She writes...
So, okay I'll admit it. A lot of this story is true. But not all of it. You can decide for yourself which is which. It's sitting in "My Documents" in my creative writing folder, but in neither the fiction nor nonfiction subfolder. I didn't know where to put it. I'm putting it here. Also, I didn't have anyone read this first, so if it sucks I can only blame myself. Also, this is the first time I've ever written in second person.
While hunting through the pages of My Space users for the familiar faces of ex students and classmates, your search is halted by the picture in front of you. A small, spiky-haired woman with too much eyeliner and a glittered t-shirt stares at you with a gaping smile. You know she must have had braces in middle school. You remember her sitting next to you years ago in a feminist theory class, one you took only because you heard the teacher was easy.
She would march into the room in black army boots, tiny plaid skirts, rows of silver bands on her wrists that would clink every time she raised her hand or wrote down some note. She answered a lot of questions and wrote pages of notes. Though barely five feet tall, she could command the attention of everyone in the room as she read compositions on the oppression of Ugandan women or the ill treatment of captured soldiers somewhere in Eastern Asian or graphic depictions of female circumcision.
She was a member of every leftist group on campus. She stood at tables outside the cafeteria, hurling Amnesty International buttons at hungry students. She screamed back Bible verses on tolerance and acceptance to the Republican anti-abortionist who invaded the campus each spring and declared she was going to Hell for being in love with a woman.
She was raised by a single mother who gave her simple name—a single letter of the alphabet. Dee. A small name befitting someone of her size. Her single mother must have realized that a name like Jessica or Amanda or Heather would never have worked.
She was the only female you ever had a crush on. A real crush. Not the kind of crush you have on your third grade teacher who smiled every time she read your stories about horses and talking fruit, or the way you couldn’t take your eyes off the red-haired girl on G.I. Joe cartoons. You used to trade your favorite Ken doll to your brother for his Scarlett doll. And when he wouldn’t trade, you’d take her when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t like the time your boyfriend insisted you go to the strip club with him and then, while you were in the bathroom, he paid a dancer to give you a lap dance upon your return. That girl, Chastity, with her silver g-string and fake breasts rubbing across your cheeks, was gorgeous, and you remember your cheeks getting red, your body temperature rising, and your breathing heavy. But you never dreamed you could love her.
You did think it was possible to love Dee, though. She was funky, sassy, and really looked you in the eye when she waved at you in the halls. She wasn’t beautiful, but you were certain her girlfriend was even more beautiful than that stripper who slid her hands beneath your shirt and purred into your ear. Dee was everything you wanted to be, but were afraid of. You wanted an easier life than Dee’s.
Once, in the midst of a lecture on allegorical symbolism in Paradise Lost in your Early British Lit class, you looked up to see her standing in the hall outside your classroom. She was talking to someone and laughing in-between taking bites from the apple in her hand. Eve’s apple, you thought. You were sure of it. She showed up there, outside your classroom, tempting you.
Thinking about her now makes you sad. You look at her profile, how it’s filled with addresses of senate members and please won’t you write a letter demanding that something be done to stop the oppression of Ugandan women. You look at the comments left by her friends about how much fun they had at the last LGBA-sponsored punk rock concert and protesting at the Republican rally. You look at the picture of her girlfriend kissing her. It’s a different girl in this picture than the one you remember her meeting everyday after your feminist theory class, the one who would grab Dee’s hand and unabashed rub her face into Dee’s neck as they walked down the hall. This girl is also prettier than the stripper, though her breasts are smaller and there’s more flesh around her middle. You’re sad because you know you will never be this girl. Your money is spent on mortgages and dog grooming and Hamburger Helper, not punk rock concerts. You chose a picket fence over picketing. You chose an easier life, and Dee would never love you for that.
While hunting through the pages of My Space users for the familiar faces of ex students and classmates, your search is halted by the picture in front of you. A small, spiky-haired woman with too much eyeliner and a glittered t-shirt stares at you with a gaping smile. You know she must have had braces in middle school. You remember her sitting next to you years ago in a feminist theory class, one you took only because you heard the teacher was easy.
She would march into the room in black army boots, tiny plaid skirts, rows of silver bands on her wrists that would clink every time she raised her hand or wrote down some note. She answered a lot of questions and wrote pages of notes. Though barely five feet tall, she could command the attention of everyone in the room as she read compositions on the oppression of Ugandan women or the ill treatment of captured soldiers somewhere in Eastern Asian or graphic depictions of female circumcision.
She was a member of every leftist group on campus. She stood at tables outside the cafeteria, hurling Amnesty International buttons at hungry students. She screamed back Bible verses on tolerance and acceptance to the Republican anti-abortionist who invaded the campus each spring and declared she was going to Hell for being in love with a woman.
She was raised by a single mother who gave her simple name—a single letter of the alphabet. Dee. A small name befitting someone of her size. Her single mother must have realized that a name like Jessica or Amanda or Heather would never have worked.
She was the only female you ever had a crush on. A real crush. Not the kind of crush you have on your third grade teacher who smiled every time she read your stories about horses and talking fruit, or the way you couldn’t take your eyes off the red-haired girl on G.I. Joe cartoons. You used to trade your favorite Ken doll to your brother for his Scarlett doll. And when he wouldn’t trade, you’d take her when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t like the time your boyfriend insisted you go to the strip club with him and then, while you were in the bathroom, he paid a dancer to give you a lap dance upon your return. That girl, Chastity, with her silver g-string and fake breasts rubbing across your cheeks, was gorgeous, and you remember your cheeks getting red, your body temperature rising, and your breathing heavy. But you never dreamed you could love her.
You did think it was possible to love Dee, though. She was funky, sassy, and really looked you in the eye when she waved at you in the halls. She wasn’t beautiful, but you were certain her girlfriend was even more beautiful than that stripper who slid her hands beneath your shirt and purred into your ear. Dee was everything you wanted to be, but were afraid of. You wanted an easier life than Dee’s.
Once, in the midst of a lecture on allegorical symbolism in Paradise Lost in your Early British Lit class, you looked up to see her standing in the hall outside your classroom. She was talking to someone and laughing in-between taking bites from the apple in her hand. Eve’s apple, you thought. You were sure of it. She showed up there, outside your classroom, tempting you.
Thinking about her now makes you sad. You look at her profile, how it’s filled with addresses of senate members and please won’t you write a letter demanding that something be done to stop the oppression of Ugandan women. You look at the comments left by her friends about how much fun they had at the last LGBA-sponsored punk rock concert and protesting at the Republican rally. You look at the picture of her girlfriend kissing her. It’s a different girl in this picture than the one you remember her meeting everyday after your feminist theory class, the one who would grab Dee’s hand and unabashed rub her face into Dee’s neck as they walked down the hall. This girl is also prettier than the stripper, though her breasts are smaller and there’s more flesh around her middle. You’re sad because you know you will never be this girl. Your money is spent on mortgages and dog grooming and Hamburger Helper, not punk rock concerts. You chose a picket fence over picketing. You chose an easier life, and Dee would never love you for that.
posted by KC in Katoland at 11:50 AM
4 Comments:
I like that last line an awful lot.
Here's the question: why would you, as the author of this piece, make the choice to write this in second person? Why not first? Why not third? What do you think you were doing here?
I know what I think, but I want to know what you think...
I think this is wonderful, melancholy and wistful. It reminds me of that Milan Kundera quote from Unbearable Lightness of Being:
"It's impossible to know what to want!...We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself? That is why life is always a sketch. No, sketch is not quite the right word, because a sketch is an outline of something, the groundwork for a picture, whereas the sketch that is our life is a sketch of nothing, an outline with no picture.”
Your piece made me think of that. It's a good thing to think about while I fix, then drink, my morning tea.
Kundera!
"Casey," this is great! I liked the use of 2nd - it actually did make my breathing go a little funny. Will you be at Bloc? I'll talk to you more there.
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