of the most ordered item on the busiest night of the week. For us, it's usually biscuits. I don't know how we run out of them, we're constantly putting them in the poorly cleaned, too hot ovens that spew black smoke the moment they open. But we're always out of them.

-People will come in and stare blankly at the menu for five minutes. We have one thing; poultry. And only one kind at that! True, we have three different recipes, but you had to have some idea of what you wanted.

-The church crowd comes in, and they are blood thirsty and will trash the spotless lobby in thirteen seconds. And I guess because they're all holy and Jesus-y they don't believe they should have to do things like--bus their trays. I've found trays on the floor, under tables, still on tables, and on the ledges we have with the random cutouts/pillar things in our restaurant. If you can't carry a tray, that's cool, one of us will help you.

-The day that two people call off will be the day that it is busy. Especially a Monday afternoon in the middle of the month that's never busy. But it will be now!

-Elderly people are very upset we don't put things on plates anymore. They use their coupons and give me a dirty look when their food comes in a box and not on a plate.
"I need a plate."
"Sure!"
"Why don't you give me a plate to begin with?"
"We don't put things on plates anymore, you have to ask, I'm sorry."
"Why?!?"
"I don't know, that's the way we're told to do things."
"Well that is foolish!"
"I'm sorry, here's your plate."
"I shouldn't have to ask! No one can eat out of a box!"
Strips, legs, and wings can be eaten out of a box. Breasts and thighs cannot, I agree. But I can't give everyone a plate because I'll get in trouble. You have to ask, and then you can have it. Okay?

-People who try to clean up their messes are sweethearts. People who just leave the place looking like a tornado vomited up mac and cheese are awful. If I see someone trying to scrub their table, I will stop them and say not to worry about it. I have better tools. I have seen people come in with seven kids, and leave the place an astounding mess. Like, their kids just threw chunks of chicken everywhere, and they left like it was okay. I couldn't believe it. I have zero problem cleaning the crumbs on the floor or wiping down tables (again, that's my job), that doesn't mean go bananas. And if you spill something, don't be afraid to tell me! I'll get a mop and clean it, no harm done. No one's mad, no one here is Joan Crawford.

-The stuff on the top shelf is always the stuff my manager wants me to get down. And then she acts surprised when she sees me getting down a step stool. Well hey, I have the tools to get the items so I'm totally cool doing it, I just need a moment to do it. I'm five foot three. That box full of chicken buckets is a foot above my head, at least. I can touch the corner on tip toe. I'm not going to bounce up and get it, that would be bad for me, because the box would land on my head.

-Everyone is afraid of the walk in freezer. I like it, it is WAY cooler and quiet and no one bothers you. You can't get locked in, and even if you did, someone would come looking for you in a few minutes. Maybe they think it's haunted and no one wants to tell me?

-People are gross in bathrooms. The toilets do flush! You can flush them! No one will be mad!

-The first of the month is always super busy. I guess this is because people have money to spend then, or something. But we all go in knowing we're going to be slammed. It's so weird, because one second it'll be a ghost town, and then the next second you've got a line twelve deep and a bunch of orders on the screen and are going nuts packing/calling back.

-We got rid of lettuce for our sandwiches. Mmm, carbs.

-The average customer only comes in to VPP once every four months. According to my manager, this is because 1. we're pretty pricey fast food. 2. we have one thing. Really. One thing. 3. we don't have a lot of lunchy stuff. We have our popcorn meals and four types of sandwiches. But that's about it, and I'm not sure two of our sandwiches are really--lunchy.

-It's surprisingly easy to tell if a customer is fibbing to get free stuff, and it makes me sad. :(

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